When the Titans were first formed, rumors spread pretty rapidly about the bunch of kids who dressed up in cheap Halloween costumes and ran around beating up the bad guys. A lot of people underestimated the team. That was their first mistake. They'd goad us into conflict, hoping that they'd beat us, relying on their obviously superior faculties to beat up a bunch of wild teenagers.
We're no kids.
Slade Wilson knows this. But it's not going to—and never has—stopped him from interfering in our lives.
Part of me wishes he would just drop his sword and walk away now.
"Drake."
I'm not surprised that he knows who I am. Hell, who doesn't? "Sorry to hear about your old man."
"You're breakin' my heart," I say tightly. I spring forward, throwing the bo-staff in front of me as guard. As expected, Deathstroke throws his own sword in front of the bo-staff. He slices through the bo-staff like it's nothing.
Narrowly missing the razor-edge of his sword, I duck, sliding between Slade's legs and slamming one half of my bo-staff up into his groin. He doesn't feel it. Before I can get to my feet, he's landed a size 12 against my head and forced me to the floor. He keeps his boot there, increasing the pressure. He wants to split my bones and let my brains spill out on the floor.
But he's left his leg exposed—particularly the inside of his thigh. Sensitive skin, not worn or exposed very often, if at all. Best of all…breakable. Unseen, I pull a batarang out of my belt, hold it under my hand, and wait.
He puts on the heat, applies more pressure.
Moving in a blur, I jam the razor-pointed end of the batarang into Slade's thigh—just above the knee joint, between the sartorius and vastus medialis. He might be wearing a bulletproof suit, and carry more firepower than US soldiers do...but he's still vulnerable. His suit is meant to protect against long-range attacks from guns and fire. A Batarang is neither.
He growls in momentary pain, and it's just enough time to let up on me. He steps back. I hobble to one knee, pull three Batarangs out of my pocket and clutch them tightly between my fingers. I don't wait.
I rush him, jamming a Batarang-forked fist into his gut. I've pierced the skin, probably some internal organs, but it doesn't matter in the long-run; it'll regenerate. The damage allows me a few seconds to think ahead. He grimaces briefly as air rushes from his lungs, but still manages to parry with a roundhouse kick. It catches me in the jaw. I stumble back a bit, catch myself, and wipe the blood from my mouth. The Batarangs drop out of my hand.
Deathstroke pulls the Batarang from his thigh in one quick motion, barely gasping. He regards it in his hand for a moment, before crushing it into shards.
"Good," he says hoarsely. "You're just about as good as Grayson. But…" He pauses for a second and pulls off his mask. "Angrier," he says gruffly.
His features are…haunting. A permanent scowl. Blood leaks from his nose and stains into his silver goatee. His remaining eye—the left one—stares hatefully at me. He's already thinking 9 steps ahead of me.
But I'm exactly with him. Training with Batman has taught me that much.
Slade Wilson lived through Vietnam, lived through government-backed "super soldier" experiments that made him into an immortal killer. He even lived through having to kill his own son. I've seen the same. Almost. I've had to live through a virus that almost killed me, an outing on Apokolips that nearly killed me and everyone else from Young Justice…and losing both my parents to psychotics.
Psychotics like Slade.
Months ago, a costumed freak known as Captain Boomerang killed my father in cold blood. Period. He had known ties to the Calculator. Calculator has ties to Deathstroke. They're all part of a network—a Society…
They're getting smart. Smarter.
And we just let it happen. We overlooked the little ones for too long. It's always the little ones that come back from the dead. Always the little ones who break into your house with a pocketful of boomerangs. Always the little ones that come after your family…your children…your father…
Always.
Deathstroke isn't small by any means. But that won't stop me.
Deathstroke throws the mask aside, pulls his sword, and rushes me. I sidestep it, and catch him with a right hook. And then a left. My leg blurs through the air—a side thrust kick aimed directly for Slade's face—and connects. The momentum throws his head away from me. Blood shoots from his mouth and he falls back; the sword drops from his hand.
For a moment in time, the ultimate tactician…is nothing more than a broekn geriatric.
I'm almost surprised at how easily he went down. Almost.
I approach him slowly. His one good eye stares at me and silently curses me. Staring back at me, I see…The Joker. Two-Face. Every villain whose ever fought me and claimed some kind of victory. Every one of them who though they could beat up a bunch of kids.
Captain Boomerang's dead brown eyes staring at me…laughing like some damn ghost.
I drop to my knees, straddling Slade. And months—years'—worth of rage courses through my fists.
A product of a freak accident, Zoom operates outside the Speed Force that gives Wally and me our powers. He exists almost on another timeline. Like he's part of a faster moving world. People not possessing his…peculiarities…see nothing more of Zoom than a blur. A cipher.
Zoom is a ghost, for all intensive purposes. He might not have Wally's speed, but he's subject to the laws of Physics just the same.
When he's standing still, Zoom's still a blur. Get him moving, and he becomes invisible—impossible for the human eye to track. Even I can't see him, and my synapses are firing beyond what they should be, given my powers.
"ImpulseFastestboyalive."
A yellow-clad arm locks itself around my throat. Zoom's stopped moving. He's got me an Undertaker-style chokehold, held a few feet off the ground. I'm staring down his freakishly muscular arm, and he's staring right back at me. Scowling, teeth bared like a hungry lion. He's out for the kill. And he's got a flair for the theatrics. Strange, 'cause most cops I know are real hardasses.
He could just as soon snap my hyoid bone—cut off air supply—and be done with it. I count on the fact that he doesn't know about the accelerated healing.
"What happened to…Iron Heights?" I manage through Zoom's death grip.
"IIIIIIIbrokefree. I'vecomeforyouImpullllse."
His arm looses itself from my neck, and I fall to the ground gasping greedily for air. I wipe the blood from my mouth and try to spot him. I can't see him. I know it. But he's here somewhere. He's always somewhere.
"Whyyydidyoucomeback?"
It's a little late for Q and A. But that doesn't stop me from trying to throw him off-track. "Why did you come back?"
A thunderclap in my ears, and I'm on the floor again. There's a stinging in my jaw. Broken...form the force of Zoom's hand splitting the bone. Damn.
"IIIcanbreakeveryboneinyourbody—"
The stinging is already subsiding. Snaps for a healing factor Slade would envy.
"—Butyouwouldhealriiiightup"
"When you're right, you're right," I say, massaging my already-healing jaw. It…tickles. "What's in this for you, Zoom? I can't think of anything you'd need money for."
"NoooIdidthisprobono."
"Tax write-off. Way to be a prudent consumer."
Another blast of thunder, a bright flash shocks my retinas, and the world goes…fuzzy for a minute. By the time I land, its daylight in another city.
Jesus. He really did knock me into the next time zone.
"WellllcometoFawcettCityImpulse."
"Stop calling me that!" I snap, and pick up my speed. Near Mach 1, I can finally spot him. He's standing in front of me, at least 100 yards ahead. And he's not getting any closer.
This sucks balls. I'm running at near-peak velocity, and Zoom's not even trying. Suddenly, he's right alongside me. Racing me. Baiting me.
Going from top speed to a complete stop is something I've perfected, and it never fails to trip up Wally or Jay. Zoom is different. He stops right with me. I can't see past the black 'specs in his mask, but I'm sure his gaze is locked onto me. Analyzing me, cataloguing every move, waiting for the opportune moment. Like a predator. He's waiting to pounce and finish the job. Why doesn't he just do it? I know he's capable of it. So does he.
And I suddenly realize why. A flair for theatrics. He's going for the whole 'fate worse than death' angle, clichéd as it is. Zoom raises his arm and holds his fingers together.
"Don't!—"
A sonic boom explodes from Zoom's fingers. Buildings shatter around us. Cars crush and fly outwards from Zoom in all directions. A small crater forms around ground zero—a 100-yard diameter that got the worst of his sonic booms. I wobble to my knees. Aside from a ringing that won't go away, I can't hear anything. I don't even hear Zoom taunt me. He snaps his fingers again, sends me flying, and the world goes dark.