"That's going to be $178.54, Ms. Wilson."

Rose Wilson sighed as she dug deep into her purse. As the rate the cost of living was rising, she wondered how long this price tag would last for her weekly necessities. Still, there were two things in her life that kept this charade alive.

Hearing a sound behind her, she looked – and sighed. It seemed that one of those reasons was busy trying to open every candy bar he could get his hands on.

"Malcolm, come on," she said, at her wit's end as she picked up the four-year-old and placed him in the shopping cart. "Can't you keep your hands off something for more than three seconds?"

"I told him he'd get in trouble, but he wouldn't listen," Looks like the other reason to live was starkly pointing out the obvious.

"Catlin, I told you not to be a tattle-tale," the woman directed her words to her seven-year-old daughter as she handed two hundred dollar bills to the young man behind the counter. At least that part had been taken care of.

"Well, you also said that my swimming coach Mr. Turner was a fudge packer!" Rose shut her eyes as she remembered the cardinal rule of having children: never say anything in private that you wouldn't want your children to say in public. Feeling her face turn red, she pushed the cart towards the exit while the people behind her had a good chuckle.

Life hadn't been going well for Rose. Not everyone dealt with the problems she had been dealt. She was on all kinds of depressants for the 'outbursts' she had in her life. Thankfully, medical advances had restored sight to both sides of her face. She could still remember that day, in a mess of rage and psychosis, how she had taken that knife, and plunged it deep…

She shook her head, trying to clear the disturbing images as she loaded the groceries into the back of her small hatchback. That life was over for her. It had been ever since the start of "The Crusade". Granted, she had known Nightwing prior to his change of heart, but she feared her past transgressions could very well have landed her on a cold slab in a forensic lab. That's when the pills began. Prescription, perfectly legal. For the first time in years, she felt whole again. The Ravager was all but gone from her system. True, she had ended up drunk on many occasions and bore two children from two separate men who split as soon as she started puking in the morning, but the nightmares had disappeared. She had her children, and her life. That was all she needed, she thought as she buckled her son into his booster seat.

That's when she felt the cold steel pressed against her back. Jerking up, she nearly struck the back of her head on the inside of the car's roof.

"No sudden movements," the voice whispered in her ear. "Get in the car."

Slowly pushing the seat back up to its' locked position, Rose climbed into the vehicle via the passenger side door, her attacker following close behind. Trying to remain calm, she buckled her own seat belt as she glanced over at the intruder. His head and body was covered with a grey sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to hide his face. She was willing to chance that the bulge in the middle of the sweatshirt's front pocket was a weapon and not something more…erect.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she started up the vehicle. For a second, she expected the frantic ranting and yelling of a drugged-out thug or a kid who wanted to be a baller. What she got was a surprise.

"Home," he said, his voice calm and collected.

"Home?" Rose echoed. "Where's that?"

"Just drive," the voice spoke again, still calm.

Rose's mind raced as she pulled into traffic. With everything she had learned over the years, taking out this guy should have been a piece of cake. But something was holding her back. Yes, it was the children. She breathed deeply. She could handle taking a beating. Hell, she could even handle if the thug shot her. But if he did anything to hurt her children…that would simply tear her apart.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Rose watched as her children bickered amongst themselves. She had to do something soon. If not for her sake, for theirs.

As she approached the intersection, the light changed from green to yellow. Stealing a quick look at her unwelcome passenger, she noticed that he seemed to be preoccupied with reading the local billboards, especially the ones with Dick Grayson's face plastered all over them. This was perfect. One shot. Just needed the right moment.

The light changed again. Red. Red means dead. She smiled to herself at the twisted joke. It was time.

The car lurched to a halt as Rose stomped on the brake. As she flung forward, her right hand left the steering wheel, and dove under her seat. Within a split second, the chrome .45 was hers, and she whipped her hand around to the passenger side of the car – only to find a blue-steel model pointed directly at her own face!

The children began crying and whimpering as Rose and the passenger held guns mere inches away from the other's face. It was a Mexican standoff if there ever was one. For a moment, the only things the woman could hear were the sound of her heart beating in her chest and the tears from her children in the back seat. Then came something she had never expected…

"You still have it," the passenger said, slowly turning his head to meet her eyes. "Even after all these years, you have never forgotten who you are."

A gasp escaped Rose's lips as she took in the sight of the black and orange mask before her. It was unreal. Only one person could have that skill and wear that mask…

"…Daddy?" she said, her tough exterior cracking as she sounded much like the young girl she had been when she first saw that face.

He let out a sigh. "Yes, baby," Slade said, "it's me."

In a small car, stopped at an intersection in Titan City, Rose Wilson found one more reason to live as the light turned green.

"Welcome home."

Slade slowly took in his surroundings. It was a modest two-story home. Nothing too extravagant about it. Looked like many of the homes in the area. Not necessarily a bad thing if you didn't want to attract attention.

"So," Rose said, setting the groceries down on the counter. "What do you think?"

The merc took another look around every detail being captured in his mind. It was this very level of perception that had made him such a dangerous adversary.

"I like it," he said, quietly. "It's not complicated. Useful for what I have to do."

The woman stared at her father, watching his every move. The same drug that he had taken years prior still ran through her veins, albeit highly diluted from the cocktail of medication she was on. Still, she knew that he had something more than interior decorating on his mind.

"So I can assume you're not here to bounce your grandchildren on your knees and tell them stories about the old days, right?" she said, somewhat saddened.

"Are you sure you'd want me to?" Slade asked. He had never been a loving father to Rose, and he certainly couldn't be one to her children. He just didn't have it in him.

"I'd take you over that whack job Grayson any day," Rose said, taking a seat in a well-used recliner. "He's not the one who helped me get this. Still don't know how you did it."

Slade looked down at the ground. When he had found out the state of his health, he had wired all the money he had 'accumulated' over the years from his activities, and had it sent to a Swiss bank account. From there, he had issued a twelve-month delay before the funds were to be transferred to a secured bank account – the one held by his daughter. "You're all I've got left," he said, slowly. "Well, I guess that's not exactly true anymore."

Leaning back against the wall of the living room, the merc stared at his daughter. "How have you been, Rose?" he asked.

The woman smiled weakly. "Not too good," she began. "First, I get a call from welfare. They're cutting out my food stamps because I make too much working from home on my reports. Barely enough to keep the lights on, but just a little too much for government assistance. Next, my boss calls me and says I better have my next report on his desk by five o'clock tomorrow evening or he's coming over to my house to bash my face in. So, I decided I needed to be selfish and used my time to buy things that help keep my family alive. To top it all off, I suddenly found myself being hijacked by some sweatshirt-wearing maniac who happens to turn out to be my own dad." Leaning back against the seat, she grinned. "With the exception of the last part, it's been a rather shitty week."

"I see," Slade said, quietly.

"You know, you're not one much for conversation," Rose said, kicking off her low heels. "Then again, you never were. So, how have you been?"

The merc shook his head. "You've read the papers," he said. "I was dead for nearly ten years. Apparently I rose from the grave last night and killed a couple of money-swindling assholes along with an up-and-coming police commissioner and an aging sad sack in a Batman costume."

The woman's bare feet hit the floor as she leaned forward from her chair. "Are you saying it was you who killed Bruce Wayne?" she asked, her mouth open in shock.

Slade chuckled. "I'd say it was a hell of a way to announce my return," he said.

"Yeah, some announcement," Rose said, propping the chair's footrest up and lying back. "Only guy who sees you do anything significant is currently in a hospital ward blowing spit bubbles, and police are saying the security footage from that night is missing. Unless you left them a snow globe with your name in it, Gotham's finest are planning to chock this one up to a tragic act of violence."

"Wait a minute…" the mercenary thought back. He had taken out the guards, but he had left the machines alone. There should have been crystal clear evidence that he had eliminated Wayne. So where did it go?

"Great start to a comeback, Dad," the woman said, playfully. "Keep this up, and maybe they just might think that you might somehow be involved with this."

Rose felt a little uncomfortable as she watched her father push off from the wall, and strolled over to her side. It seemed like she had ruffled his feathers. Not the best thing to do to a battle-hardened mercenary. Slade bent down, his mask mere inches from her face.

"I'd watch what you say, little girl," he said, his one eye squinting. "Remember, I know you better than any man alive, and I know exactly where to strike to deliver the maximum impact."

The woman pondered this statement for the moment. The next, she let out a yelp as she felt two fingers glide up the center of her bare soles. For this one moment in time, the legendary mercenary seemed almost father-like to Rose. Soon, it was gone, and the rigid nature of Deathstroke returned. "I have some…supplies to acquire," he said, slowly. "I won't be gone long."

Rose sighed, shaking her head. "The last time you said that, I was fourteen," she said, softly.

Slade knew he had been caught. He found himself speechless, unable to respond in kind to his daughter's words. But, suddenly, something deep inside him resonated, and he found the words he needed at that moment.

"Look, I know I made mistakes…No, I didn't just make mistakes. I made major fuckups. I took you and your life for granted, and there is nothing I can do to ever give that back. What I can promise, however, is that I will make amends. Whatever you need, whenever you need it - I will be there."

The woman slowly raised her head from the chair, and looked into her father's face. She had never heard words like that come from him before. To tell the truth, she was rather frightened to hear that side of him. It sounded so unreal, so fake. How could a mercenary like Slade Wilson have any kind of emotion underneath his heart of ice? Still, she almost hoped it was genuine. She didn't know exactly why, but she hoped just the same. "You promise?" she asked, a smile forming on her face.

Slade nodded. "As long as blood flows through my veins, I will never stop protecting you."

As the mercenary slipped out the door, Rose settled back in the chair. The reports could wait, and her boss could go fuck himself. Her father was back – and he was a changed man.

The bag buckled with unprecedented ease as Grayson's fists struck again and again. The speed and power of those punches would leave many people, even the heroes who knew the former Nightwing, in awe. Ten years removed from 'The Crusade', Dick was not in the same shape as he was back in his prime. He was better. His sleek, muscular frame was practically zero percent body fat, and he still moved with the speed of a cheetah and the reflexes of a mongoose. To Grayson's personal security team, him continuing to train at such a high level after all these years seemed…unusual. His team was trained to deal with attacks ranging anywhere from fistfights and knives all the way up to some crazy nutcase armed with a rocket launcher. The chances of whomever was attacking Grayson actually reaching him were very slim, so why did he train? The severity and disciple seemed to denote that the former hero had a mission, that he was keeping himself in the best shape of his life for something. Something that he was hoping would happen. But whatever that was escaped the minds of the guards.

Grayson had just landed a couple of good knee shots to the bog when the intercom speaker in his weight room went off.

"Mr. Grayson?" It was Isabelle Winters' voice on the other end. Dick came to a stop. Looks like duty had called.

"Yes?" he called out.

"Sir, there are a few gentlemen here who wish to speak with you," the secretary said. "They say it's a matter of utmost importance."

"Show them into my office," Grayson said, grabbing a towel and drying the sweat from his face. "Tell them I will be there momentarily."

"Yes sir, Mr. Grayson." Isabelle's voice said as the intercom cut off.

Five minutes later, a showered and neatly pressed Dick Grayson was on his way up to his office. As the doors opening in front of him, he was met by Isabelle. Glancing around, he saw another man standing over by his desk and one over by his wall of trophies.

"Here they are, Mr. Grayson," the secretary said, smiling.

"Thank you, Ms. Winters," the CEO said, returning the smile. "That will be all."

"Yes, sir," Isabelle grinned, and made a beeline for the door.

As Grayson stepped into his office, the man over by his desk raised an eyebrow. "You've gotta to be kidding me? Personal elevator?" he asked.

"That's just how I roll," Dick said, smiling. "Elevator goes down you my personal workout room, and up straight to the roof – you know, for those times when I want to get in the helicopter and wave down to the little people."

"Man, I think they'd enjoy that too much. Then again, so would you." Captain Michael Zeddemore let out a laugh. He had known Grayson for many years, and the businessman was practically part of his family.

Dick shook the police captain's hand, and gave him a small embrace. "Hey, Mike," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Same old, same old," Zeddemore said, grinning. "My job's been a damn breeze for the past ten years. Last week we rounded up five graffitists and two jaywalkers. I think you've done too good a job in this town, Grayson. Shit keeps going like this, I'll need to find another line of work."

"Is that so?" Grayson said, laughing. "Well, I could always use an experienced security chief."

"I send you my resume," Z said, jokingly. "I think my dad'll make a good reference."

Grayson smiled. Winston Zeddemore had been the captain in charge back when he first started off on his own. The grizzled officer had actually applauded Nightwing's brutal tactics. He had realized that Jump City was on the highway to Hell, and that the young man had been the only turnoff the city had to get themselves free of the darkness.

"You know, he still talks about the day he retired from the force?" the captain said, shaking his head. "Commissioner had given this big sob-ass speech about what all he had done for the city, and they had given him that shiny gold watch that works only about half the time when all of a sudden some dude in a black and blue jumpsuit shown up out of the clear blue, hugs him, and the two pumped their fists in the air for a big photo-op." Z let out a chuckle. "The two of you looked like a pair of black power activists. Still, he ain't ever forgotten what you did for this city. He didn't even care that the city changed its' name six years after he retired. He was just proud to have retired from Jump City PD after earning his spot as the police captain who helped bring the change."

"Well, I'm honored to hear you say that," Grayson said, sighing.

"Yeah, now I can go tell my dad you send your regards and maybe he'll shut up about it for a little while," Z said, smirking.

The CEO patted the man on the back. "So, Z, what brings you here today?"

"Well, I think that other man over there would like a few words with you as well before we begin," the captain said, jutting his thumb in the direction of the other man.

As Grayson looked over, he noticed an aging, balding man in a suit starting at his wall of accomplishments. Even from behind, the businessman was certain that he knew who he was looking at. Only one way to be certain…

"…Alfred?" he asked, his words hanging on the breeze.

The old butler turned around, a sad smile on his face. "Master Dick," he said, quietly in his refined tone.

"Alfred, you old dog, you!" Grayson said, strolling over and embracing the long-suffering servant. "Come on, take a seat," he spoke, guiding him over to a chair in front of his desk. "Jesus, it's been forever since I saw you last! How are things?"

As the butler sat down in the chair, Dick realized that he was visibly shaken. Something must have happened. Something big. "Not well, Master Dick," Alfred said, leaning back. "Not well at all."

"Dick, something bad's happened," Zeddemore said, firmly. "You might wanna take a seat for this."

"Wow," the businessman said, somewhat stunned. "Usually I'm the one asking others to take a seat. This must be really bad."

As Grayson took his seat behind his desk, his mind was calculating what might have happened. Z being here wouldn't have narrowed much down, but the fact that Alfred was here…well, that could only mean one thing in his book…

"I sure that with the work you've been doing and the places you've been today, you haven't had the time to catch up on the news," Zeddemore began. "My department has been trying to reach you for a few hours. That's why we're here now."

"What's so big you guys had to come in person?" Dick asked. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Alfred leaned forward in his seat, a look of immense sadness in his eyes. "Master Dick," he said, tearfully, "Your mentor, Master Bruce…he died last night."

On the button. Grayson had been right. Bruce was dead, and they were here to deliver the message in person. He looked down at the floor around his desk, and let out a heavy sigh. "Well, I guess we all gotta go one day," he murmured. "So, where did they find him?"

Z leaned on the desk, a grim look on his face. "Ten feet out from his penthouse window – and thirty stories down," he said, matter-of-factly. "To top it off, he was dressed as Batman."

"He is Batman," Dick said quickly, before realizing the gravity of the situation. "I mean, he was Batman," he said, correcting himself.

Shifting in his chair, the CEO sighed again. "So, you guys came here to inform me of his death before you release the information?' he asked.

"Wish that was all," Zeddemore said, his face still grim. "Goddamn media hounds broke the news that Wayne was Batman before the police even showed up. Plus, he wasn't alone."

Dick raised an eyebrow at the last statement. Bruce may have always been a womanizer, but that's not what he thought the captain was getting at. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Z stood up straight. "Bruce wasn't the only one to die that night," he said, shaking his head. "Commissioner Barbara Gordon was killed as well, along with about fifteen guests at Wayne's little shindig and nine members of his own trained assault team. Hell, they even found two guards down in the lobby. This wasn't some random act of violence; this was a massacre."

The hairs on the back of Grayson's neck stood up. Not many people in this day and age had the kind of skill needed to caused that much pain an suffering – well, with the exception of himself. But this seemed more focused, like a plan had been in place for quite some time. In Grayson's mind, there was only one man who could do something like that. Problem was, he likely wasn't doing it from the grave.

"Do the Gotham police have anything?" he asked, slowly.

Zeddemore smirked. "Far as the public knows, it's just a tragic act of violence taken against a good man. Sure, Jim Gordon says it saw it all, but his mind went down the toilet when he did – the police have made that very clear. So, the only unbiased evidence they might have had would have been from the security tapes…"

"…but they're all blank," Grayson said. The feeling of déjà vu still echoed in his mind.

"Exactly," Z said, sighing. He paused for a moment, and slowly reached into the pocket of his jacket. As the two men watched, he pulled a small disc from the pocket and held in up for all of them to see.

"What's that?" Grayson asked, confused.

The captain smiled. "The security tapes from Bruce Wayne's penthouse last night," he said, confidently.

"But you just said that the tapes were blanks," the CEO said, leaning forward, his eyes trained on the disk.

"They are now, and that's exactly what the public thinks," Zeddemore said, spinning the disk on his finger. "The truth of the matter is that the police found the security room, watched the tapes, and then sent a call to my office."

"What for?" Grayson asked. "Gotham PD should be able to handle this."

"Yes, but they don't want to handle it their way," the man said, leaning back on the desk and sliding the case over to the businessman. "They want it to be handled our way – more specifically, your way."

Grayson took the disk into his hands. Whatever had happened in that building the night before was contained on this little piece of plastic, and it was big enough that Gotham wanted him to take care of it the way he had taken care of problems back in his days as Nightwing.

Getting up from his seat, he walked over to the built-in security screen he had installed next to the elevator. Placing the disk into the main slot, he stood back as the machine starting playing the night's accounts. Every moment from the elevator doors opening to Bruce's fight with the figure and the final shot that ultimately ended his life was contained in a small space of footage. It had taken all but five minutes for it to occur.

As the figure stepped away from the edge, the outfit he wore came into focus. Suddenly, he looked up at the camera. Grayson knew this wasn't by accident. This had been a deliberate act. The person had wanted everyone to know who had been responsible for these actions. The CEO took it all in: The outfit, the weapons, and the mask. The legendary mask. It seemed that the dead had risen after all.

A slow smile broke out across the face of the retired hero. The face looking back at him through the camera was Slade's. There was no doubt in his mind. He was back, and Grayson would finally get what he had been training for all these years…

"Dick, the police in Gotham are trying to keep this all hush-hush." Zeddemore's voice brought the man back to the present. "But if you want, we can spread the word that Deathstroke is back…"

"No," Grayson said, cutting off the police captain as he strolled back to his chair. Sitting down, he sighed. "Tell them to continue with the cover-up…and tell them also that I accept their request."

Z nodded. "I'll get the word out," he said.

"Master Dick," Alfred said, his tired old eyes almost pleading for mercy, "your mentor would not want you to avenge his death in such a manner. To do so would disgrace everything he ever taught you. Please, don't do this to him."

The CEO let out a bitter laugh. "You know something, Alfred?" he said, staring back at the old butler. "I don't think it really matters what the fuck Bruce would think. He's dead; I'm not. So, I'll do things I way I want them to be done, and you'll sit there and shut your hole and be glad of what I'm doing. Are we clear on that, old man?"

The old servant simply sighed. It was as Bruce had feared: Dick Grayson had become one in the same with what he once fought. In the end, there was only one outcome to that way of life. Looked like he was going to have to find that out on his own. "Yes, Master Dick," he said, quietly.

"Good," Grayson said. Pressing the intercom button, he waited for Isabelle to respond.

"Yes, Mr. Grayson?" the voice said.

"Send my boys in to escort Mr. Pennyworth and Captain Zeddemore to the lobby," he said. The former hero now had a lot of work to do, and not too much time to do it in.

Rose awoke with a start as her ears picked up the sound of movement in her garage. Looking around, she found she was still sitting in the recliner. 'Must have dozed off,' she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'Damn drugs knock me out faster that a roundhouse to the back of the head.' Her children were sitting over on the couch, watching TV. They had seeing their mommy pass out so many times, it had become routine for them.

The woman's bare feet padded against the floor as she walked across the hardwood to the door leading out into the garage. It was wide open. As she peered inside, she saw her father standing over by her workbench. In his hands was one of the MP-5's that had brought a rain of death on the guest of Bruce Wayne's party the night prior. He was adjusting the sight to match the range at which he would use the weapon. Hanging on the board in front of him was a menagerie of weapons ranging from shotguns to pistols and everything in between. Slade had built up a store of tools that could arm an entire militia in his years, and now he had moved it all into Rose's garage.

Slade paused momentarily as he put down the machine gun. "Sorry if I woke you," he said, clearly aware of his daughter's presence even without looking at the door.

Rose leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest and a smirk on her face. "What, no flamethrower?" she asked, playfully.

"'Fraid not," the merc said, now focusing his attention on his main pistol as he broke it down for cleaning. "You have no idea how difficult it is to find one of them in this day and age."

"Have you tried Craigslist?" the woman asked, grinning.

Slade chuckled. "I don't think they have a 'used military armament' forum," he said, jokingly.

Rose stood back up straight, and shook her head. "So, you plan on setting up shop here?" she asked.

"Good of a place as any," the mercenary quipped as he ran the bristled brush up and sown through the barrel of the gun. "Need to stay on top of things. People in this world aren't as dumb as they look. Eventually, they'll put two and two together and then the entire planet's gonna be after me. Need to be ready for that."

"No, what you need is a hot meal," his daughter said, smiling, "and maybe one other thing…" The woman disappeared from the doorway, only to return a minute later. Slade could hear the sound of her feet slapping on the concrete floor of the garage as she approached him. Turning, he watched as Rose set a towel and a bottle of body wash on the workbench. Eyeing it for a moment, he looked up into her smirking face.

"You might not be a corpse, but you're certainly starting to smell like one," she said, her face breaking out in a grin.

The merc looked down at the gun barrel in his hands. Slowly, he set them down on the bench. This work could wait. Right now, he had more important things to do.