A/N: Here's another update. The word count is a little smaller than some of the later chapters, this one clocks in at a little over two thousand. This chapter also marks a portion of the story that came to be while I was enthralled by the Band of Brothers DVD's I bought last year. I want to give a big thanks to my reviewers, and the people who have favorited or subscribed. I hope every one is enjoying their spring break, and I hope you enjoy this update.

Look at your young men fighting

Look at your women crying

Look at your young men dying

The way they've always done before. –Guns N' Roses

***************

The once beautiful city of Mardasa was like a cracked reflection of its former self; once pristine streets were filthy and beginning to crumble, office buildings and houses lay unfinished, skeletons of high rises reach to the heavens, begging for completion or destruction. But just like in this city's past, people are still rushing to and fro, stressing over responsibilities and fretting after children. This would look like any other city on earth except for one oddity. The only males were very young, very old or severely injured.

No road crews fix crumbling highways. No construction crews built houses or complete office towers. No doctors resided in hospitals, all of them were drafted into the army and sent to help troops on the frontlines while the infirm suffer and eventually perish of mild fevers or the common cold. But still people struggle on, doing the best they can to earn the money to pay their dues to the war effort. Housing and property taxes have gone up so much that it isn't uncommon for several women to occupy one semi-finished or crumbling house with their families and work two or even three jobs while one stays home and tends to all of the children.

All the people bustling about in their own little worlds are all too ready to ignore two more injured, dishevelled war veterans. One is a young man; he walks with a limp, using a tree branch to assist his right side. His left arm is missing. His right eye is a milky white and horrific burn scars mask the right side of his face and recede into the drawn hood of his tattered coat. The other is an older man with a very pronounced limp and a simple bandage wrapped around his head and covering his right eye and the way he carried himself suggested that he may not be in full control of his mental faculties, even if he was trying hard to hide it. These two invalids are so easy for the crowd to ignore because there are thousands more like them spread throughout the city. All of the countries money is going to the immediate war effort. Things like infrastructure, education and medic-aid, even for veterans, is pitiful or non-existent when compared to all but the most desolate of countries.

What sets these two men apart from all the other invalids is that at a moment's notice they could shed their disguise and become their true selves; Deathstroke the Terminator and his less well known apprentice; The Fallen Angel, Raziel.

Raziel shuffled uncomfortably, he couldn't wait to finally be able to shed this horrid disguise. The coloured contacts were irritating his eyes, his arm was stiff from being bound to his body and his leg was sore from being tightly bound about the knee to get a consistent limp, and the pins and needled in his lower leg was driving his temper through the roof. And without his protective Kevlar armour, he felt oddly exposed, the chances of anyone actually being able to land a blow, or shot, were slim at best, but still...

Raziel's remaining useful eye scaned the crowd looking for threats; any one of these people in this wanna-be shit-hole of a country could be just desperate enough to try mugging them, sure both Raziel and Deathstroke could handle almost any opponent, even hampered as they were, but it still made him uncomfortable. Slade moved off in one direction and Raziel followed, scanning his surroundings like a high-powered radar. Something behind him caught his attention and he gave the signal to stop before turning to see the disturbance. There was shouting and sounds of a scuffle as a mother ran out of the house screaming because her child, a boy of about seventeen, was being loaded into a canopied truck full of people.

"More for the war," Slade muttered, doing a decent impression of a talking parrot before launching into a quiet argument with himself about the morality of soup, and taking off in a seemingly random direction. Raziel stayed for a moment more and followed after Slade as fast as the pins and needles and numbness in his foot would allow. The mothers desperate wailing followed him down the street.

After several hours of traversing the city, seeing similar sights and sounds, Deathstroke and Raziel finally got back to their bunker where they began the process of removing their disguises. Raziel was glad to get the bindings off his leg and arm and his eyes wouldn't stop watering after he removed the contacts.

"So why are we here?" he asked, "We've been roaming around the city for hours and all you told me was to look out."

"We, or more accurately you, were seeing the horrors of war first hand," the assassin informed, "The people of Mardasa have been hailing the Justice League with cries for help for months. So far they have only been told that bigger problems required the League's attention. Eventually the countries government gathered the money to hire me to end it. I have decided that responsibility will fall to you."

"Helping a country out of civil war?" The disbelief in Raziel's voice was plain as day. So was the question.

"I'm not the monster you'd like me to be, apprentice. I am simply a man who is ruthless in pursuit of his goals. It just so happens that, at times, my goals are for sale. Sometimes my goals require me to be the bad guy, and other times they require me to be the not-so-bad guy. There are even places where I am considered a hero of sorts," Slade explained, "And now I have been paid to end this conflict, a task which I will assign to you. Think of it as a test or a chance to earn your keep."

"So how do you intend for me to end a war?"

"It's a test, Robin, I can't give you the answers." Slade admonished with an amused tone in his voice.

"Don't call me Robin," Raziel practically growled as he turned and walked out of the room.

"Where are you going?" Slade asked with no real concern. If the boy was going to try and run he would have done so long ago.

"To shower. And to think."

It was a half an hour later when Raziel emerged from the meager cold shower, with a towel around his waist. "I think I have a plan. I am going to get caught by the troops, gather intelligence from the front lines and go from there." Slade didn't need to listen to know Raziel's plan as it was of no concern to him, so long as it worked.

"When will you start?"

"Now," Raziel said as he threw on simple pants and a ragged shirt, tough soled slippers went on his feet. "Take this before you go," Slade held up a syringe of thin silvery liquid, "in case you run into trouble."

"So you can keep tabs on me," Raziel surmised, assuming it was a nanite solution. Instead of answering, Slade injected the solution into Raziel's blood-stream. This injection was simply to insure the boy's survival. Raziel grunted down the discomfort as the solution entered his system and then he climbed out the third story window and onto the night cloaked rooftops of Mardasa.

It didn't take long for Raziel to find his target; a group of soldiers making the last pick up they had room for, looking for any young men fit enough to fight in the war. They had just begun to enter the home when Raziel dropped down to ground level and began to approach through the still thick crowd. There were yells and screams as the soldiers hauled out a boy of about fourteen with his mother screaming behind them. Raziel broke into a sprint as he drew near the soldiers. This would be easy; all he had to do was make himself appear to be the more desirable target.

"Hey asshole!" he yelled to get their attention, as he leapt into the air and spun his body to strike out with his foot, hitting one of the soldiers in the chest. He was thrown back as Raziel landed lightly on his feet, he drove his knuckle into a pressure point on another soldiers arm causing him to let go of the child, who ran to his mother. Raziel threw another punch, missed and suffered a blow to his head. The hit wasn't very hard so he had to play it up, stumbling slightly as a hard kick landed in his side, but even that felt as though he were being hit through padding. He doubled over and a rifle butt landed on the back of his head. Raziel slumped to the ground, unconscious as the telltale pressure of bruises began to diminish. He could tell there would be no evidence of the beating in just a few minutes.

He lay still for several minutes after he was loaded into the vehicle and it began moving before he finally loosed a low groan and pushed himself to his hands and knees. A boy who had been gingerly trying to rouse him recoiled in fear. Who was this man to so brazenly and so swiftly attack the soldiers?

"W-who are you?" the man asked after Raziel had finally woken up from the beating he'd taken.

Richard Grayson. That was the name his parents had given him. Richard Grayson was the boy who saw his parents fall that night. Richard Grayson was the one who cried at their funeral. Richard Grayson was the one who became Robin in order to get revenge on Tony Zucco.

He'd never been able to get that revenge though. At the behest of Batman, he had simply roughed the guy up a little before leaving him bound for the cops to cart off to jail. They had tangled with the small time crook a half dozen times since then.

Robin had failed to get his revenge. Robin had failed against the Brotherhood. Robin had even failed to intimidate a doctor. Robin had failed, Raziel would not.

"My name is Raziel." He answered, giving them the name Slade had given him after he had expressed interest in taking either Azazel or Za'aphiel as a new moniker. He'd tried walking as the 'angels' had and it hadn't worked out. It was time to walk a different path.

He looked at the occupants of the truck. They were just kids, except for one or two in their twenties, the oldest was no more than sixteen. He couldn't tell whether they were more afraid of him or where they were going. He feigned a stumble and they twitched back in fear. Definitely more afraid of him. He couldn't just leave them alone. Going into a war they'd be killed. He had planned to infiltrate the Mardasan army as a common soldier, their equal, but perhaps he would have to take on more of a leadership role, or at least try to.

"Where are they taking us?" Raziel asked, wanting to get them talking so he could determine their mental status and see how much they actually knew.

"To some army base for training. Then off to fight in the war," a boy of about fifteen spoke up, it was clear that he had been living on the streets for a while before being caught; he probably harboured resentment towards the government and the state of affairs in general.

Just about what he'd expected, not that it mattered. He was in a strange land and he didn't know where he was. All he could really do is sit and wait for the excitement to begin.

A/N2: For some reason this doesn't seem as totally awsome as it did back when I wrote it last year, so I'm hoping for a lot of constructive criticism so that I can iron out similar kinks in future updates. I also want to wish everyone a Happy Easter. I personally can't wait for Easter dinner, it's gonna be awsome:)

I hope you enjoyed the update, see you next time.

-Kobez-