Well, here is chapter 4. I am dealing with a lot of shit right now, so I can't really think of anything to say. Just enjoy, I guess.
disclaimer; still don't own anything
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Chapter 4
Nine years, almost a decade, and the man had barely aged. Bruce pushed through the chattering wealth and stopped a pace from the older man.
Slade looked at Bruce with his good eye, appraising him. Bruce had gotten bigger; after all, eight years of training separated them. Slade wore a pirate costume, which suited his attitude perfectly. Bruce wondered whether the pistol at his side was real.
"Mr. Wayne, I had heard you resurfaced," the man's eye twinkled with secrets, "And no worse for wear."
"Mr. Wilson; when I told you to keep your eye open, I meant it," The two stared at one another for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
Those around them looked on in confusion, incapable of imagining the things the two men had seen. "It's good to see you Slade,"
"It's good to be seen," he replied, and motioned to the balcony off to the side. They walked in silence through the crowd, emerging into the cool night air. The outcropping was vacant, and Slade set his drink down, leaning against the rail so as to see the room beyond.
Bruce followed suit, glad his friend was indeed still vigilant.
"So, I take it your, 'pilgrimage', was successful?" Slade said, voice suddenly lower. It was a voice he used only in familiar company, with those who knew him well; Bruce was one such person.
Bruce inclined his head, "In a way. I learned a lot about myself." He shifted so his mouth could not be seen by anyone watching, "and Jackie Oakes?1"
"The Jackal had a run in with a cement mixer." Slade smirked, shifting in place. "Adeline 2… left."
There was pain under those words, and Bruce let it pass. If Slade let Adeline go, there was a good reason. Slade caught Bruce's eyes, and frowned, "You didn't do it did you?"
Bruce shook his head, remembering that night when he did find Joe Chill, the other dirty and homeless, begging for money. He couldn't do it, despite all his talk at boarding school. Bruce couldn't kill his parent's murderer.
Slade shook his head, "A shame. When I heard he was wacked, I had hoped…" Bruce looked back at the man, suddenly not so comfortable standing near him. But then, Slade had always had that effect.
He crossed his arms then, looking out over the city, shrouded under Autumn fog. It was going to rain tonight, he thought. "What brings you to Gotham, Slade?"
The man glanced back at Bruce, "Business, always business. You would not believe the amount people pay for a bit of muscle."
Slade was into defense contracting then; it suited him. Back at Princeton the man had been a brilliant tactician, serving a tour in Afghanistan, winning a number of medals. Bruce could recall the look on Wintergreen's face, "A Wilson in combat? Boy, you were to be a lawyer!"
Speaking of Wintergreen, Bruce spotted the old butler down below, drinking tea at the seat of a limo. The man had a sagging face, and always looked a moment from death, but Bruce suspected the old man would live longer than anyone expected.
Bruce squared his shoulders, "did they not let you back in the corps then?"
"No," Slade took a drink, "Homeland Security." He winked, "But don't tell anyone. I know you can keep a secret,"
Bruce shivered, recalling that night nearly a decade before. He most certainly could keep a secret, after all, he was Batman.
A commotion in the hall drew their attention. A pair of police officers stood across from none other than Sherman Fine. The larger cop, a heavy set man, had shouted a certain expletive, and the other looked ashamed of his outburst. Mr. Fine drew a long pull from his cigarillo; "Now boys, if you are going make accusations, I'd like some proof,"
Fine smiled at those now staring at the group, the one cop's exclamation having drawn their attention. "Best not upset those that keep you employed,"
A number of the onlookers chuckled, turning back to their own conversations. Bruce did not.
"Excuse me," he said, patting Slade on the shoulder, sliding back into the hall. Pretending to order a drink, Bruce drew within earshot of the cops.
The fat one spoke in a thick Gotham accent, "Look at dat piece a garbage; you cover shit with jewellery an it still stinks."
The other cop slid his glasses back up his nose, "I told you now wasn't the time Harvey 3, Fine is too well protected,"
Fat cop snorted, sinuses clearly congested, "Yeah, I guess you're right. C'mon partner, let's see if we can ruffle any other feathers."
"Sure, but let's try not to cause a scene? Loeb sent us here as guests, not detectives."
"Relax will ya? I'm just playin' partner."
The two moved on, and Bruce was handed another faux martini by the bar tender. So there were some honest cops in Gotham after all, at least lined against Fine. He made a mental note to find their dossier's later.
Bruce looked back to the balcony, but Slade was gone, his whiskey glass still on the rail. Bruce settled into his playboy façade once more, and donning a smile waded into the crowd of wealthy socialites.
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Slade Wilson held the binoculars up to his face, magnifying the sight before him. Only one side did any good, but that side was better than any two eyes from anyone else.
Bruce was right, in a way, Slade was in the weapons business. Only his weapons weren't for sale, but for rent, and the only weapon he had was himself. Slade Wilson was Deathstroke, notoriously respected assassin.
The party had been a cover; he had to establish an alibi. Not that anyone was looking into him, Slade just preferred to cover all contingencies. Everything had to go perfectly, like clockwork; and better, still turning even if a gear is removed.
At present, Deathstroke was kneeling atop the Vaux Opera House, having scaled the building as soon as he saw his client at the party. Wintergreen had left the suitcase by the vents on the roof, and Slade quickly changed from a pirate into a wraith.
Kevlar bi-weave jumpsuit, coloured in sections of steel grey and black, making him invisible in urban shadows. Light martial arts plates were strapped to his shoulders and forearms, as well as down his legs. They were made of tightly spun carbon, nearly unbreakable.
Last was the helmet, more of a mask really. Completely smooth, shaped to resemble a skull, the dome left only his good eye exposed, and was divided between it and the empty socket by colour; orange over his eye, black over the socket.
Various blades, guns, and darts were strapped over top, making him into a walking weapon. Slade preferred the suit to his eye patch; it sent a much clearer message.
The penthouse was empty, as far as Slade could tell. Pulling a strange looking gun from his thigh, Deathstroke took aim, firing a grappling hook. The dart flew across the street and to the next, just missing the buildings on either side.
The apartment where he was headed was at the penthouse of this building, just below the max distance of the grapple. The high tensile cable would hold his weight; he shot the other end into the wall beside him. Slade withdrew a hook device from his belt, snapping it to the cord. He thumbed the switch, and the hook took off, carrying him across the gap.
Slade hit the wall with his feet, dropping from the hook onto a fire escape. After disabling the alarm, he slid through the door and into the second highest floor in the building.
Peeking around the corner, Slade checked for any inhabitants. There were none, and in a crouched sprint, he made it to the far end of the hallway. A maintenance door met him, and he picked the lock, sliding into the stairwell. A flight up and he faced a concrete wall, an alarmed door the only break in its surface.
Slade disabled the countermeasures, taking slightly longer than before; the security here was better. At last he cracked the door open, entering an orderly closet that was pitch dark.
Pressing a button on his helmet, a lens slid over his eye, and the room glared into focus, tinted green through the filter. Slade opened the other door slowly; though he hadn't seen anyone from the roof, there could still be guards.
The hallway beyond was also dark, thankfully; modern art hung along the walls. Slade sighed inwardly, why couldn't any of his clients have decent taste? The hall turned to the large room he had seen through the binoculars, lined with square sofas and a well staked bar.
Slade wasn't interested in a drink though, he was doing reconnaissance. Slipping through the living area he reached another door, locked. Picking the door was easy, too easy. Slade pushed the door open, hand on sword, tense as a deer.
No alarms went off, no guards came running, and no explosions. He relaxed his hand, Kodachi 4 sliding silently back into its sheath. With deliberately slow steps he entered the room; nothing happened.
Slade went to work, skimming through documents. The client wanted the target exposed as well as killed, and it was a point of pride to him, always to complete his contracts.
The target had been a thorn in the client's side for months, 'cocking up things', as he had put it. Slade didn't care either way, the job was the job; morality didn't enter into it. Still, this was a unique target. Slade had never been called upon to slay an urban legend before.
So Slade set a little trap, in fact was in the midst of doing so right now. The second door he had opened triggered a silent alarm, which would go out to the client's private security team. Since he, and they, didn't know Slade tripped it, they would expect the target.
The resulting commotion would no doubt draw out this 'Batman', and Slade would finally get a look at the man. The fuzzy images captured via security cameras weren't enough for Slade to build a profile from. Soon though, soon he would know him, and then he would kill him. Such was the life of the world's greatest assassin.
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Bruce was preparing to leave when he heard the gunshots, followed by an immense explosion. The Gotham elite didn't bat an eye, only those near a window looked out with modest curiosity.
Disengaging from the conversation with the incompetent Police Commissioner Loeb, Bruce left the party, sliding between bodies with forced clumsiness. A push of the pager in his pocket told Alfred all he needed to know.
Drunkenness is an easy thing to fake, and being the notorious bachelor that he was, no one questioned Bruce's sobriety. So when Alfred arrived in the hall, looking concerned (and slightly bored), Bruce simply acted as if the older man was taking him home.
Once in the back of the car however, the act ceased. Sliding in as Alfred opened the door, Bruce activated a hidden switch behind the driver's seat. Alfred made his way stoically to the front seat, humming the theme of Phantom of the Opera.
When the butler sat down however, there was no Bruce in the back seat. No one but Alfred was in the car, and it came as no shock. He shifted the car into gear, grateful that Bruce had installed tinted windows, and drove off, leaving behind only a slightly loose sewer grate, which the man had parked over.
One block away Bruce popped out of the storm drain, having grappled away from the car. As Batman here looked up at the apartment building, the one which now was circled by police officers and private bodyguards alike.
This apartment was owned by the Broker, and he had an office on the top floor. Batman set his jaw; it was a trap, had to be. He had been hounding Fine for slip ups for months, and now his office happened to be the scene of massive explosion.
More gunshots sounded, and though the police on the ground had their side arms drawn, none fired. Looking back up Bruce saw a window burst out on the top floor, followed by a flailing body.
Ignoring the cops, Bruce pulled the grappling hook from his belt, launching a cord halfway up the building. He thumbed the switch and he tore to the air, intersecting the man in mid fall. He caught him and kicked off the side of the building. Flipping in the air he tossed the man, one of Fine's security, to safety in one of the street side trees.
To the awe of the police below Bruce launched another grapple line, this one straight to the roof. He hurtled upward, cape flaring behind him, and saw a spotlight trained on him from a GCPD helicopter. He pulled a bat shaped shuriken from his belt, flinging it at the floodlight. It shattered, just as Bruce reached the broken window.
Bruce flared his cape to slow himself and landed in a crouch in the center a demolished bar. Debris littered the room, and the far wall was gone, presumably in the explosion shortly before. A guard came tearing out of a gap in it, firing panicked into the void beyond.
He saw Batman and stopped, mouth gaping, "You, you're not supposed to be real!" then a bullet passed through his shoulder.
"NO!" Bruce grunted, tackling the henchman as more bullets passed overhead. Checking the wound, he found the bullet had gone through. Satisfied the man would survive he slammed his elbow against the back of his head, knocking him out.
"There you are," a garbled voice spoke from the hole. A heavily armed man stepped through, holding a pricy assault rifle. A helmet of some kind covered his face, all but the left eye. Slade?
Bruce stopped in mid leap, recognizing the other. The side without the eye was black, the side with the lens was a burnt orange. If this was Slade, then he couldn't identify himself, or maybe he should?
The volley of bullets fired at him answered the question. Bruce dove out of the way and came up with a shuriken. Slade caught it and threw it back, missed by a hair as Bruce dove forward.
He swung at Slade's chest, which the other parried. Bruce followed with a feint and sweep with his feet. Slade jumped over his legs and ignored the feint, bringing the butt of his rifle down.
Bruce caught the gun and gave it a shove, lifting Slade off his feet. He followed up with a series of punches, most of which landed. Slade ducked, sliding under Bruce's guard, and tackled him.
The two continued like this for some time, exchanging martial arts at an unbelievable pace. Unbeknownst to them a second helicopter arrived at the scene, this one a Gotham Now chopper. Vicki Vale sat in the back, eagerly narrating the event for her camera man.
Pistols, knives, shuriken and fists flew about in a cacophony of violence. Bruce had seen Slade fight before, but fighting him was entirely different. The man seemed to posses pre-emptive reflexes, and even with Bruce's extensive training he couldn't get the upper hand. This was happening far too often.
After redirecting a blow to the face, Bruce swung his gauntlet's blades across the other's face. To both of their surprise the prongs connected, leaving a trio of long scratches over Slade's face.
Slade knelt and leapt back, Bruce staying guarded. Slade pulled a remote device from his belt. "Enough,"
Bruce kept his fists up, as Slade wagged the device back and forth. "This device will trigger explosives on the second and third floors, collapsing the building."
Slade lowered his hand, "Follow me and I press the button." Bruce lowered his hands and glowered at the other, "What do I care?"
"You're a hero, are you not? Bad publicity and all that," Slade looked at him intently; Bruce could imagine the smirk beneath. "Until next time, Batman,"
Bruce made to charge, but Slade vanished into a cloud of smoke. Even with the detective filter in his mask Bruce couldn't see where he went.
Just then the floodlight from the helicopter washed over him, and Bruce shielded his eyes. He made out Vicki in the back seat, along with a camera. Great, he thought, and ejected a smoke pellet from its chamber on his belt. With a flick the space was obscured with another round of smoke, and when it cleared Vicki looked upon an empty wreckage. Batman had vanished.
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1 this is a round-about reference. Those familiar with Slade's back-story will recall his family was destroyed by the criminal 'The Jackal'. This is also the criminal alias of a bad guy in a tv show from the early 2000's. Can you name the show? If so, mad props, leave it in a comment!
2 Adeline was Slade's wife in the comics, however I am changing things a bit. So let's just say she was Slade's love interest back in the day.
3 Can you guess who these cops are? They might show up later in this story, but they do become important in Batman's career in the future.
4 apparently Kodachi is the name for short Katanas, originating in Japan. I figured this was more realistic for Slade than a giant blue broadsword, like in the comics.
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Well, there it is, chapter 4. I don't know how well the action bits read, I kind of did this all in one draft. Thanks for reading, and while you're here, leave a review! and feel free to follow my stories, I will try to update swiftly. I appreciate everyone who reads this, just looking at my traffic stats makes my day. A double thank you to those who review!
