A/N:To The Obsidian Warlock.

I've thought about what you said, and I will try to incorporate it. Trust me, you are going to love this chapter. But you should realize I can't do a complete 360 and stray from the tone I had set. Now THAT is bad writing. I also want you to understand what I'm going for. I was going to write a long elaborate note to you, but I just decided to use this quote from a conversation Clark Kent and Dick Grayson have when Clark learns Dick faked his death to infiltrate Spyral, and Dick learns Clark is depowered and living a tumultuous life. You sound like a smart guy, I'm sure you'll get the gist.

Clark: *sighs* "The lives of superheroes, huh?"

Dick: "Yeah, lives. If you can even call them that."

PS: Alekile, yes, we will be seeing those two, but that comes so much later it's hardly worth mentioning now.

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"Are you feeling alright sir? You look a little queasy."

"I'm fine. Just a little tired. And dehydrated. Be a dear and get me a bottle of water,and some ice please."

"Right away sir."

Lex leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the chair that felt like it was made of brick. He tipped his head up, staring at the ceiling. Today was the big day, but he was feeling crappy. One too many drinks and not nearly enough sleep last night. He didn't even make it to the gym today. The pounding in his head outweighed the reward of being ogled by his trainer.

Should I postpone it? It couldn't hurt could it? What's one more day? He'll always be around.. No, I have to do it today.

Last night was an excellent reminder of why he should do so. Being in close proximity to Superman was..exciting, he couldn't deny that. He couldn't deny it, but he could rationalize it as a simple adrenal response, something he had no control over. It would be much more exciting today.

"How long does it take to get a bottle of water?" he asked aloud. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

The phone rang, loudly. He winced as it continued ringing. After some deliberation he picked up the receiver. It had to be important, very few people had his direct line.

"Speak."

"Mr Luthor sir. Professor Ivo here. The subject has exceeded the upper limits in all the tests, far beyond what we expected. I still have a few adjustments to make but I do believe its ready."

Lex sat forward in his chair, barely breathing.

"Uh.. Hello? Mr Luthor? Are you there sir?"

"Yes.I'm here. How soon can you make it operational?"

"Well, we can have it up and running in a matter of weeks.."

"Weeks! What the hell do you mean by ready, if you'll have it OPERATIONAL, IN WEEKS?"

"Well sir, the project requires more time. It passed the tests but that doesn't guarantee success in the field. There are still some calibrations required-"

"I made those calculations myself Ivo! They're fine!"

"Actually I sad CALIBRATIONS sir, not calculations-"

"I know what you said!"

"Well then sir, what would you have me do?" Ivo asked coolly. He was the only man in his employ that was unfazed by Luthor's(frequent) outbursts.

"Hold everything. I'm coming over there right now."

"Very well. And what shall I tell the General?"

Lex's voice became deathly calm. "Who is funding this initiative, Professor?"

"Why, the military and your company sir."

"Exactly. And where does the technology that makes this possible come from?"

"Lexcorp sir."

"So, what are you going to tell the General?"

"Er.. Nothing sir."

"Good." He put down the receiver and leaned back in the chair. It felt a lot more comfortable. More plush leather, less Iron Throne. If he could just get that water now...

Gotham, Wayne Manor Alfred Pennyworth stood at the foot of the stairs, wondering if he should interrupt Bruce during his workout(Bruce HATED being interrupted during a workout, or 'training' as he stubbornly called it) or if he should just wait and give him the bad news later, when he was eating. That was a better idea, the young master was always at his most 'human' so to speak, when eating.

Then again, Bruce always insisted on hearing bad news right away.

His slippers padded softly against the stone floor of the cave as he walked, barely audible even to his own ears. As he approached the 'pit' as Bruce called it, he paused to watch the young master at work. He was blindfolded, performing an intricate gymnastic routine. Alfred held his breath as Bruce soared through the air and landed on the parallel bars, supporting his entire body weight on the balls of his hands. His eyes widened as Bruce walked across the bars with his hands,lowered himself between them, pushed up with explosive force then executed a double front-flip, landing nimbly on the ground with more grace than a man of his height and bulk should ever have.

"What." Bruce said flatly. Not even bothering to stop his movements, he grasped the gymnastic rings and pulled himself effortlessly up into an iron cross.

"Have you slept at all?"

"No." came the curt reply. He swung his body between the rings, letting go of them and then catching them again.

"Any leads in the case?"

"No."

"I take it there was a mental block?"

"Yes."

"And so you decided to give your mind a break by exercising your body?"

"Yes."

"Someday sir, you'll have to tell me how you do that."

"Willpower." he replied as he raised his lower half and tipped his head forward, making him look like he was poised to dive into the ground.

"Ha. Was that a joke master Wayne?"

Bruce released his grip and dropped to the floor headfirst, arching his body at the very last minute so that he landed on the balls of his feet. He untied his blindfold and sipped from a water bottle. "The day I crack a joke Alfred, is the day I'll wear brown shoes with a black suit."

"Was that a joke?"

"Alfred, you interrupted my training. I assume it was for a better reason than wordplay."

"The board of directors has had your position revoked."

"That's hardly news Alfred. The board has been doing that for years. What is it for this time?"

"They say that...fraternization with characters of questionable moral and ethical beliefs is bad for the company image."

"Well, that's one I haven't heard in a while." Bruce remarked. "I can't think of anything Bruce Wayne has done to credit that." Alfred frowned.

"You know sir, that I don't like you referring to yourself like that. As though you were a caricature and not a real person."

An argument as old as time. Bruce acted like he never heard him.

"Is this about Oliver? Whose wife did he seduce this time?"

Alfred sighed. "Perhaps you should take a look at the papers. Or the computer. Or the television. I'm certain they're talking about it on the radio too.." he said as he walked away.

Bruce walked over to the computer and switched it on. There was a tray with a pot of coffee, and a plate of steak and eggs, the steam still coming off of them. Someday he would have to ask Alfred how HE did that.

He minimized the case files he had been working on and pulled up the news feed.

There were photos. So many of them. It looked like someone had taken a shot every single second. What was it called again? Bursts? Scatters? He couldn't remember.

Bruce Wayne and Princess Diana. A fantasy match-up no one had never even thought about until someone did.

He opened another page, an article from TMZ. The title screamed, "PRINCE OF GOTHAM COURTS PRINCESS OF THEMYSCIRA?"

Bruce groaned at the sheer cheesiness of the title. He was surprised the writers had spelt Themyscira correctly. Opening the article he quickly skimmed through it. Bits of writing stuck in his mind.

'..were spotted flirting and laughing together..'

'..sources state the two were very cozy most of the night in the privacy of the V.I.P section..' Lies. For the most part. Excluding the press and staff, everyone who attended was a V.I.P.

"I don't have time for this." He closed all the pages and reopened the case file he had been working on all night. Picking up a fork and knife he cut the steak into little pieces and did the same with the eggs, mixing them up to make it easier to eat. There was a note under the plate. It simply read: 'Shower first' in Alfred's neat, cursive handwriting. He crumpled up the note and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.

Finally, he cracked his knuckles and got down to work.

3 Hours later..

Still nothing.
No, that wasn't right, there was something, but it was too little to go on.
His name was Slade Wilson, alias Deathstroke. He was a mercenary and assassin. Very expensive, information on him painfully scarce, and finding the little there was about him hadn't been easy. Deathstroke was obviously good at his job. After that, the trail went cold.

Think Bruce, think. He rubbed his bleary eyes. Interrogation was out of the question. By now this Deathstroke would be in a hospital,certainly under heavy police guard. Upon discharge he would likely be transferred to a high security holding cell until he faced judgement in court.

"I could probably get in and out undetected, but that would mean waiting until nightfall, and I need answers now..."

Be resourceful. Work with what you have. Maybe it was time to test that connection with Gordon. Later. For now, make sense of the information you have.

Bruce made a list split into two, what he knew and what he didn't.
What he knew:Deathstroke was a highly skilled mercenary and an assassin.
2.90% chance he was ex-military, as people in his line of work often were.
was in Gotham.
4. Superman was in Gotham.

What he didn't know:
did he arrive in Gotham?
2. How long had he been in Gotham?
was his base of operations?
4. Who hired him?
was he hired?
6. Where did Superman fit into all of this?

It was useless tackling the first 5 queries without more data. If he did that he would be forcing the facts to fit his theories, and that would be bad detective work. He could however, speculate about Superman, because he wasn't going to get any information out of him.

Satellites monitored everything that happened over Wayne Manor and the rest of Gotham. They would have alerted him if there was a UFO over the area. Bruce would have doubted any other tech, but his satellites were easily the most advanced on the planet, he was confident they were working properly.

That rules out Superman flying into the city.. Which means what?
He opened one of his videos of the alien in action, an old video,the very first in fact, back when Superman wore a t-shirt, jeans and boots.
Back then everyone had been so scared of him. The military didn't help by going after him.

They spent nearly a year hitting him with everything they had and he just kept getting back up. People feared him even more after that. Bruce had never really liked him. He didn't hate him, but he didn't like him either. He was suspicious of him. That was pretty much how he felt about most people.

And now? Going on 6 years later?
It wasn't quite so bad, but people still feared him of course. That would never go away, as sure as people feared death. Fear of the unknown lasts forever.

Still,all these years Superman had never crossed that red line. Never killed anyone. He could do it so easily, Bruce thought as he watched the alien rip through a tank like it was made of wet cotton. The fact that he didn't, well that had to count for something surely. Reining in that impulse, it took strength. Mental fortitude.

...If the satellites didn't show any activity, perhaps Superman used other means to get into Gotham? But he dismissed that notion as quickly as it came up. He would have to know Gotham was being watched, which was a possibility because he was capable of going into space. The military surveillance satellites showed that much.

He dismissed that notion as well. Satellites hovering over Gotham would look just like any other satellites hovering over the earth. There was no way Superman would have known the difference. Unless he was as smart as he was powerful, which Bruce highly doubted. In any case, knowing Gotham was under surveillance would make him doubly cautious, he wouldn't have blown his cover so easily.. Unless he was forced to? Perhaps there was a relation between Deathstroke and Superman.

Again, it was highly unlikely. They were just too different in too many ways. Deathstroke reeked of Underworld Crime. Of dark,shadowy, off the books acts. Somehow he was just right for Gotham, even if he couldn't figure out what he was doing there. Yet. Superman was, as Clark Kent had so eloquently put it, a 'beacon of hope' type of hero. No way he got mixed up with mercenary assassins.

Which brought him back to Deathstroke. He was obviously here on a mission. An assassination? Possibly. But who? He attacked at a high profile event, with lots of important people. Business magnates,a few of the Military's top brass, even a handful of celebrities. Too many possibilities.

An assassin of his caliber could easily make the kill shot from a distance. The office building across the hotel was good enough. In fact it was an excellent vantage point. So why show himself?

His cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He hated being interrupted when working a case.

"What!" he barked.

"Uh, hello, is this Mr Wayne? Mr Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes, this is he."

"Great. We're calling you from TMZ-"

Idiots, he thought as he hung up and turned off his phone.

So why show himself? Maybe he didn't mean to? No, that was a rookie mistake, which Deathstroke was not. When you have eliminated all possibilities, whatever remains must be the truth.

He wanted to be seen. Why?

St Maria Hospital, Just outside Gotham

"Man. Look at him."

"You look at him. He makes me sick."

"His face is pretty jacked up isn't it?"

"That's one way of putting it. What happened to his eye?"

"Hell if I know man. It is really weird though. I've never actually seen a one eyed man before."

"I can't believe he's still alive. That wall must've weighed a ton."

"They say by the time the paramedics showed up, he was already conscious. Said he should've died from internal injuries, but they think his armor protected him. Here's the weird bit, his armor is made of a metal that apparently doesn't even exist yet. Had weapons on him, some were way advanced. Space age shit, this stick that shoots lasers, guns that shoot lasers. He had some old school stuff too. Regular guns, some knives, some gas pellets, a sword-"

"Did you see that sword? As long as my couch, as wide as my hip. Took three guys to carry it."

"Eerie."

"So what do you guys think? Alien? Time traveling gladiator?"

"I don't know. Really I don't care. I just want him locked up in a cage with all the other weirdo's."

"He'll get Supermax for sure. All these costumed freaks do."

"That's if he ever wakes up. Doctor says physically he's healing fast. Says its 'remarkable'. But mentally, the guy is toast. Brain dead."

"So he's like, retarded?"

"Guess so."

"Man. Sucks to be you Goldilocks."

"I'm hungry. Lets go get some food."

"Are you crazy? And leave that guy there?"

"He's not going anywhere Jensen. He's a cabbage-"

"I thought you said he was retarded."

"Same thing. Look, I'm hungry and I want to eat. Stay here if you want."

"I'm coming with you. Jensen? You coming or what?"

"All right all right.."

There was the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and feet scuffing the floor, then footsteps as the 3 police officers left the room.

Slade opened his eye, wincing slightly at the brightness.
Thank God they left.
He was reaching the breaking point. Their strong smells, their loud voices, the annoying creak of chairs each time one of them leaned forward in their chairs. Not to mention the strong hospital smells.
The smell of blood, vomit, shit, death and disinfectant all rolled into one; his all too sensitive nose taking it in with every breath. Sometimes his enhancements were a burden.

Brain dead? Retard? Cabbage? He smiled coldly. Thank you Natas. And here I thought meditation was all some Eastern BS. He looked around the room. Nothing special. Next he examined himself. Scarring was almost completely healed, bruises were gone. In a way, he was lucky they took him to hospital. The strong medication coupled with his enhancements amped up his accelerated healing factor quite nicely. He looked at his hands, one was cuffed to the bed. Too easy, he thought.

He was just about to rip the steel bed frame off when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his room. He quickly dropped back into a deep meditation, letting his enhanced senses do the monitoring for him.

It was obviously a woman, judging by the soft footfalls and the smell of lavender. Obviously a nurse. He detected a faint whiff of alcohol rub when the door was opened. A needle was jabbed into his forearm with all the ceremony of a slap. Next she plumped his pillow. "You're a big one, aren't you?" she said as she struggled to turn him over. "But we can't have you getting bedsores, can we? Even if you are a murderous psychopath." She stroked his hair. "Such lovely hair you have. Like liquid sunlight. I wonder how long it took you to grow that ponytail out.."

There was a shrill beeping sound, which he guessed was her pager. She left the room without a word, walking quickly. He opened his eye again. He was feeling a little drowsy. She must have given him some kind of... painkiller.. The room was swimming...

"Ahhh shiiit..."

He woke again, in a different position.
Which meant the nurse had changed him over again.
Which meant he had been out for a few hours. His mouth felt strange in a familiar way. He realized he had been gagged. His hands were bound much more strongly, strapped across his chest with thick metal chains wrapped around his body. The smells in the room were different. Not like the men before. It smelled... like rubber. Or plastic. He couldn't quite place it.

"Mr Wilson. Glad you're awake."

The voice was unnatural. Dry and raspy, but deep at the same time. Synthesizer, he thought immediately.

He opened his eye, slowly, cautiously. The lights were off. It was dark outside. Only the pale moonlight illuminated the room in irregular slats as it passed through the window grilles. There was a big black.. something at the foot of his bed.

"MMMfhggh kkshhy hrerrer" Slade said.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions Mr Wilson. You will shake your head yes or no."

"Fkkk uuu." He struggled against his bonds. To his surprise they were extremely strong.

"Don't bother. The chains are made from the same metal as your armor. Promethium. Designed to hold powerful metahumans. Like Superman. You found a clever use for it though. I'm a little jealous I didn't think of it myself."

"Hrrrr?"

"Don't look so surprised Mr Wilson. It doesn't take a genius to see you're not a normal human.
I took a look at your chart. Healing is exponential. Your X-rays are very interesting too. Your bones and muscles are much denser than the average human. I'm guessing you can lift what, 2,3 tons max?
And your weapons, very nice. I quite like the sword. I think I'll mount it on my trophy wall."

Slade was struck dumb.

"You're not the only one with access to fancy toys." The black figure whipped out a small device, which discharged bright sparks. "Just a simple taser I'm afraid. But it'll get the job done."

"Uuurgh nrrrt trrghlin uuuu shrrrt mrrdrrrfkkkkr"

"That's not very nice Mr Wilson. You really shouldn't swear like that." He pulled the sheet aside and put the taser at Slade's feet.
"Did you know the soles of the feet are extremely sensitive? An ancient torture method I learned back in Mongolia, they whip the soles of the feet until the bones are visible. Sometimes they peel the skin off. Hurts like hellfire. I don't want to make a mess though, so I thought I'd add a little twist to an old classic."
He pushed the button.

"MMMMMMMMMMMFGGGGGGGGGHETYRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

"Now you know what happens if you don't co-operate." The voice gained a hard edge. No more mocking. It was all business now.

"You came here for a job. To kill someone?"

Slade held up his middle fingers.

The dark figure sighed, as if to say, "I really didn't want to do this.."

"MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMSHAGSHAJUYTSGGGGGGGG!"

"Lets try that again. You're here in Gotham to kill someone, correct?"

Slade found himself nodding vigorously.

"Who?"

Silence.

This is going to hurt, thought Slade. But I have a code. I'll stick by it for as long as possible.

The walls glowed with light as the taser went to work once more.

15 minutes later..

"I have to say Mr Wilson, I admire your bravery. The taser is almost out of charge. I've broken all the bones in your hands, and still you won't speak. That is impressive. You cried like a little bitch, wet the bed and you've even shit yourself. But, you've lasted far longer than anyone else."

Slade was shaking violently, his body bathed in sweat, the bedsheets soiled, stinking of urine and feces. His feet were practically charred. Tears flowed freely down his face. He had stopped fighting them long ago. He was thankful for the gag, without it he would have chewed his tongue out.

"Now I'll ask you again.. Who do you work for, and who are you here to kill?"

Slade sobbed miserably, but he still refused to answer.

The dark figure raised its hand dramatically, but instead of bringing the taser to his feet, he pulled the bed sheet lower and pulled up Slade's nightdress, exposing his genitals.

"What do you think Mr Wilson. If I fry those, will they grow back?" The figure asked menacingly.

Slade burst into fresh tears, weeping openly and hysterically. The figure leaned forward into the moonlight. For the first time Slade saw his face.

Cold, dead, white eyes against dark black flesh. Sharp, black horns sticking out from its head. The face set in a snarl that made him want to wet his pants all over again.

"Tell me." It said.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmdfksghsgsadgfasdyfgsyuad! MMMMjsfhafkasghj!"

"What? I can't.." he looked down at Slade's broken, bent fingers. They were pointing at him, specifically, the insignia on his chest.

"Me? You were sent to kill.. me?"

Slade nodded violently. "mmmhmmm! Mhmmm!"

"Who sent you? Its the crime families, isn't it? Which one? Falcone or Maroni? Maroni... Thank you Mr Wilson. It goes without saying that if I ever see you again, this little chat will feel like a day at the spa compared to what I will do to you. Have a goodnight."

Slade wept again, this time with gratitude.
He was knocked out with one hard, well placed punch to the side of the head. He slumped back in the sheets, soaking in the vile pool of his body fluids.

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A/N: This is what happens when you crash a party, wreck a $10 million super car and then try to kill someone.

As always, read and review.