Chapter 10: D.I.Y.

"I'm hot like lava
You got a problem?
I got a problem solver
And his name is revolver"

The figure, a stately gentleman of about sixty, rustled his newspaper as he sipped his morning coffee. He felt the urge to swear as he read the headline, but suppressed it. He had anticipated complications when he had called the man, but for him to end up dead…well, professionalism wasn't what it used to be, clearly. Throwing the newspaper aside, he walked to his training room. He always felt that his mind worked best after exercise.

He stepped into the dojo, and called up the sparring program. He fought with a style he had created himself, graceful yet controlled. Each punch was perfectly placed to do the maximum damage with minimum exertion in the minimum time, and each evasion was calculated to bring him out of danger the quickest and easiest way possible, without putting himself into an unfavourable position. As far as he knew, only he could fight like this. It took a phenomenal amount of concentration, coupled with an analytical mind of extraordinary power. Two traits the man possessed in abundance.

As he fought, he reviewed his situation. The Titans lived, despite being hunted by the deadliest assassin in known history. Perhaps I shouldn't have insisted on dramatics, he mused, but quickly shook his head. If it had been Deathstroke that had killed the Titans, then Batman would have found the man, and through him, the thrice-accursed vigilante would have come a-knocking on his door.

Or roof. Or window.

So, Slade was dead, and after all the trouble he had gone to, as well, pumping the Ravager full of those performance-enhancing drugs that were just a little too potent, all to snare Deathstroke. His Church had dwindled, until it was just a handful of devoted lunatics, as opposed to what it had been sixteen years ago- a group of well organised, hard working, devoted lunatics. His funds had dwindled, exhausted on Deathstroke's exorbitant fee. All he had left were his gifts. He needed more.

As he looked back at the newspaper, which he had placed on a stack, ready for recycling, a back issue caught his eye. The headline screamed: "H.I.V.E. Students Cause Panic in Central Jump."

Brother Blood smiled, as he picked up the newspaper. It was like they always said: if you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself.

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Anyone who's read any Discworld will recognise the guest star of the next chapter. I don't own him, by the way.