Author's Note: Deathstroke's soliloquoy below about Batman,Thomas and Martha Wayne being gunned down, and the eponymous Fool's Errand,is borrowed from Greg Rucka's novelisation of Batman: No Man's Land and has been marginally edited for context. (hey, if I can plug some good stuff while I'm making my own wacked-out Infinite Crisis, then I'll consider it part of my civic duty:)). Enjoy.

Author's Note 2: Some of you may undoubtedly hate me for not showing the Batman/Secret...Five (?) fight. But I figure, hey, I'll give Connor Hawke something to write home about--even if Slade did give him one heckuva whuppin'.


Archie Goodwin International Airport.

Slade Wilson.

Terminator.

I can't help but smile underneath the mask. Perhaps it's that no one can see me do it that makes the act so…relaxing. It's been years since I've had reason to smile.

Joey.

Grant.

Too many kids dead from too many over-hyped power fantasies. Too many parents who indulge their eight-year-olds by strapping a towel around their necks and letting them "fly" down the stairs. Broken necks and broken dreams…when kids think they're Superman.

When they think they can take on the world.

When they think they've seen hell and all it has to offer.

They call me a Terminator, and that's partly true I suppose. I do my job, and I do it better than anyone else. Better than Oliver Queen, better than Ray Palmer, and even better than Batman.

Because I've seen hell. I've been there; I've lived through it, breathed it in. They haven't. Kent, West, Jordan…even Bruce Wayne. Jesus…

They think that, because their mommies and daddies got shot—that because their wife was assaulted by some yellow-clad maniac—that because they're last son of their planets—they know how the world works. They think they've seen hell, and they can stop it from taking over. But they can't.

My job used to be hell—a hired killer, for lack of a better word. And it overflowed into my personal life. A missing eye, a divorced wife and two buried children later, I'm slowly getting used to it. Getting to the point where…if I can't make my life better. I can make the world better.

For Rose.

So no more kids have to die for a pointless endeavor. So no more kids have to stay awake at night thinking they'll wake up with superpowers in the morning—kids thinking they can become something they so obviously can't.

Wishful thinking—false hope. That's the problem with the world. Everyone thinks they can save the world when they can't. They don't see solutions to the problems.

The way to make life better for yourself…is to overhaul. The shorthand is 'out with the old and in with the new.' If you really want to make a difference, you have to step out and take charge—you have to affect change by the most efficient means possible. Sometimes…you have to get your hands dirty.

War…to make peace.

I've known Bruce Wayne for some time now—years, really. And I know one thing if I know a dozen things about the man: he is uncompromising. But he's also an idealist; an exercise in contradictions. He'll break a thug's legs to get information but that's it; no killing. Ever.

Gotham City.

It started here—in the city of young Bruce's birth. Where Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down in the streets, where Bruce Wayne felt for the first time the utter capriciousness of life.

His parents had died before him, and Bruce had been powerless to stop it. That single thing, more than any other, had created the Batman. He had dedicated his life to a mission; what Bruce Wayne suffered that night, no one else would.

It was a fool's quest, and he knew it. Doomed to fail before he even started. He couldn't police a planet, could barely police his own city.

He's not noble—or at least he didn't think of himself as such—or even as driven. The situation was far more complex, and yet simpler, than that.

He was the Batman. A force of nature that you tested at your peril. He had no other choice.

Neither do I. Not anymore, anyway.

The way to get through life is not to replace one worry with another—it's to get rid of your worries altogether. For a safe…and secure society.

Our Society.

For once in his life, Batman looks…well, unawares. He's standing here, staring thoughtfully at the hole in the roof. And the people up there are staring right back at him. Scandal, in that ninja-knockoff, wearing what she called the Laminas Pesar—or 'lamentation blades' whatever the hell that means. Ragdoll, crouched by the edge of the roof, his fingers wrapped around the mangled steelwork. Cheshire stands gangly next to Ragdoll. She looks like she's trying to seduce Batman to death. Not going to work, Mrs. Harper. Parademon hovers behind them. And Dr. Light seems the most…perverse. He looks awfully confident.

For a man about to die.

Scandal jumps to the ground first, lands in a crouch and stays there for a second or four. The others come down: Ragdoll, Cheshire, Parademon carries Dr. Light and sets him down gently. By mere happenstance, we've done a good job of surrounding Batman. The four of them standing in front of him, with me standing behind.

My ear catches a crack behind me. In a blur, I turn around and throttle the source. Connor Hawke. Green Arrow. Pretender.

"You can't sneak up on me, Hawke."

"Wasn't…trying," his voice cracks. I squeeze tighter, and he tries gasping for more air. This is almost too easy.

"Come now, Hawke. Tell me training with your old man and Ted Grant was worth something. Give me a challenge. I think I deserve one."

My eye catches his fist, shaking in place. I risk focusing my attention on it.

"You're angry," I say flatly. "It works against you."

With my free hand, I slap him across the face—hard—three times. On the third try, a cuspid flies out, with blood trailing behind. I inhale deeply and stare at him. Wait for it.

"Didn't those monks teach you to focus your thoughts?" I sucker punch him. "Or were they too busy with vows of silence to make you a man?" Another blow, this one to his ribs. I hear a crack, and hit him again. The boy has no sport in him.

"Too bad," I say, laying a hand on his forehead and forcing him to the ground. "I'll give you this though. You're tougher than Harper. And I ought to know."

He tries to hit me. I pull my head back out of his range and throw him to the ground. Lift my leg and set a size-12 at the base of his skull.

"Move and I'll break your neck," I say flatly. It's the truth. I can hear his breathing—short and impatient—against the concrete floor. I hear a creak behind me: Batman trying to sneak up on me. In a blur, I turn around and sucker punch him in the gut. He doubles over, and I extend an open hand towards the Five.

"He's yours."

I don't wait to see them go to work. I turn around, and I hear Parademon's fists laying in Batman. I smile again, bend down, grab a tuft of Hawke's blond locks, and pick him up. Heavier than I thought. His training with Ted Grant was good for something after all.

I bring him close to my face.

"You're wasting your talents here," I say quietly, playing the empathy card. "You deserve better. Let me help you."

"Sorry, Slade," he says. His voice is weak and gravelly. "I don't make deals."

He gets in one good punch before I kick him in the knee. He falls to the ground, and I reach over my shoulder, feeling for the sword hilt. I bring my arm back down, my hand firmly clutching the gold-colored hilt. Angle the blade at the back of his neck.

"Let's try the old fashioned way."

Clench my teeth, and run the sword slowly along the crest of his vertebrae. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. I smile again. I may yet enjoy this.

"Hey, Attila! Care to take me on?"

I barely have time to turn my head before the Amazon rushes me. She puts that star-spangled shield out in front of her, using it as a battering ram to send me to my feet with relative ease. The sword falls out of my hand. I get to one knee and see her already standing there. She has her sword back in her possession; her arm angled high and tight against her face, the blade inside the fist is ready to strike. Her shield is horizontal on my field of vision—a dome. Like she's going to throw it at me.

"Are you joking?" I ask earnestly.

Her expression doesn't change. "Get your sword," she says. "This should be fair."

I snicker. "Your wish, Princess."

I indulge her and extend an arm to my side, feeling for the sword. Bad business to take your eyes off your foe. Once I find it, I pull it to me and stand in one swift motion.

"Do you even watch the news, Amazon? Do you know what I did to the League in Roxbury?"

"Yes," she says, unmoving. "But they have things I don't."

Testicles?

"What?" I ask, good-humoredly.

"Scruples."

And she lunges at me, trying to embed her sword in my gut. I sidestep it and knock her over the back of the head with the hilt. She falls to her knees, and I manage to kick the blade away from her. She falls on her rear, stares up at me. Her eyes are on fire. This one's a kicker. I inhale slowly—it's almost a sigh—and let it go. Tighten my grip on the sword and angle at right between her eyes. If she tries to move…well…she'll be blind again. Irretrievably so, this time.

"You overestimated yourself, Princess." My voice is calm—truthful. "Soul of a warrior indeed."

"What are you waiting for?" she asks. This is where Diana's warrior instincts come into play. She's been bested in glorious—albeit anticlimactic—battle and now awaits her fate. Admirable, if snobbish. She seems to be genuinely interested in a response.

I realize that the sound of Batman's muffled voice—and the Five of them beating him down—have subsided. Somebody must have taken the upper-hand there. It's dark out, and the moon is full, casting a chalk-white haze on a wide spot on the floor. My peripheral vision catches a dark shape standing in the light.

I risk turning my head to see a new dark shape standing in the moonlight.

An OMAC—one of Max's so-called proprietary designs (because let's be honest, Max Lord wouldn't know an original idea if it walked up to him and snapped his neck). But not just any one of those Observational Metahuman Activity Constructs. This is the OMAC. The one Lex has been banking on for weeks now.

Wonder Woman's head angles to see the OMAC. She seems more stunned than I thought she would be. I make a note of that. The OMAC speaks; its voice cold and detached. If it wasn't on our side, I'd almost be afraid.

"Face me," it—he—says.

I turn back to Diana, and lift the sword away from her. I extend a hand to her, helping her to her feet—professional courtesy, after all. She glances at me, at the OMAC, and back at me.

"Well," I say, gesturing to the hovering blue nanomorph. "You heard him."


Continued...