"When the curtains call the time, will we both go home alive? It wasn't hard to realize, love's the death of peace of mind."

Bad Omens


"You know, you look like death." The young woman standing before her places the cup back in front of her, refilled to the brim with hot coffee. She runs her free hand through her short, brilliant red hair, pushing it back off her face as she stairs down at Raven, coffee carafe held in her other hand. For a moment, all Raven can think about is Koriand'r, her blinding smile, and warm embrace. The nostalgia stalls the response on Raven's lips. She feels swept into the recollection and is only pulled from the melancholic twist of her thoughts by the clinking of dishware, the scrape of utensils on plates, and the backdrop of conversations floating from the surrounding tables.

"Ever the charmer, Brenda." Raven smirks back at her friend, lifting the now warm mug to her lips. The woman before her, Brenda, just shakes her head before flumping herself into the booth across the table.

"You should really cut back on these extra shifts you've been taking on; you're going to put yourself in an early grave. You've never drank so much coffee in your life as you have this last week, I bet." Brenda leans over the table, her right arm perched on the linoleum surface, head cradled in the palm of her hand. Her left hand twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Ever the fidgeter, as if she could not stand the stillness of life.

"I didn't know you cared so much, Bren." Raven places a hand over her heart, feigning gratitude, her voice pitched high in faux endearment.

An eye roll is her response, "Oh, shove it. You know I look out, Rae."

A genuine smile pulls at Raven's lips but is quickly covered by the mug. "Don't you have more pressing matters to attend? This is your cafe after all, and I'm not your only guest."

Brenda's eyes sweep across the dining room, noting her regular early morning guests absorbed in their usual activities, not a single person in need of extra service, nor bothered by her short break. "I thought you'd appreciate the extra company this week." Brenda's eyes cut back across to Raven's, noting the sunken, dark bruising under her eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion more pronounced today than it's been this last week.

"And anyway, taking a break from work is healthy, Rachel." Raven hears the admonishment in her friend's voice, notices the attempts to catch her gaze, but her eyes remain steadfast on the cracked cushion of the booth just over her friend's shoulder. Despite her wishes to press the matter, Brenda relents, noting Raven's hesitancy to meet her stare, sensing the need for privacy.

Raven clears her throat, "This won't last forever, Bren. I promise. And anyway, I'm hoping to take some time to catch up with an old acquaintance who's coming into town, so I need to pick up some extra shifts to make up for it." Shame flares in her chest at deceiving her friend, though, she supposes it's not far from the truth.

Brenda stands from the table, grabbing the carafe of hot coffee. She looks back down at Raven, reaches for her hand splayed on the tabletop, squeezing it in comfort. "You know, Rachel, we all have secrets in Blüdhaven. It's how we survive. Just remember you have people here who care about you. And... get some sleep this week, will you? No more coffee. You're cut off after today, back to tea for you if I see your face again this week." She squeezes Raven's hand one more time in farewell, leaving her with a bittersweet smile, before going back to the counter to serve a new diner.

Raven immediately misses the feel of her friend's hand wrapped around her own, wanting the warmth and comfort of her presence. It had been a week of residency shifts, and patrols, and reconnaissance, and a desperate search for answers, with little to show for it. And at the end of each day, her night terrors continue to chase her from restful sleep. It's what drove her to seek the comfort of the cafe at strange hours, her weak excuse of extra shifts a flimsy armor from her friend's knowing stare.

Brenda was her first friend in Blüdhaven, her cafe a trusted refuge in the city from the first day she stumbled across it. The kind, but at times caustic, owner held her own secrets, but their shared respect for privacy was at once a comfort to Raven as she struggled to make this place her new home.

As calamity once again blighted her doorstep, Raven feared how it could hurt her friend and desperately wished to keep Brenda safe from the coming conflict. Despite her desire to remain in the tranquility of the cafe, below the warm incandescent lights, with her friend's concerned stare keeping watch, Raven knew she must leave and return to her new reality.

As she placed the bills on the table to pay for her meal and tossed a smile and a wave over her shoulder at Brenda, the horrific thought crossed her mind, would this be the last time she saw her?


This week of surveillance, of attempting to track the activity of either the Sons' Acolytes or Slade, had done little for her other than cause bone-deep exhaustion. She had seen neither hide nor tail of either and was quickly losing hope in her ability to do so.

Any time she monitored St. Eustace Church, it appeared abandoned, as if the cult had all but deserted the structure after Slade's initial intrusion. The building seemed to exude a false sense of security, as if she could freely roam its archways without incident. Every sense screamed that it was a trap, and thankfully she had not slipped in her skills to fall for such deceit.

Without storming their base of operations, however, Raven felt at a loss for what to do. She missed the resources of Titan's Tower, missed the access provided by her previous position as a trusted hero.

Well, she thinks, at least on a team of trusted heroes.

Her sigh of frustration comes out in a burst of condensed air, the puff of breath quickly chilling in the icy wind, the glacial evening a harbinger of the months to come in Blüdhaven. Her breath seemed not the only thing chilled this evening if the dull quiet of the city were to be trusted.

She had been perched on the high-rise apartment complex across the street from St. Eustace Church for the better part of the evening with nothing to note. No one had entered or exited the building, no one lurked nearby, nor had she heard any suspicious sounds from the empty archways.

It was clear Slade had accomplished whatever goal he had set the night they encountered each other, as she had not seen any evidence that he had returned. If she didn't know any better, she would think her paranoia had bested her, drawing her away from her warm bed and the safety of her home in search of monsters hidden in the darkened alleys of the city. But she did know better, or at least she knew she had not dreamt up the events of the other night. No, her dreams were far more fearsome than Slade.

While his return did not raise fear in her as it once may have, she could not say that she wasn't unsettled by his presence, though for what reason her mind could not decide. She'd like to think it was merely the omen of ill tidings that troubled her so, but she had long given up such masquerades, at least with herself. It had only led to devastation in the past.

No, these unnerving feelings, they were more nascent, more personal... More tethered.

She dares not follow the train of thought any further. She would not hide from it, but she surely would not provoke it either.

Despite everything, she had work to do; she could not linger on these notions. It was bad enough she was stuck following a trail gone cold, with no leads in sight; she could not afford to further hinder herself with such reckless contemplation.

Forcing her mind back to the task at hand, she frustratingly had to admit this behavior was not strange for Slade. He had been quiet over the last decade, not once becoming the nuisance he had previously been for the Titans, not even after her departure. Though it seemed he remained a thorn in somebody's side if his more recent activities were any indication.

Before she left Jump, Slade had kept such a low profile that Raven falsely assumed he had hung up his suit and returned to a normal life. Laughably naive of her if she was honest, but... well, she had hoped for the best anyway. At least for one of their sakes.

Still, part of her yearned for a less volatile reunion, without the threat of prophecies or cults or expectations stalking them from the shadows.

The continued bend of her mind at once frustrated Raven. That she could not keep her tumultuous thoughts from him, from his vexing persona, from their inexplicable connection, was maddening. It could only lead to carelessness.

She knew from the disquiet of her mind and the fatigue settled in her muscles that she should abandon this endeavor for the evening. The mental and physical strain from this past week was taking its toll; if she were to encounter someone now, it would be dangerous.

In the quiet that followed the thought, she heard it. The rustling of fabric and shifting of weight. She was no longer alone.

Her profound exhaustion made every movement sluggish, her mana a mere spark at her fingertips rather than a blaze surging from her soul. She cursed herself for being so foolish as to run herself ragged while an unknown threat stalked in the shadows.

She stood to turn and confront whoever found their way to her, every thought screaming at her to move, to act, to do something. But she was too slow.

Before she could turn, she was struck by a pain so severe it tore a gasp from her throat, no breath to give sound to the effort, as she felt the skin of her torso rend open. She looked down to see a fiery blade protruding from her midsection, its sharpened edge nestled just below her ribcage, her uniform already stained red by the rivulets of blood seeping from the ragged wound.

The blade continues to tear through flesh and muscle and organ as it's forced through her abdomen until she feels the cool metal of the hilt pressed into her back. The weak spark of magic she conjured fades; she wills it to return to her, to yield to her desires to attack, defend, do something.

But without conscious thought her power is drawn inward, attempting to shield her from an unknown foe.

In her stupor, she fails to comprehend the figure looming over her, fails to hear the words whispered into her ear, fails to react at all. In an instant, her mind is set ablaze with all the fires of Hell. She feels the flames licking her skin, feels her flesh bubbling, charring, turning to swollen red welts. She can feel the skin peel away, revealing the scaled flesh of her demon heritage. As the world falls away, four red slits appear before her, unknowingly reflected upon her face.


Wintergreen's voice chases him through the night, reminding him not to borrow trouble. And yet he couldn't ignore the burning in his chest that told him trouble would come find him if he didn't go looking for it, couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

The cool night air stings as it fills his lungs, the chill keeping him alert as he moves recklessly from one building to another. He was looking, but for what he wasn't yet sure. Perhaps it was the Sons' Acolytes, perhaps it was his dubious benefactor, but the anxious tension of his shoulders belied the dread he felt for what he would find.

Ever since he encountered Raven, he'd felt tethered to Blüdhaven in a way he could not describe. He never intended to remain here. He had a contract to fulfill, and now that it was complete, he should move on. It didn't matter that he stumbled onto a growing threat, it didn't matter that his benefactor had other designs, it wasn't his problem.

Except it was, or at the very least he wanted it to be his problem for perhaps the first time since Wintergreen and Adeline and his damned eye.

Something had changed in him since his resurrection, and it all centered on her. He had run from it for more than a decade now, trying to sever this connection he did not ask for, did not want. But if he were an honest man, he knew he had brought it on himself all the same, had tempted fate with caprice and avarice, pride his eternal companion. This was his comeuppance for his dealings with the devil, though he supposes there were worse fates.

After all, it wasn't Blüdhaven that kept him here, not really; it was her. Perhaps it was the cord still binding the two of them, as frail as it now may be from the years and the miles. But every day the cord felt taut, as if it was wrapping around them ever tighter.

So tight he felt compelled to chase down this ghost of his past. A ghost that haunted his dreams, haunted his waking thoughts. A ghost he had no business chasing. A ghost he should leave well enough alone.

His movements stall, his feet standing precariously close to the edge of an edifice, mirroring his teetering thoughts. One wrong move would send him, send them, careening over the edge.

As he stood, waiting, for what he did not know, he felt it. An echo of pain, of a tearing sensation in his gut, as if he had been stabbed. Not true pain, not his pain.

He grits his teeth, already moving towards St. Eustace Church. He flings himself across rooftops, his disquietude giving way to frenzied action. His muscles burn from the strain, but he feels the seconds he does not have slip past, urges himself to move quicker, commands himself to run faster and jump farther.

He can feel the echo of pain give way to chaos, but he does not understand, cannot stop to consider it. He must move, find her, save her.

He sees the spire of the cathedral cresting over the next rooftop and knows he is almost there. His feet slam onto the roof of a high-rise, his momentum pushing him ever forward as he leaps onto the tiles of the church gable. He is surefooted as he crosses the sloped roof of the building, heading for the apartments across the street. He knows his desperation is leading him to recklessness, cautions himself to pause, to plan. But he feels drawn to these buildings and trusts he will find her. He wastes no time in reaching her.

But then he sees her, slumped over a fiery blade, an unknown assailant holding her aloft, cradling her as if she were his lover.

He feels frozen in the moment, teetering on the edge of that precipice. But this time she is falling, and it is no imagined tether that pulls him with her. No, he willingly follows her over the edge. And he will every time. Perhaps he never had a choice, but surely, if he ever did, he chose her.

The strange thread that binds them feels more substantial now, as if his acceptance of their entwined fates added a new strand to the cord. He does not stop to consider how he is able to perceive any of this, too focused on the injured woman.

But then the man holding her caresses her hair, whispers into her ear, and he feels spurred to action. A rage he had long ago abandoned curdles in his stomach, fueling his desire for bloodshed.

As he leaps from the scaffolding on the northside of the church, pulled across the gap between the buildings by the tether from his grapple, up onto the rooftop of the adjacent building, he unsheathes his katanas, not trusting this unknown foe to protect Raven rather than use her as a shield against his pistol or throwing knives.

He tucks and rolls, landing crouched beside the pair, and quickly strikes out at the assailant's calf, hoping to distract so that he would loosen his grip on Raven, but instead of slicing into flesh, he slices through air. His efforts are rewarded with a dark laugh as the man feints back, ripping his sword from Raven's abdomen and pushing her into Slade's attacking form.

He catches her, halting her momentum to place her unconscious form onto the rooftop. The vicious move garners no response from the collapsed woman, but he is given no time to focus on her as his enemy charges in for another attack.

"Ah, ah, ah. That won't do, Deathstroke. Eyes on me." Slade rolls the pair away from the downward stroke of the broadsword, it's sharpened edge clashing against the cement rooftop where Raven's head a moment ago lay.

He leaves Raven laying behind him, quickly vaulting over her to strike his katana against the swinging blade of his foe, blocking another attack aimed for the woman. A flurry of strikes pushes the aggressor further away, Slade's body remaining firmly between Raven and her attacker.

Attempting to take the upper hand, Slade makes a wide arced swing,striking out with the katana held firmly in his right hand, then quickly twists his body to theleft, hurling his swordathis opponent. The man easily blocks the first swing and deflects the katana aimed straight for his head, the blades sparking from the collision as the sword sails away and clatters to the ground. But then the man stumbles backward as Slade quickly pulls his pistol from its holster at his waist and fires two successive shots, one bullet tearing through his opponent's armor and abdomen before the second could be blocked by gold-plated gauntlets.

Pistol now aimed between the man's eyes, Slade asks, "Mr. Ludovic, I presume?"

A boisterous laugh is his only response as his enemy halts his advance, fingering the fresh wound where blood has begun to weep through the hole in his armor.

Slade wishes to take this moment of reprieve to glance at Raven, to prove she still breaths, but his eye remains steadfast on his enemy, not willing to give any quarter to his advances. His concern over her lack of consciousness gnaws away at him, pulling his attention to the deathly quiet woman behind him. It was unlike her, even with such a serious injury, to remain down for so long.

"The Black Bird of Death... beautiful as always, even with her broken wings, wouldn't you agree? Oh, but the goddess she could be, if she were to simply accept what I have offered. Tell me, Deathstroke, do you think she will succumb?"

Slade is taken aback by the man's words. What had the man offered? What had he missed before he found them? And what did this man believe she would succumb to, her injury, or something else?

He lets his stance grow slack, his shoulders falling back, and arms hanging loosely at his sides, katana still held firmly in his right hand while the pistol hangs from his left, "Well, Mr. Ludovic, it seems you have your true query in sight, and yet I do not see my payment. It seems I will have to retain custody until a proper handoff can be made."

At once, the man's demeanor shifts, aggravated by Slade's deflection and nonchalance.

"You dare defy the divine once again, you ingrate? I, Azrael, have been sent on this Holy Quest by Brother Blood. I shall not fail, and you shall not deter me!" His words garner no response from Slade.

In the neon-lit shadows of the cityscape, air thick with the sounds of distant sirens and constant commotion, the pair suddenly draw a stark contrast as they face off in tense silence. A stalemate that neither seemed interested in breaking.

Slade stands to one side, a seasoned mercenary with an air of steely resolve, his body, though seemingly lax, shields the woman that lay behind him. His black and burnt orange armor catches the neon lights of the billboard marquee shining brightly from the adjacent building's rooftop. His eye, cold and calculating, remains locked onto his opponent.

On the other side is his foe, fierce and determined, his appearance concealed behind sleek blood red armor made all the more menacing by the shadows cast from those same billboard lights that illuminate him from behind. His gold-plated pauldrons and gauntlets glint in the moonlight. His blade, the one only moments ago nestled beneath Raven's rib cage, is engulfed with a fiery orange energy, her blood burnt away by the crackling flames. He pulls a second blade from its sheath, the energy a blinding white.

Without warning, the man who calls himself Azrael resumes their dance, lunging forward, his blades slicing through the air with a deadly grace. Slade parries with a swift cross of his katana, the weapons crackling as they collide.

The man strikes again, his blades weaving an intricate pattern of death. Slade dodges and counters, his movements a blur of precision. Sparks fly as their weapons clash, each strike reverberating across the rooftop. Though placed on the defensive with only one katana, Slade takes every chance to fire his pistol, aiming to disarm the man, if not cut his life short.

Amid the fighting, Slade hears a low, painful moan from Raven, his gaze flickering towards her for a split second. That brief distraction is enough for the man, for this Azrael, to exploit. He feints to the right, then spins, blades arcing in a deadly whirl. Slade's reflexes are razor-sharp; he deflects the attack, but not without feeling the sting of the energy blades grazing his armor.

With a roar, Slade presses forward, his strikes more aggressive, more calculated. He pushes his enemy towards his abandoned katana, spinning and pressing his pistol against his foe's temple, firing his last bullet. The man anticipates the shot, dropping his weight back and swinging his arm upward, knocking Slade's pistol away from his head. The move allows Slade to flip away from his foe, grabbing up his abandoned katana.

As he renews his advance, Slade's katanas cut through the air with a humming fury, each swing aimed to kill. The man is pushed back, his stance faltering as he struggles to keep up with Slade's relentless assault.

Slade's gaze slides back over to Raven; he watches as her form convulses, and he knows he has to end this quickly. He feints a high strike, drawing his foe's attention, then spins low, aiming to disarm him. The move is precise, but his opponent's reflexes are just as sharp. Azrael twists away, narrowly avoiding the blade, but the tip of Slade's katana still grazes his arm.

Gritting his teeth, the man makes a desperate move, channeling his remaining energy into a powerful, wide arc. The force of the attack sends Slade stumbling back, but he quickly regains his footing, his resolve hardening.

"Enough games!" Slade shouts, his voice echoing across the rooftop. He directsall his energy into a single, focused strike. His blades cut through his foe's defenses, the four blades clashing against each other with a final, thunderous clang.

The man is forced to his knees, his blades clattering to the ground. Slade stands over him, his breath heavy but controlled. He turns his gaze to Raven, who is now finally beginning to stand, but her visage etches horror across his concealed face.

"Slade… please…" Raven gasps, her control wavering, waning. Her voice contorts, "Don't… don't let me lose control…"

Slade's eye hardens, gaze returned to the man in front of him, his grip on his weapons remains firm. "What have you done?!"

The steel in his voice is sharp, but his foe merely cackles with mirth.

"It seems you must choose now, Deathstroke. Contain me or save her."

For a moment, Slade hesitates, ready to strike down this foe first, before turning to Raven, but that moment is all Azraelneeds.

He strikes out with his fist, knocking Slade's knee to the side, setting him off balance. In the disorientation, he grabs uphis swords, sheathing them. In a puff of smoke, Azrael vanishes, his echoing voice leaving Slade with one final warning, "She will be ours."