2015.01.24 - Blüdbath: Friendly Competition

Time: 19:00

Place: RABE Memorial Hospital, Blüdhaven

"... we do, of course, appreciate your generous contributions to our new Trauma Center, Mr. Wilson. I'm sorry about this little hangup, but Dr. Ramirez wasn't aware of your special arrangement with us. He'll be spoken to, and I'll oversee your specimen donation personally."

A small, bookish doctor fumbles with his clipboard as he speaks. He's somewhere on the cusp of being 'elderly', and his tailored clothing and impeccable grooming mark him as someone who has long ago been elevated to administrative duties.

The man he is talking to is also wearing something tailored, a classic navy suit with subtle pinstripes. But unlike the doctor, 'Mr. Wilson' doesn't look like the sort of man who is used to sitting behind a desk. In fact, he still bears a couple of scrapes and scabs from his last skirmish, though to look at him you'd think he'd fallen down a few stairs rather than being sent sailing all the way across Blüdhaven courtesy of a punch from Ms. Marvel.

Slade scowls at the hospital director for a moment, his nose upturned. "No, that won't be necessary. Have Dr. Ramirez oversee my donation. He'll either play ball, or he won't. Either way, he knows his way around a collection needle."

A few minutes later, Slade is removing his suit jacket and taking off one of the cuff links on his immaculate white shirt. Standing near him is the apologetic Dr. Ramirez, needle in hand.

All of the cameras in this entire wing of the hospital have suspiciously gone out, though the company that provides security for the hospital has been told that this is due to 'routine maintenance.' Out in the parking lot, an entire contingent of Slade's security team have been deployed, taking crucial positions while attempting to blend with the civilian population.

Slade turns his phone off and sets it next to his suit jacket as he rolls up his sleeve. "Let's be quick about this, yes?"

The cameras are off, according the the security folks at the hospital. Of course, rerouting security footage was a simple task for someone like Oracle. "Hmm, someone's getting a booster shot." The clandestine leader of the Birds of Prey taps a few keys on her board. She was as always sitting in her sanctum, watching and listening. The team outside the hospital did not escape notice. Each face was recorded and filed away; maybe it would be useful later. She made special note to investigate Dr. Ramiez, and the hospital director. Politely, of course.

It's not until Slade Wilson has finished his hospital visit, and is heading to wherever he is going, when his phone rings. Somehow, it's playing 'Secret Agent Man' as a ringtone.

"What? Thought I turned the damn thing off." Slade pulls out his simple-looking black smartphone as he slides into the passenger's seat of black Range Rover. His men have pulled the car around for him, so at least they're good for something. Once he's inside, they start disappearing from the hospital grounds in short order, meeting up with their vehicles as they prepare to convoy away from the hospital.

Looking at the screen of his phone, Slade frowns. He's embraced modern technology, but it's clear that he's done so a bit reluctantly. Still, despite not recognizing the number on the phone, and despite never having set that particular ringtone, he presses the 'Answer' button.

"Slade." It's not much of a greeting, but it gets the point across.

"Hello, Mr. Wilson." Oracle's voice is polite and friendly. Back in her clocktower, Oracle is pinging the smartphone watching where Slade is headed. A smile curves her lips. "How are you today, friend?" Somehow, she doesn't sound snide or sarcastic, maintaining a polite demeanor. "I've been enjoying our game thus far."

"Oh. You again. My mysterious stalker." Slade's voice is completely dry, if he's happy to hear from the mystery woman who's been sending him messages, he certainly doesn't show it. "I thought you would have given up by now. But your fanatical adherence to the game of chess suggests that you work for Waller's little club. You can tell her two things for me: I think 'Checkmate' is a very stupid name, and I have no interest in being her Black Bishop, or whatever position I'm being screened for here."

Always an egoist, Slade doesn't seem to think this is anything more than an elaborate recruitment gimmick. But since this is Blüdhaven, perhaps that isn't such an unusual idea.

"Oh, and... Bishop to D6." He's not currently looking at a chessboard, but apparently he remembers where all of the pieces were. Tactical computer brain, after all.

Oracle chuckles, genuinely amused. "I have worked along with Ms. Waller in the past, but I assure I'm not her patsy." There's a short pause. "I will send the message along, however. And I agree, Checkmate *is* a stupid name." There's a long pause, and if Slade strains his ear, he might catch the 'clink' of chess pieces being moved.

"Pawn to E3."

"Knight to E4." His response comes after only a slight pauses, as he runs through many of the possible outcomes in his mind. His driver looks at him with an arched eyebrow, but quickly returns his attention to the road. Surely this isn't the strangest phone conversation he's heard Slade have...

"You know that I'm going to find you, right? And when I do, I'm going to find some creative ways to use your chess pieces...." It's not easy to tell if Slade is threatening or flirting. But taking into account who we're dealing with, it's probably the former.

There's another sound of moving pieces. "Queen to C1." Oracle's tone suggests she's smiling; and she is. She laughs at Slade's threat, not in a mocking way. She seems honestly amused. "Many have tried to find me, and yet none have done so. I am everywhere, and no where, Slade Wilson."

"Hm... everywhere and nowhere? No... you're somewhere. Probably somewhere very close, or you wouldn't care what old Slade is up to." Slade looks out of the window, almost as if expecting to see some clue that will help him find the cleverly-hidden young woman. "You know who I am. You've done the research. Most importantly, you know what I'm capable of. I don't believe for an instant that you don't feel an icy chill working it's way up your spine right now. And that's a good thing. That's your body telling you that you're in mortal danger, you should listen to it."

Cellphone pinging works both ways, as Oracle well knows. Slade smiles as he remains on the line, letting his phone do all of the work for him. It'll be a simple matter to hand the phone to one of his tech guys when he gets to his location.

"Queen to H4."

"Everything matters to me, Mr. Wilson." Oracle doesn't sound the least bit concerned that she's being threatened by one of the deadliest mercenaries in the world. "I feel no chill, dear Slade. Only the thrill of excitement. You're an intriguing opponent." She might be flirting, it's hard to tell.

She certainly isn't worried about the phone trace. She isn't using conventional means to call his phone, and any trace would end up pointing at a communications building in North Korea. Outlandish, yes, but misdirection was part of her game. "Queen to C2." "Excellent. I'll take that... Bishop to F4." Speaking of misdirection, Slade certainly has committed to playing the game the entire trip back to his base. He doesn't appear to be any worse for wear after his trip to the hospital, though perhaps just a bit more tired. Still, he'll probably be as fit as a fiddle after he has a beer and a nap.

"I'd return the compliment, if I weren't so certain that you're one of those psychopaths with a 'theme' costume..." He closes his eye, attempting to predict the course of the match. "Let me guess, you wear some sort of chess-themed lingerie when you're out committing petty crimes? I'll bet you call yourself the 'White Queen' or something similarly outlandish."

There's a clanking sound, as Oracle dutifully knocks down her bishop. "I was wondering when you'd strike. Oh well, all pieces are but pawns in our game, wouldn't you agree?" There's a small chuckle. Followed by a sigh. "I do not." she retorts in an annoyed tone. "I do not own anything that could be called 'chess themed lingerie'. Frankly, I don't have the body for it, regardless of what you might imagine. I do not engage in petty crime. When I play, I play big, Slade." There's a pause, and when she continues, Oracle sounds much more polite.

"I chose to engage you in chess because I wanted to challenge you. Chess seemed the best method." She hums to herself. "Queen to E2."

"Sounds like a sore subject. Bishop to G3. Possibly some sort of body image disorder. Would you like to talk about it?" Whether or not he'd admit it, Slade is enjoying the challenge. Oracle made at least one correct assumption: If you want to chat with Slade, you have to earn his respect first. Clearly, she's well on her way to doing that regardless of the outcome of the match.

This does not mean, however, that Slade isn't going to make wisecracks of varying levels of cruelty while attempting to rile her up. Psychological manipulation is just as important in chess as opening theory, after all. "Jury is still out on whether this counts as a 'challenge.' You forget, that I'm playing this game while doing my chore list."

The SUV pulls up in front of an old gas station. The kind of antiquated building that used to be more abundant in small towns, with a garage attached to the 'filling station.' Though the building looks abandoned, the garage door swings open (yes, swings, it's that old) when Slade's Range Rover gets close enough.

"Hah. How quaint, Mr. Wilson. You seem to think I care what I look like." In her tower, Barbara's eyes are narrowed slightly. She had to misdirect Slade from even considering her true identity... "You assume that's I'm female, a human, and a villain. That's quite a bit of assumption, Slade." She pauses for a moment. "It's hard to play poker over the phone. Besides, you would never play unless it was a sure bet for you. Rook to A2."

"Bishop to F2. Check." The driver and Slade's backup all get out of the vehicle, but Slade stays in his seat for a minute. Maybe he doesn't want to quit playing just when the game is getting good, or maybe he wants to heighten the dramatic tension for the poor guy strapped to a chair in the gas station. Either way, it's a win-win.

"While I've got you on the line, I thought I'd let you know that I have a prisoner tied up at my current location. Don't pretend that you don't know where it is. In just a minute, I'm going to torture this man to death and leave his body for the rats. It should take me a while, plenty of time for you to send help..."

"Unless you really are a 'villain' as deny. Then, I suppose you won't much care what happens to one innocent man." The sound of the car window rolling down can be heard, and Slade shouts out the window. "Hey! Go ahead and ungag our friend. Make him scream for my new chess pal's enjoyment."

"King to D1." Oracle's voice is calm, not betraying the slight annoyance she has at herself. And then Slade mentions the prisoner. "Did he do something to you? Torture is so dull if there's no reason for it, and honestly you are not the type for frivolities." She sounds like she couldn't care less about the prisoner, although Barbara will have a lot to answer for when she dies. She's already accepted that fact. She can't save everyone. "So, is there a point for this exercise? You didn't know I would call you."

"Bishop to G1." There is a click, and the sound of the car door opening and shutting with a slam. "Now now, if you want to know my secrets you'll have to work for them like a good little hacker. Let's just say this man and I had a disagreement, and leave it at that. You'll be able to see all of the gory details on the police report."

More rustling, followed by some pleading and sounds of general panic. "I'm going to put you on speaker phone now, 'Oracle.' I like having an audience when I work." Although he's doing his best to sound as if he enjoys this sort of thing, he actually sounds a bit bored by the whole thing.

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Robertson... I know it isn't professional to talk on the phone when you're working, but I'm all yours now. So... what do you say? Should we start on the toes or the fingers?"

'Mr. Robertson' begs for his life through choked sobs until the sobs turn into screams.

The phone call disconnects partway through the torture; it looks like Slade's phone shut itself off. Back in the tower, Barbara is crying mutely, glaring at the black king piece on the chessboard. "I will end you, Slade Wilson."