2015.02.24 - Blüdbath: Regrouping

It has been several days since the attempt on Babs' life; with all the heroic activity that surrounded her rescue it has been unsafe to try and contact anyone of the team but it has been a few days since the disaster and Cassandra braves sending Slade a coded text via a highly altered burn phone, the message allowing for Wilson to know where he can find her and the send 'button' hit just before the pay-as-you-go device is tossed in a dumpster half way across town.

The place she has been in is an old apartment in a condemned building, the kind of place one doesn't go into unless they're a junkie or is homeless and in need of getting out of the cold. Signs of her having been here for a while show in the food wrappers that litter the floor along with the debris, her choice in food apparently cheeseburgers from a little greasy spoon several blocks from the slums, beef jerky, nutrition bars and water. Lots of water, it seems, as there are quite a lot of discarded bottles.

The tiny killing machine is sitting on a camp chair she happened to find, the vinyl seat old enough to have become brittle but is still somewhat serviceable, her attention settled firmly on sharpening one of her katana. The steely sound of whetstone upon metal is the only sound to be heard, the normally silent young lady further muted thanks to the chunk of beef jerky she has been chewing on while tending to her weaponry.

Blüdhaven is a bit too hot right now for The Wilsons, but that's to be expected. There's only so much violence you can cause in a city before it starts to become a bit inhospitable. He's had to discard nearly all of his tech, and stop communicating with his operatives through any electronic means. Tired of dodging the VSG patrols that he's responsible for starting, and nearly exhausted from the frequent fighting of the last few days, Slade finally gets a piece of good news: His top assassin is alive, free, and available for orders.

From a concealed location down the block, Deathstroke stares through the scope a high-powered sniper rifle. For nearly forty eight hours now, he's been scanning the block, filtering through the scope's different vision modes. Only now, after laying in freezing temperatures for almost two days, is he finally satisfied that this isn't a trap.

Or, perhaps he's decided that if it is a trap, it's not one that presents enough of a threat...

Operating in Gotham or Blüdhaven while wearing his full Deathstroke gear is extremely risky, but Slade is doing it anyway. Stashing the rifle in a safe place, he zip-lines across the street to the roof of Batgirl's building. His movements are swift and silent as he makes his way down the nearly-sheer wall, at least as far as normal people are concerned. To the leader of the League of Assassins, he probably might as well be wearing bells around his neck.

He ends up on the rusted-out fire escape outside the window of the room she's squatting in. Rapping at the glass with an armored knuckle, he peers through his helmet's eye-slit into the dingy window.

Oh yes. As much as Slade attempts to be quiet he might as well be stomping about as Cass immediately knows when he is here, his presence perhaps felt on some kind of instinct-base level as it is heard. The scraping of the stone halts and she slowly rises, setting it and the sword down on a grungy box that has been re-purposed. Got to have a table to keep one's stuff off of the floor, after all. It is only after her hands are empty that she turns, her expression blank, that piece of dried meet held between her teeth and tucked into one corner of her mouth as she regards him quietly.

The window is approached only after the merc is inspected and it is opened, the wooden frame warped to the point where any one not under the power of the 'gift' would have difficulty in pushing it up. But for Cass it is as if it is brand new for what little effort it takes into opening it. "Come." Unlike many of Slade's minions, Cass is not afraid to speak to him like a peer, the groveling and such one might expect from an underling saved for those who scrape and beg for his favor. She is assured of her position within their plans, though, so such truly is not necessary.

He is left to climb in as he will but she has no desire to stand there for too long as a body before a window is a target of opportunity many would give their eye teeth for. Of note, she is not wearing her costume but rather an outfit that many teens would wear - a black and green striped shirt with a black hoodie tossed over that, black skinny jeans and a beat up pair of Converse hi-tops - her old Batgirl attire either disposed of entirely or hidden somewhere.

It's clear that Slade has no intention of remaining out in the open for long either. He slithers through the window and closes it behind him almost in one silent (comparatively) motion. He pulls the rat-eaten blanket that was serving as a curtain back over the window, though if he showed up in his gear it seems unlikely that he plans to stay long enough for identification to be a problem. Leave it to the GCPD to hesitate to respond when a criminal of Deathstroke's caliber is reported.

Like Cass, Slade is terse. Her reticent nature is probably the reason he allows her to remain in his presence so often. It's easy to forget she's even there, very much like some sort of aloof cat.

As he pulls off his helmet, it's clear that he's been out in the cold for far too long, even with his armor's weather resistance. The end of his nose seems almost crystallized, while he looks nearly frostbitten everywhere else.

"Meat. Now."

Meat? What does he take this for? A fancy steakhouse where one can demand a slab of beef? The package of jerky is grabbed from the table and tossed his way although he might not be able to catch it seeing he looks a bit frozen. The meat isn't raw but it's protein at least, which is what he needs, yes?

Once the 'food' is passed over she merely stands there, Slade and his current state taken in as her hands are shoved into the pockets of that hooded sweatshirt she stole off from a clothesline. "Where is everyone?" Since they had to scatter after the intervention of the good-doers she has lost track of those they were aligned to, Rose and Tynan's whereabouts totally unknown to her. Not that she really cares - she doesn't even really like Tynan as there's something about her that she just does not trust, truth be told - but it is still good to know where one's allies have wound up after the shit hits the fan.

It only takes a couple seconds for the beef jerky to disappear. Slade tears into it like a starving wolf, ignoring everything else until it's devoured. As he drops the packaging on the floor, some of the coloring appears to be returning to his features, but he still looks like someone who hasn't bathed or shaved in days. Which, is exactly what he is.

"Everyone is scattered, according to the protocol. Only I am authorized to know the big picture, but I'm bringing you back in now."

He sets his helmet down on the table, and takes the only chair. He's not a gentleman. Instead, he behaves the way the 'pack leader' should, demanding his tribute and expecting proper deference.

"As I suspected, Tynan wasn't a believer. I'd hoped that the gift would bring her around, but her worthiness clearly only went so far. I shot her, but that probably won't keep her down for long. She's to be decapitated on sight."

We've also lost a lot of our 'soldiers...'" It's clear that he says the word with a bit of distaste, as if he doesn't like using such a noble word to apply to the street criminals who work for him. "... we'll have to rebuild our losses. I need more of your assassins in the meantime to pick up the slack."

There's more jerky and even a few of those bars she has been hoarding for herself but it's motioned to despite her own need for food, it instead offered to Slade. She can always make another trip to the mini-mart and burger place tomorrow.

Once he is comfortable she does something undoubtedly unexpected, that being trying to sit on his lap, the metal frame of the chair creaking ominously but it should support both of their weight even if the seat it self starts to fray at the edges a bit. "I do not like her... I will see to her demise personally," is uttered after some silence, her expression slightly angered.

The rest of the news is taken with some stoicism, the bad news taken with no sign of if it pains her or not that they are gone. "Take as many of my men you need, Slade." The LoA is not hurting for numbers between those who joined here here and those who remained 'home', there being plenty to go around.

Normally, Slade would think nothing of allowing the girl her place on his lap or at his side. But he doesn't appear in the mood to bestow affection right now. True, he's never been accused of being affectionate, but he looks especially primal at the moment with his hair wild, his face covered in three days of white growth, and his armor smelling overpoweringly of the unique blend of physical exertion, musk, and virility that make up Slade Wilson's scent.

A bit roughly, he pushes her away before she seats herself. "There will be plenty of time for that later. I didn't come here to snuggle with you. You are to grab your gear, and follow me to our new safe house. I have a special guest there I think you'd like to meet."

Getting to her feet, she grabs a backpack and slings it over her shoulder and gathers her swords and the rifle that had been left propped in a corner, those taken with her with no attempt made to conceal them. The food and trash can remain where it is, the former something whomever happens upon the apartment next can make use of. Glancing at him, she angles her head to the side, bidding him to take the lead.

Going back out the entrance he came in would be a tactical error, after all. On his way to the door, he snatches his helmet off of the table. It goes on easily, and he's finished setting the adjustment strap before he even gets to the door.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you to be stealthy. If anyone sees us, they're to be immediately killed." As he opens the door, he pulls the knife from the belt on his thigh. The sharp-eyed Batgirl is bound to remember it as the knife she stuck in Slade's own leg back when they first met. He stalks his way down the hallway, completely (comparatively) silent, and heads toward the inconspicuous delivery van that's been stashed behind the building.