Author's Note: For clarity's sake, I'd like to point out that whenever you see "the Terminator" referenced in this chapter, it's referring to Deathstroke, not Arnold (or the much cooler T-1000). Enjoy.
Gotham City.
Deathstroke the Terminator, and Batman.
Legends.
Slade Wilson reaches one arm behind his back, to the holster slung diagonally across his shoulder blades, and comes back with a shotgun leveled at Batman's head. He does it slowly, though. Like he knows he can get away with it.
Like he knows Batman's intense dislike—or fear, take your pick—of guns will affect him adversely. Deathstroke can only hope. Actually, he can do more than hope.
He can act. Because there are two kinds of people in this world of ours: astronauts and astronomers—doers and thinkers—the people who would observe the greatest phenomenon of our times from the comfort of a lab or observatory, versus the people who would travel into space and see with their own eyes those natural phenomena.
Slade Wilson, by the conventional standard, is a natural phenomenon himself. The fresh-from-the-mill human, yet augmented by science and years of discipline and training. Crafted to become the pinnacle of human ability.
So is the Batman.
They're perhaps the greatest of their kind, Deathstroke and Batman. And yet they serve their so-called fellow man in different ways. Then again, different is a point of view; a word, and words alone have little bearing when you live in a world of Super Men and Power Rings.
What matters is what you do.
For yourself, and—rarely even—for others. Perhaps…even the world.
Slade Wilson's bicep begins to burn from the strain of holding an increasingly weight shotgun at Batman's jugular.
"Put the gun down, Slade." Underneath the yellow and black mask, Slade Wilson's eyes narrow. Since when does Batman first-name people—much less people he's known to harbor some degree of…animosity towards.
"As much as I'd like to," Wilson says flatly. "I don't think your friends would stand long for it."
Batman, Slade Wilson entertained to himself with a grin. Paranoid, delusional. Arguably insane, depending on which Arkham zombie you ask, or which purse-snatcher you hold in front of an oncoming train. But there is one thing undeniably true about Batman. He has passion. Some would call it pride. Slade Wilson makes a mental note of that. Ahead of Wilson, Batman folds his arms over the spread-bat symbol on his chest. Unimpressed, and with probable cause—as the expression goes.
"What?" Wilson asks. "Oh that's right. You hate guns."
"You're committing a crime."
"Am I?" Slade Wilson doesn't move. The shotgun gets heavier. "Me, I'm just exercising some constitutionality here."
"Why are you here, Slade? What's Lex promising you?"
"Is this the part where you try to dissuade me from my fool's errand?" Wilson waits for a response. When one doesn't come, he continues. "Safety, Mr. Wayne. There are two ends of the societal spectrum: war…and peace. However much you have of one directly affects the other. Sometimes, you have to fight a war to make peace."
"Not always," Batman counters. In a flash, he leaps for Deathstroke. The Batman throws a leg to Deathstroke's wrist, and the shotgun falls from the Terminator's hand. Batman lands and pivots on his heel and launches the other leg at Deathstroke's midsection.
The fight erupts around Batman and Deathstroke.
Robin goes for Prometheus.
Connor Hawke and Wonder Woman go for Deadshot.
Catman lunges at Oliver Queen.
Robin pulls three batarangs from his belt, clutches them tightly in his hand, and readies himself. Prometheus reaches behind his back and brings out a silver-colored handgun. Robin's leg flies through the air, connects to the fingers, and the gun throws itself from Prometheus' hand. Prometheus watches it skid away. In his head, he does a quick calculation; not nearly enough time to go for it. Have to do this one the hard way.
"No more tricks," Robin says grimly. With his open hand, he beckons Prometheus to him. Prometheus' scowl turns into a grin, and he lunges for the Boy Wonder.
Catman delivers a sucker punch to Oliver Queen's midsection and rams a knee into the archer's chin. With a thud, Queen falls to the ground. He wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and stares at Catman thoughtfully, if even for a moment.
"Why?" Queen asks. "What about your letter? I thought the Society was hunting you."
"They were," Blake says. He lifts his leg and kicks Queen across the cheekbone. Queen barely has time to lift his head before Catman has him pinned down; Catman's own foot, firmly pressed into Oliver Queen's jugular. A smile creases across Catman's grizzled features.
"But you see, Oliver, they offered me a most unique prize."
"Oh…yeah?" Queen stutters weakly. "Such as?"
"You. Alive, or dead. But in my possession. You see its one thing to get the tar beaten out of you by Green Arrow. I mean, of all the heroes out there, Green Arrow certainly carries the least amount of sway."
Oliver Queen gasps greedily, trying to catch as much air as he can. Catman's foot presses down further on Queen's neck. "Did you really believe that noble hero angle, Oliver? That I was honestly thanking you for what you did to me?"
Catman releases his foot from Queen's neck, and his arm takes its place. With a single swift motion, Catman hoists Green Arrow in the air.
"I once fought Batman to a standstill, Oliver! I used to be somebody!" Catman's voice is rage and anguish. He calms momentarily, and stares balefully into Queen's eyes. "Now," Catman says quietly. "Now everyone has a gimmick. Everyone wants to be part of the spotlight. Everyone wants their own piece of this useless rock."
Catman's arm begins to ache from the strain of holding Queen in the air. So Catman throws Queen to the ground. Three successive hits—right hook, left hook, right hook, form faint purple bruises around Queen's eyes. Blood trickles out of his nose and mouth, and Queen's vision begins to blur. How did Catman get this strong?
Catman relents and stands. He reaches into the belt round his waist and pulls out tri-blades—a type of brass knuckle that has curved blades at three points along the curvature of Catman's hand.
"Well," Catman says, giving a thoughtful look to one of the tri-blades. "I've been given my corner of the rock, Oliver. Mockingbird's debt to me has been paid. It's time I paid mine to him."
Oliver Queen spits blood from his mouth. With a weary sigh, he speaks. "Yeah? What did this mystery man promise you?"
"The world, Oliver. My kind of world, anyway."
"You're not a lowlife, Blake. You can work through this."
Catman kicks Queen in the ribs and sends him to the floor.
"Don't you get it?" he asks savagely. "I want to work with this. This is a new chance for me. A return to former glory…if you take my meaning." Catman crouches and grabs a tuft of Queen's hair in his hand. He leans close and whispers in the archer's ear.
"I'm taking back my life, Oliver. And this time, you can't help me."
With a jerk of his arm, Catman slams Queen's head into the concrete floor and waits for Queen to drift into unconsciousness. When there's nothing left but the slow heaving of Queen's chest, Catman stands, dusting his gloved hands.
"Only the Society can."
The Robin/Prometheus fight started quickly and ended just as fast. As soon as Prometheus launched himself at the Boy Wonder, Wonder Woman dove in behind Prometheus and delivered two blows to the back of his knees. Caught unawares, Prometheus fell to the ground limply. Apparently, Wonder Woman and Connor Hawke made short work of Deadshot. Wonder Woman's distraction gives Robin just enough time to calculate the weak spot in Prometheus' helmet.
Prometheus glanced around wildly for just a moment, to get his bearings, and then looks up at Wonder Woman. She stares right back.
"You think you can stop me?"
"No," she says with a deceptive grin. "He will."
Wonder Woman reaches down, grabs Prometheus' cape at the collarbone origin and lifts him into the air. A half-second later, Prometheus' world goes dark as Wonder Woman plants a fist in his temple. When his vision clears, Prometheus finds himself on the concrete floor in a lazy kind of prayer-seat He can't move his arms; he looks down to see a golden rope binding his arms tightly to him. Of course, he recriminates himself. The Amazon's lasso. Useful for a polygraph and God knows what else might be on her mind.
Prometheus looks up to see Robin staring down at him. Maybe…if this 'Boy Wonder' was a little taller and had a little more facial hair—not to mention battle scars—he'd be a little more imposing. But today's not the day.
Prometheus struggles and grunts in protest. He knows he can't move his arms—the magic lasso in unbreakable by most conventions. For the moment, he's screwed. Prometheus can't do anything but watch Robin lean over his head and lift the purple-and-silver helmet off his head.
"Sorry, Pro." Robin seems genuinely affected. "Short straw this time." With that, the Boy Wonder let the helmet fall from his hand. As soon as it hit the ground, Robin lifted his foot and crushed the helmet under his heel.
Batman's size 12 slams into the side of Slade Wilson's head. The Terminator falters, momentarily losing balance and stumbling a few steps. Batman takes advantage of the situation by jamming an open palm into Deathstroke's abdomen. The result is almost all the air expunging itself from Wilson's lungs. When Batman tries to connect a right hook across Deathstroke's face, the Terminator's let arm catches it—barely in time—and twists. Batman's elbow turns and wrenches in socket. Deathstroke focuses half his attention on air intake and another half on watching Batman squirm. He allows himself a minimal smile watching Batman fall to his knees.
Deathstroke increases the pressure on Batman's hand. The Terminator's free hand slides down his leg, to the bowie knife holster strapped around his knee. Pull back the clasp and wrap your fingers around the handle. Pull the blade out from that stifling captivity and clench it in your hand. Wait for Batman to screw up and then strike.
The only problem therein is that Batman rarely screws up. And when he does, he takes it out on himself.
Deathstroke pulls the bowie knife close to his waist and turns Batman's hand more. At his feet, the Dark Knight writhes, almost contorting himself into some ungodly shape—a ball of flesh and blood that looks like it's just burst from a chrysalis. Batman's persistence is admirable, if grotesque.
Underneath his mask, Deathstroke grimaces. The Terminator looks down and sees Batman turn his head to stare right back at him. In a blur, Deathstroke jams the bowie knife in Batman's thigh, scant centimeters from the groin. Batman grunts in pain—but it's only a grunt; after all, he's got a reputation to uphold. Deathstroke leaves the bowie knife in Batman's leg and goes for a grenade on his belt.
Before Deathstroke can pull the pin, Batman's fist lands in his crotch. Deathstroke groans in pain and stumbles back a few steps. It's just enough for Batman to acquire a batarang and jam it in the top of Deathstroke's hand. Straight down, straight through the skin and the tendons and the muscles. The bloody point slices through skin and the orange fiber of Deathstroke's glove and comes out on the soft side—the palm.
Deathstroke stops and stares at his wound for a fraction of a second. Underneath his mask, he smiles.
"You must be dumber than I thought."
Batman steadies himself, makes his hands into fists. His trademark scowl is firmly entrenched. "Try me," he says. The Dark Knight's voice is gravel.
Deathstroke gives a brief chuckle.
"I don't have to," he replies. Deathstroke pulls the batarang from his hand effortlessly and tosses it to the ground. His head cranes skyward, to an opening in the hangar roof.
And five bodies standing on the edge, staring down at Batman like an animal might look down on prey—studiously, scrutinizing every aspect, and cataloguing it all until itstime to strike.
Cheshire, Parademon, Ragdoll, Dr. Light, and a woman wearing a derivation of a black ninja suit; the gauntlets on her forearms hold retracted twin blades.
"I've got some backup of my own," Deathstroke says pointedly.
Continued...
Author's Note 2: The woman wearing the derivation-ninja suit is Scandal, if you hadn't guessed. The way I figure it, with Scandal being something of an enigma in her own book (Villains United), not even Batman knows who she is. Maybe that's to her benefit.
