Author's Note:

First off, thank you for the comments. I'm not entirely sure where I'll be going with this story, so any fresh ideas are welcome.

Well! I've updated quicker than I expected. I haven't really read the earlier comics (Just some random researching here and there), but I've always been fascinated by the different story arcs that have occurred with the New Teen Titans, especially the introduction of Slade's family and how they've been a part of the Teen Titans since practically the first few issues. I admit that writing this particular character was such a chore, but I hope I did his character some justice, or at least made him kinda cool by today's standards.

Slade... is just a total badass. Let's see if this holds true in this story.

Disclaimer: Teen Titans is copyrighted by DC Comics and Cartoon Network.


Chapter 3: Signals Over The Air

The Wayne Corporation held an impressive array of technological facilities on and around the general vicinity of Jump City. In fact, it could safely be said that Jump City was a sister city to Gotham, a sort of extremely younger sister who was still stumbling in the ways of a toddler. But Jump City was getting there, and now it seemed that there was no other direction to go but up.

Cheery blue skies and a wonderfully natural harbor contrasted greatly with the blood-red skies and sewage that festered in the lower levels of Gotham, so it was no wonder that most of the white-collar workers of the Wayne Corporation proposed to pack up and branch their business into Jump City. The standard of living was much higher due to the pleasantness and tranquility of the surroundings. The crime rate was also startlingly low, and the citizens of the city were quite thankful for their rather nonchalant lives.

However, that didn't mean that the city was closed off from prospective super-villains, or the contracts that shifting mercenaries may take up on a whim. Sometimes the escapades of their teenage heroes would only blanket citizens further into a comfortable bed of false security. The solitude and emptiness of night cloaked the city in a dazed stupor, rendering its policemen and watchful citizens immune to the rather potent amount of danger that loomed above them at this very moment.

The gothic-styled cathedral that stood almost in the center of the sprawling city served as a temporary perch for a young Caucasian male, roughly around nineteen years of age. He was dressed in full mercenary garb, looking almost like a superhero of old lore in his light-blue-on-dark-blue outfit. A yellow utility belt, seemingly a universal symbol of versatility in both heroes and villains alike, held various gadgets and trinkets to get him around the city mostly unseen, but the most astonishing object he had in his arsenal was a rather long sword strapped to his back, the sheath rubbing against the Kevlar-weave of his costume.

He crouched further, a light-blue mask in his gloved hands as he peered down at the ambling public below. Weight evenly placed on the toes of his feet, he balanced himself on his heels as he gazed down. Blue eyes narrowed as a particularly strong gust of wind rushed to the back of his head, pushing his spiked-forward blond hair even more forward. It provided a minor annoyance, and as soon as the wind stopped blowing he impatiently ran a hand through his hair.

Grant Wilson frowned, shifted a little in his position, and continued to wait, his lips set in an irritated scowl.

He had been perched up at the cathedral roof for roughly two hours, hardly moving from his spot as he gazed at one particular intersection for the past thirty minutes. Most people, even if they were mercenaries who were being offered a sizeable chunk of money, would have quit on the strenuous and freezing work, but Grant wasn't like most people. He wasn't even in it for the money now, strangely enough.

The nights of staying up late, watching for suspicious movement and simply biding time had all started roughly two years ago, around the same time that the Titans had assembled and Grant found himself finishing military school early. Since he found he had an apartment in Jump City waiting for him, Grant had eagerly settled into life as a mercenary for hire, a private investigator for those who were still suspicious of the police. His luck at making it big at only the age of seventeen was horribly dashed out in favor of letting the proverbial crap hit the fan, however.

It was only now that Jump City was even aware of the destructive tendencies of the almost paranormal man named Slade, but Grant had predicted much earlier that he would arrive to test his mettle with the strange band of teenagers that lived in the T-shaped tower. It was only a matter of time before Slade and the Titans would end up clashing in some poetically-derived battlefield, sustaining heavy losses on both ends.

Grant surmised that perhaps Slade would even grab a hold of some sort of apprentice, or do something else kooky in nature, which would only make Slade look even more dastardly to the public eye. As much as Grant would have loved to have granted Slade such an ample opportunity to go through with such a well-thought-out plan, he had better things to do. And he had to finish up his itinerary before Slade even considered showing himself to the teen superheroes.

Grant sat down on his perch, allowing his legs a much-needed rest. Propping his elbows up to his knees and holding his chin in his hands, Grant squinted out to the inky black skies, the cold weather scarcely affecting him. Images, plans, possible scenarios, and even a brief glimpse of cause-and-effect analysis ran through his mind as he simply sat and stared into nothing. He absently tapped his right temple with a gloved finger, as if willing his brain to run at a fuller capacity and allow even more scenarios to play in his head and perhaps pass the time more quickly. His wish came half-true, for he realized that yet another thirty minutes had passed when he finally shifted out of his thinking trance to take off his glove and peer down at his watch.

Grant frowned as he refitted his glove back onto his hand, appearing almost disgruntled at his current position. Almost two years of constant surveillance and the closest he got to the Titans so far was their nightly patrol rounds and morning outdoor training session times. All Slade had to do was show his face in public, blow up a bank or two in a nearby town, and then his face was plastered all over the daily newspaper as a sort of flashing red beacon. But Grant had to admit that Slade's timely appearance in the papers allowed him to get his work done more efficiently, for he had been beginning to fear the thought that he may have been found out by his intended prey.

In the end, Grant surmised that perhaps Slade didn't want to have anything to do with the Titans, other than maybe one or two of them. Perhaps Slade just wanted to get some mayhem accomplished in Jump City, just for kicks and not under a contract, like he was.

He blinked, a momentary lull entering his thoughts in the form of an interesting question.

Why had Slade turned down such an illustrious contract to get rid of the Teen Titans?

Grant had to admit that fortune seemed to smile on him once more when the HIVE had requested his services regarding the superheroes. Apparently their own students failed to produce an agreeable result, so in exchange for 5 million dollars Grant was secured an almost-easy job. An unnatural enhancement in his natural strength, agility, and stamina was bolstered further by his paranormal ability to use his brain to its full capacity. A gift from the HIVE in exchange for the completion of his job, his brain-power would be more than enough to subdue the still-rookie group of heroes. Grant felt himself smiling as he laid his plans out concerning the Teen Titans.

"Two weeks… At most," Grant murmured to himself, blue eyes sparkling with a sense of feral mischief, "Two weeks, then I'll be able to sit back and relax for once."

His thoughts turned sour at the thought of Slade, the masked terrorist.

"Hopefully… he won't pose that much interference," he concluded, holding an audience with the night air. "After all… the old man's growin' too old for this kind of work."

The roaring of a motorcycle engine in the dead of the night alerted Grant to immediately look down to his left, where his eyes caught the fleeting image of a crimson-red motorcycle zooming past an empty street. Quickly fishing out a high-powered monocular from his utility belt, Grant shut one eye and shoved the eye piece in front of the other, quickly adjusting the lens to reveal the R-Cycle quickly turning a corner and disappearing from view.

"Well, well… looks like one of the birds flew the coop," Grant muttered, pocketing the monocular.

The light-blue face mask was pulled over his head, and he quickly smoothed down the neck of the mask while adjusting the red eye-lenses. Giving a cursory blink, he adjusted the lenses a little more, and then tapped the side of the mask with a finger. Suddenly an array of flashing white lines and streams of words washed over his eyes, detailing an analysis of whatever lay within his line of sight.

Another tap presented the night-vision option, and he squinted momentarily to adjust himself with the overall green hue of his surroundings as he suddenly took off running. He sped up even as he ran down the incline of the roof, never stopping even as he leapt off of the roof and landed on a building close by. Cement practically loosened from the impact of his landing, but any shock that had shot up his knees was blissfully ignored. His running streak naturally sped up instead of slowed down as he scaled building after building with almost effortless leaps of either blind faith or sheer confidence. The luxury of a doubt was behind him as he immediately took a blind leapt down to the ground from a rather mid-sized building.

The Ravager, the merciless killer hired by whoever beckoned with the most cash, touched down on the city limits in a soft crouch, making little to no noise whatsoever. He straightened and took a cursory look around him, taking in the rather dismal park scenery until he caught sight of a bright red motorcycle heading for the exiting highway. Lips twisted in a leer underneath his mask, Ravager contemplated his next move against the lone Titan.

"Stay in the shadows, Slade," Ravager stated, his voice somewhat disembodied from within his mask. "Stay, while I go break your little toys. I'm sure you'll find something else to amuse you later on."

Something crunched as he stepped on it, and Ravager lifted his foot to reveal the front page of a discarded copy of the day's newspaper. On it was the image of Slade, the "S" symbol so meticulously emblazoned on his chest with the black-and-orange ensemble being displayed in full color. Ravager let out a somewhat derisive snort.

"Honestly though," he continued, toeing the piece of newspaper with his boot. "I was hoping you'd stay with the 'Deathstroke' identity, Dad."

Ravager took in a deep breath and started running off in the direction of the red R-Cycle, letting the newspaper fly away on its own accord.

The paper flittered and fluttered around in a leisurely arc before swooping in a loop and promptly being caught in mid-air by a gloved hand. The shadows of a nearby alleyway seemed to melt away into a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed in dark colors. A smooth, presumably masked head appeared from within the shadows, where the figure's eyes suddenly opened. A sharp blue eye shone from the darkness of the alleyway.

"Play with my toys all you want, Grant," a deep, deceptively smooth voice murmured to the darkness. "But I'm afraid that it will be you who will be broken as a result of this, son."

Crunch

The shred of newspaper was practically buried into the asphalt by a steel-enforced sole as Slade gave a sharp about-turn to disappear back into the shadows.