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Season 0: Year One C34: Two-Pronged Attack (4) (Paid-Patrons) (Edited)
🕑 Added 2025-09-11 13:30:50 +0000 UTCAbove, crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble floors where designer heels clicked.
Below, conversations flowed as smoothly as a bottle of Dom Pérignon, punctuated by appreciative murmurs over abstract sculptures and avant-garde paintings whose price tags could fund small nations.
Among the curated crowd, servers in crisp black uniforms carefully navigated between clusters of wealth; New and Old alike, offering champagne flutes and canapés to patrons who barely noticed their existence.
The Meridian Gallery's opening night had drawn Coast City's elite like moths to a gilded flame, but not all were there to appreciate the arts on display.
Some were only trying to network, others had come for more nefarious purposes, while most were only trying to look 'cultured' to peers.
Near a towering installation of twisted metal and colored glass, a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit paused to study another piece.
Perfectly styled silver hair crowned a man whose posture radiated a confidence that had ripened into arrogance through decades of victory.
A glass of Barolo rested easily in his left hand while his right dangled freely to his side.He moved through the gallery with the grace of someone used to the suffocating quietness of high society, nodding politely to fellow patrons and offering the rare appreciative comments about the artistic vision on display.
His eye patch might have drawn stares in another setting, but here among Coast City's social aristocracy, it simply added an air of distinguished mystery.
Several women had already found excuses to engage him in conversation about the evening's featured artist, charmed by his cultured observations, his haunted stare, and the masculinity that exuded like a tidal wave in a building filled with pampered rich kids and crooked merchants.
None had caught his attention, however, for Deathstroke only had eyes for his target: One Julian Vance, the heir to Vance Industries.
He'd barely gotten a proper look at his target when an intense sensation of being watched caused him to spin on his heel, finding only a group of pot-bellied men trading pleasantries and the empty, five-meter-tall window behind them. Humming, he returned his attention to the young man near a contemporary sculpture, champagne flute in hand.
Twenty-two years old, soft around the edges, with the kind of casual arrogance that came from never facing real consequences—the boy wouldn't even be counted as a threat.
Neither would his disguised security detail.
They might be professional, but he was THE professional and could spot their tells at a glance.
From the server who lingered too long near conversations, the art patron whose gaze swept the room every minute, the woman by the champagne table whose purse sat at an odd angle, probably for quick weapon access. Three guards, maybe four.
It'd be child's play to slit his throat, or slip him poison that would eat through his stomach lining, or inject an air bubble and let Nature take its course. The kid would be dead if Slade wanted, but tonight was reconnaissance only.
However twisted his personal code might be, Wilson lived by it religiously, and since he'd promised only one kill per day, he would honor it.
Besides, a silent assassination in some gallery wouldn't rebuild his reputation.
Deathstroke wasn't some cowardly poisoner skulking in shadows; he wasn't an assassin at all, in fact, despite what most assumed. He was a soldier through and through; one with ego to boot.
Keeping an eye on the boy, he swiveled and slipped from the room.
Julian Vance could enjoy his champagne and ignorance for now.
Tomorrow would be the end of him.
Shoulders squared, Slade pivoted on his heel and marched outside, and that’s when the disgusting rodent struck.
He kicked instinctively at the dark fur scrambling toward him, splattering remains that immediately enveloped his foot whole. Nearly cursing as thousands of tiny fangs bit through his treated leather dress-shoe, Slade suddenly became acutely aware of the silver cross in his breast pocket.
The blessed piece of silver he prepared for the wicked little hellspawn masquarading as a vigilante had been calling to him in truth, drawing upon what few specks of faith still dwelt in his blackened soul. Slade wasn't the only one with a grudge against the demonic pest, apparently.
He raised the crucifix and took aim as pure light blazed to life, driving back the Shade who cowered in pain.
They both shot an irritated look at the shrieking bystanders, then exchanged a furious glare even as the Shade slipped into the drain, just in time for the people on the guest list to flee the building and straight into peril.
Slade was about to breathe a sigh of relief, to let the tension fall from his shoulders, but he never got the chance.
The concrete beneath his feet cracked open in a spiderweb, and out lashed a whip from the depths below.
It sliced through the air with a deafening snap, launching Deathstroke skyward before he could react. For fighters, being airborne was practically a death-sentence, in spite of what Hollywood would have the audiences believe. His grappling hook could usually save him from situations like this, but Slade was sadly short on equipment at the moment.
All he had on his person were a couple of dimes, a credit card, a knife he was never without, and the blessed silver the Terminator had instinctively brought up to meet the whip, dispersing much of the force that would have otherwise caved in his ribcage and caused his lungs to collapse.
The demon immediately followed up with a downward slash that sent him and his cross to the ground.
Gasping for breath, Slade dove sideways and snatched up one of the bar patrons as a hostage which, predictably, froze the hellish creature mid-motion. "You're finally here, Imp!" It wasn't the brat, per se, but 'pets', especially the infernal kind, rarely wandered far from their owners.
The Terminator shouldered the portly man whom he was fairly certain was the mayor, and three hundred pounds of human obstacle in turn provided Slade the split second he needed to make a beeline for his vehicle, parked on the other side of the street, facing the Gallery.
He'd come hours before the actual event just to secure the spot.
His surveillance had started well before the gallery's opening, so early that Slade had questioned whether he was overthinking the job. Now, it looked like he had been right to be paranoid all along.
Throwing open the passenger door, he grabbed the Colt M1911A1 from the storage compartment, left right beside the Bible he'd brought from a local bookstore.
He turned, aimed the gun at the pursuing Demon and squeezed the trigger.
Slade had come to Coast City prepared for supernatural warfare—Buddhist prayer beads, Bibles, Nordic protective wards, everything blessed thirty times over by certified clergy, including the silver-tipped ammunition in his magazine.
A hail of bullets tore through the Sentient Shade, each flashing with blessed light as they found their mark.
The Demon instantly reeled back with a violent screech, writhing in apparent agony. But ammunition had limits, and as the last casing clinked against asphalt, the creature slowly began to coalesce once more.
Witnessing this, Slade's hand closed around the Bible, flipping to a passage he had marked for exactly this purpose. "[Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you]."
The Demon's advance suddenly faltered, flickering like a candle in wind.
"[Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour]."
A keening wail erupted from the Beast as it pressed forward against invisible resistance, each step seeming to take tremendous effort.
"[Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil]."
The Shade convulsed, its edges starting to fray and dissolve like smoke in a strong wind.
"[For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age]!!!" With a final, ear-splitting shriek, the Demon collapsed in on itself, imploding into nothingness and leaving only the acrid smell of sulfur in the air, but it was merely the first of thousands more stirring in the realm beyond.
Thousands to eclipse the Moon.
Thousands to devour the Sky.
Thousands to descend upon wings of shadow, and leading their charge was—"SLADE!!!"
The Imp roared, no longer wearing his previous clean and sleek supersuit, but now clad in the crimson medieval armor.
The helmet bore two pointed ears jutting upward like a bat's, with three pairs of eye slits arranged vertically down the faceplate—six glowing white openings that accommodated his inhuman gaze.
The interlocking plates gleamed like freshly spilt blood under the moonlight, each piece articulated with the kind of craftsmanship that flourished before function became a slave to mass production.
A collar of dark fur ran from one collarbone to the other, further adding a primal, almost barbaric touch to the otherwise refined craftsmanship.
Where his old costume had been streamlined and modern, this was pure medieval warfare with heavy pauldrons, a breastplate, and a pair of segmented gauntlets that ended in clawed fingertips.
"You're early, but no matter. I'm always prepared!" Raising a bottle of holy water, Wilson blessed the knife concealed up his sleeve moments before the collision and met the Imp's gauntleted fist head-on as golden glitter erupted from the vigilante's palm, basking the entire street in sparkling motes.
[Wild Magic Surge: Glitter Burst]
Locked in the struggle, the Imp snarled under his helmet. "Well, I hope you're prepared to get your fucking ass kicked then, Dickstroke!"
"You'll pay for that, Imp!"
"Make me!“
The words had barely left Slade's lips when the Imp twisted with, armored elbow driving toward the mercenary's ribs. It would have floored him, however briefly, if not for Slade's combat-honed reflexes that sent him pivoting backward, the consecrated knife in his hand carving a silver arc through the air as he aimed for the gap between breastplate and pauldron.
Halfway through the motion, his wrist was caught in an iron grip that squeezed until tendons creaked while the holy water-blessed blade trembled mere inches from its target.
The vigilante's other gauntlet came up in a vicious uppercut that Slade barely avoided by wrenching himself sideways, ultilizing the momentum to drive his knee toward the Imp's midsection.
The impact sent shockwaves up his leg, but the armored figure only staggered, releasing Slade's wrist to lunge for his throat instead, lifting him clean off the ground as six burning, malevolent eye slits bore into him. “Not so fucking tough now, are you, Terminator?!“
Deathstroke responded by driving the pommel of his knife into the closest glowing opening, earning himself a snarled curse as the Imp's grip loosened just enough for the mercenary to free himself.
The exchange continued for a good minute, and just when Slade thought he might have found his rhythm; might have begun to predict the vigilante's patterns, the sky above them erupted with leathery wings and hellish shrieks as nine hundred and ninety-nine bat-shaped Demons collectively descended.
The cross in his palm blazed like a miniature Sun, but there were simply too many, overwhelming Slade's sanctified defenses as razor-sharp talons tore through his expensive suit and found the kevlar beneath.
They quickly drove him to his knees even while he swung away; each cut banishing one Demon only to have two, three, sometimes five more take its place.
For a moment, Slade Wilson genuinely feared he might lose yet again. He probably would have, if someone in the fleeing crowd hadn't begun to recite: "[The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want]."
No more than a second later, another joined in the Chant.
"[He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake]."
Then another.
"[Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me]."
And another.
"[Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me]."
Before long, the entire crowd was chanting scripture many among them had once disdained.
A few didn't know any verses beyond 'The power of Christ compels you,' but that seemed to be enough.
Never mind the Imp; Slade himself was flabbergasted by their reaction. But it made sense. From their perspective, he was just an an innocent bystander who'd suddenly come under attack by supernatural forces.
And more importantly, this was a rare opportunity for civies to actually fight back against a 'Meta' and see results. Even those who'd initially wanted to steer clear quickly succumbed to the wonderful thing called: 'Peer pressure.'
The entire ordeal might be entertaining to them, but for the recipient of the Exorcism, it was quite the harrowing experience.
Glaring at the circle that had formed around him, the Imp couldn't help but clutch the sides of his helmet.
The crowd was loud, certainly, but to render him truly helpless would require more than volume… It would require Divine Intervention.
'These braindead morons!' Rowan seethed, practically frothing at the mouth as he stumbled toward the only thing he could use to steady himself: A nearby trash bin. Bile rose from deep in his stomach, searing his throat and flooding his mouth with a horrid acidic stench. The one time people actually decided to unite and work together against a 'common threat,' and it was to benefit a professional killer.
'Typical…'
He couldn't be sure, but he could swear he just spotted a smirk on Dickstroke's face. “C-Coward!“
'Prepared.' The mercenary mouthed, slinking into the dark of an alley just as sirens began to blare.
But he didn't disappear as Rowan had expected.
He'd gone to put on his suit, donning the familiar orange and black armor that symbolized his past glories. Deathstroke slapped the aged, dented and scarred plates that still held together thanks to his regular maintenance and mockingly slid the scratched one-eyed mask over his head.
Cracking his neck twice for the satisfying pop, he moved openly behind his target who was being escorted to safety by his security detail.
The guards had positioned themselves in a tight protective formation around Julian that'd make a clean shot nearly impossible without risking return fire from multiple angles. 'Better to thin the herd first…'
The first guard died to a knife in the liver, dropped silently before the others realized the threat was behind them. The second and third fell to precise gunshots that stopped the crowd cold as blood and chunks of skull hit a couple unlucky bystanders.
Just as Slade lined up his shot on the fourth guard disguised, the man was suddenly yanked out of his line of fire by the Shade, who slipped into his shadow and immediately attempted to stun him via Possession.
Foreign whispers clawed at his mind, but Slade's willpower held just long enough for him to grab a bottle of holy water dangling where he usually kept a grenade, crush the bottle, and douse himself in the blessed water. "I don't usually break my words; it is you who brought the fight to me. They'd have survived another night if it weren't for you, Imp."
White flame erupted wherever the water splashed, burning away the Shade until it was fully expelled. Meeting the Imp's glare directly, Slade held up two fingers. "Two gone,”
Then switched to five, dragging his knife across Julian's neck. "Five to go." By the time the crowd gathered their collective wits, the mercenary was already gone, leaving three dead bodies and a dying victim in his wake. Ichor made to pursue, while Rowan himself shoved his way through the crowd. Knowing Deathstroke, he had probably sliced through every major artery of the twenty-something-year-old, but—'There's still hope.'
"... I think we backed the wrong guy."
“No shit, Sherlock.“
“What are you talking about? He's a Demon!“
The Red Lantern Ring had replaced his heart, the Green one too, and since Ichor had absorbed a portion of the Butcher, “This should work.“ Extending a hand to the gasping victim, Rowan flinched as a Verse from the Bible reached his ear.
Fed up, his head pivoted toward the source—some snivelling civilians reciting prayers at the very back.
Following his gaze, the crowd collectively turned.
“Shut it, moron!“
“Don't you see he's trying to help?!“
"Yeah, shut up!" A few chimed, conveniently forgetting their own recent display of religious fervor. He hadn't even gotten another look at the dying young man when sirens wailed in the distance, prompting a grunt from Rowan.
“Fashionably late as always.“
Although, perhaps it was for the best…
The situation was so far above their paygrade it wasn't even funny.
Honestly, he didn't know why cops still responded to calls involving Supes when their service weapons wouldn't even put a scratch on most Metas.
"Nobody move! Hands up!"
"Get back from the body!"
"Clear the area, NOW!“
Paying no mind to their orders, Rowan dropped to his knees beside the victim and covered the wound with his palm. Dark liquid traced up his finger, dripping from his fingertip and seeping into the injury just as a gun barrel was leveled at his head.
"Are you listening to me? Hands off the hostage!"
“I'm trying to save his life.“
“Doesn't look like it where I'm standing.“
Rowan pulled his hand away, exposing the deep gash that had already been temporarily sealed by his Shade. “How about now?“
The officer's expression soured as she took in the severity of the wound. "Christ..."
"The damage is too extensive for field repair," He said, pressing down firmly while dark tendrils of Ichor continued their work beneath his palm, "He's going to need a real trauma surgeon and a proper vascular graft taken from the saphenous vein."
Even if they managed to get him to the best surgical team in the city and everything went perfectly during the operation, the prognosis wasn't good… The nerve damage to his vocal cords would all likely be permanent regardless of whether the vascular repair succeeded or not.
"You look awfully young to know all this medical babbles."
“Is this really the time to discuss my credentials, officer?“
"EMS is on the way, but rush hour traffic's got everything backed up."
"Just fantastic…"
He glanced at the pitiful remnants of his decimated swarm, then willed them to coalesce into something that could bear the weight of three people.
Taking the form of a raven standing six meters tall with a wingspan stretching roughly eight meters, Ichor tossed its head back and cawed.
"Which way to the closest hospital?"
Swallowing the lump in her throat, the officer hesitantly pointed, then quickly corrected. "No, wait! That way!" She'd been thinking in terms of street routes to St. Angela earlier, but flying meant they could simply cut straight across the river instead of taking the bridge.
She sweated profusely, staring at the raven, then adjusted her direction only to get pulled onto the Demon's back.
"... Why am I up here?"
"For directions, why else?" Rowan rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on the wounded man as Ichor shifted beneath to accomodate its new riders. "Besides, hospital staff usually respond better to badges than masked vigilantes."
Seeing the logic in his reasoning, she turned to inform the officers below, "Meet us at St. Angela Hospital!" Before gripping the reins formed from the Raven's feathers with a grin. Who hadn't fantasized about flying on the back of a Magical Beast at some point? "Thank you for this opportunity!"
"Don't mention it."
"I'm Martinez, by the way."
"Good for you."
"... And you are?"
"Someone who doesn't share personal details with law enforcement."
Despite his unfriendly attitude, Martinez still proved annoyingly persistent.
"So what are your powers?
I saw Deathstroke's video, how did you two become nemeses?
What's your official hero name? Can you—"
Rowan's expression darkened as he turned to check on the victim, whose eyes had suddenly snapped wide open.
The man's ghostly pallor made Rowan flinch off Ichor's back before he managed to compose himself.
He tried closing the wide-open eyes, but they popped back open the instant he removed his fingers. The second attempt ended much the same, the bulging orbs making the man look like something dredged up from the bottom of a lake.
At a loss, the Demon could only turn the victim's head sideways until Ichor touched down in front of St. Angela Hospital, before helping both passengers down and placing the victim on a waiting gurney. "You're not coming with us?"
Blocking out the electronic beeps from within, Rowan mounted the Raven and asked with a raised eyebrow. “Your department equipped to deal with Deathstroke?"
Officer Martinez immediately paled at hearing the name."Didn't think so."
With a snort, Rowan took off on Ichor's back, following the trail of his remaining Shades.
Within moments, however, he was wheezing and doubling over, clutching his head.
Fumbling with his helmet's release mechanism and pulling it off, Rowan gasped for night air while unfastening his gauntlets to reveal the raw, reddened skin underneath.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, hissing as the dull aches he had been ignoring suddenly flared as if somebody was pouring salt into open cuts. Slade might not have shot him directly, but the Empathetic Link between him and his Shade meant the pain was as much his as it was Ichor's.
Usually the sensation lasted only seconds, minutes at worst, but something felt different this time…
Something felt… Off.
Sensing wetness beneath his armor, he peeled back a section and froze as he caught bullet holes where unmarked flesh should have been.
"I'm... Bleeding?" Rowan muttered the words as if saying them would make sense of the impossible. He remembered getting shot at, but he definitely didn't remember getting shot, 'Or did I?'
His vision blurred, his consciousness faded, and by the time his eyelids fluttered open the third time, he was dropping like a stone while the Shade shrieked and dove after him.
Pain seared up Rowan's arm as the Strand of Ichor went taut and his shoulder popped, followed by burning agony as his shoulder-blade broke against a sharp corner of concrete.
Rowan wished he could say something profound crossed his mind as death approached, but that'd be a big, fat lie. Truth was: The only thought bouncing in his skull as Ichor draped over him was a disappointed—'Is this it?'
