William R. Wintergreen is a quiet, thoughtful man. Quite knowledgeable due to his time as a youth spent in his father's library; all in the name of avoiding physical exertion for sports during his time at university in Oxford, England. Though he was still not to be crossed as there were reasons why he was able to work with the MI5 very early on. He felt it was for the pride of his country to join the British Army in order to protect Queen and country.
It was during his time there that he met a young man who had changed his life, saved his life, and has his utmost trust and friendship. Will is the only confidant the man now has, the only solid foundation of humanity left standing amidst the tumultuous storm of his friend's dance with insanity.
At times, it's still like a dream to know that they are only eleven years apart. Here he is pushing eighty-four -granted, he has maintained peak physical fitness over the decades having been blessed with the famed English long-lasting vitality- while his friend might technically be seventy-three, but doesn't appear any younger than late-twenties to early-thirties.
And to think that this new body of his was obtained at the tail end of his mission of revenge. He gave that up some years ago, thankfully. In this time past, his friend has left the city to step back into his usual trade, to create distance between the failures he doesn't want to admit to. It's only been a few months since he's returned, though the state of his mind is worse for wear meaning that Will has been on edge for a while now.
His quick-wit and sharp tongue, laced with Brit charm and sass has been a saving grace in the face of the raging storm that is his ward. But it is times like this that he cannot- dare not- speak a word nor breathe as he stands in the farthest corner of the darkened room; it's wall painted only in the soft glow of the wall of monitors whose screens show the image of a former client who just finished stating the terms and details of a job.
Will blinks as silence befalls the area, suffocating like a thick blanket tangled around your head during a heatwave.
He knows that this time is being utilized to its fullest. This is merely a contemplative pause. Being familiar with the man, Will is certain that he is mutely weighing his options and calculating every possible move like this is nothing more than a game of chess, nay mere checkers. In his own opinion, he shouldn't take the mission. There's no reason for him to. The man may be the best at what he does, but there are still standards and morals, however shaky they might have become in these past years.
"That is my offer, Deathstroke. Take it or I'll find someone better suited for the job," the man's voice comes in, scratchy from the less-than-ideal audio quality on his end.
The armored man leans back in his chair, interlacing his hands. A nerve-chillingly slow chuckle, with a frightening depth, echoes in his communication center. Will knows this laugh; his friend has realized something that he, himself, couldn't catch.
"Who else is better than I, Doctor Light?" Before the image of the client can react, the man continues. "You don't have enough authority to pull that card on me. Last I checked, you had to beg me to be your muscle some time ago for your 'greatest revenge' which turned out to be...," the sound of mild amusement fills his shadowed space, "quite the failure. So I'll ask: how do you plan to pay me?"
"I have acquired a fair number of credits used by the Justice League. There's enough to retire you if you wanted." It's almost like he's boastful of that fact.
An offer that no one could refuse. A payment like that would make anyone less than Deathstroke a happy soul. A clever tactic to tempt him with credits accepted across the world, every bank in each government allied with the League would gladly exchange these tokens for their local currency. And plenty of it, all for the sake of their 'appreciation' of the Watchtower's diligent observation and protection.
The mercenary leans forward, his interest quite peaked. "You hold Justice Credits? Very peculiar, doctor. May I ask how you've achieved such a feat?"
"That is a secret that will stay with me. Now, about my offer, Wilson."
That is the moment that Will caught on to the situation, confirmed by his friend's next words. "You've made many mistakes, but the worst is thinking that I'd tell buffoons my true name. It's bad enough that the Batman is detective enough to have learned it and included it in your League files." The man leans back again, "It was a good act, but there are always cracks in every showman's performance. I do have to congratulate you, though. In the first few minutes, I might have actually bought it. You have his bumbling oafishness down to a science. Brilliant man in his own right, but has the social skills of a newt."
The image of Doctor Light slacks forward in the simple chair. From the darkness behind him approaches a young woman he's seen associate with the League. A great magician whose occult prowess is practically unmatched, as long as she has her voice. If memory serves the old man, her father is the current host for the enchanted helm that calls itself Doctor Fate. How interesting to Will that these little pieces coming together can't be purely out of coincidence. As much as he was hoping for his friend to reject this mission, it seems like there's a hand at play here beyond their grasp. If this is to be the case, he'll have to be ever vigilant.
"Does that mean you won't take my offer?"
The man stands, fully facing the screen with his shoulders low and square, his stance formidable. It is the air of a dominant man, someone who is capable of easily killing another, intimidating to those unused to such a physical display. His voice, apart from the tonal depths it delves into, is honey sweet and smooth.
"I have no current quarrel with your target. Any prior regards have been rescinded and I doubt that death is so deserving."
"It is so deserving!" The woman nearly shrieks out. "That thing will bring a second apocalypse and we can't be certain that luck will be on our side this time. For the sake of all life on this world, this universe, even this entire realm, that demon must die."
"This 'demon' you speak of, as far as I know, is currently the epitome of an upstanding citizen and exemplary hero. I have no reason to take such a life."
The beautiful woman's face twists in an ugly rage. "You can't b-."
"I will, however," he projects over her, always annoyed for the lack of refinement from these 'heroes', "mull over this and keep a close watch. Should I find evidence enough to warrant an assassination, I will confirm the contract. On the condition that you pay me exactly what you offered right now to keep me silent and that much again for the target's head. And it won't be Credits. I know you people track them."
"Pay you double?" Bewildered, the woman steps back. "Why?"
"You are supposed to be a hero yourself. To put a hit on one of your own...," he tsks, "disgraceful."
"She is not one of my own and the rest of the League used to agree with me."
"It would be a shame if anyone from the Watchtower were to learn of your dip into extreme measures. All for the sake of your opinion. Not to mention how you have dealings with demons and aren't after their skin presently…"
"Deal, okay? Fine," she agrees quickly. "Just make up your mind before the date I've given you."
"It will be done," he turns back to his chair, laying a hand on an arm. "You will meet me in person with the full Silence payment in Gotham. Give me a week or so. I'll find you, when you least expect it." With a firm push of a button, the screen turns dark before the woman can get a word in edge-wise.
It's only then does Will come out of the shadows, bearing a silver tray with something warm to drink in contrast to the chill room. He sets the teacup and saucer down without a word and moves to vacate the area, careful to keep his tongue as the butler should. For once.
"Wintergreen," the man's voice calls out before Will can step away.
"Yes, sir."
"I know you don't want me to affiliate with them anymore, so I know you are against me even considering this job."
"That is correct, sir."
He hums in affirmation, steepling his hands once again as he falls in thought. "I shouldn't, you are right. I've enjoyed my distance from the young heroes and every interaction with them leads to failure in some way, shape, or form. And these people always pull through in the end. Even if I were to take the job, there's no certainty that I will succeed. And that's if there's a cause to take life. If the hero is starting to go rogue, there'd be dire consequences blasted all over the media. Since there's not, there's no need."
"Unless," Will interjects, "the cause for Zatanna's concern isn't how the target is right now, but how she'll become as the deadline approaches."
"It is something to consider. All the more reason I gave myself time to investigate the situation first. Should the skills of an assassin be necessary, then and only then will I come into the fray."
"Understood, sir. I'll have the usual inventory stocked up and prepare the bunkers throughout the city. Anything else you might require?"
There is a lost gaze in the lone eye, almost as if he is mentally adrift in the vastness of space and time, unsure of his footing in this life he leads. In the mere seconds of silence that pass, Will is sure that a million words have crossed his mind, entire conversations with himself and a Sherlock-esque observation of every detail in order to find the answers he's looking for.
"No, my friend," he finally says. "Anything else that bothers me is insignificant."
"On the contrary, sir, but I'll take the hint. Should you want to open up a bit, I'll be putzing around doing your menial tasks."
Without another word from either man, Will Wintergreen leaves to begin the daunting task of setting up for future possibilities as he is an unassuming old man traversing the city with nothing more than errands to run. Several of the hideaways have been untouched for the better part of five years meaning that he'll be kept busy for some time to come.
But this is normal business.
What isn't normal is the deep seated feeling that this mission will be life-changing, and the elder is unsure which way the needle leading the thread of fate will sew.