New Jersey Countryside
The armored transport vehicle cut through the darkness of the New Jersey countryside, its headlights carving a narrow path through the pre-dawn gloom. Inside the reinforced passenger compartment, Slade Wilson sat in silence, his hands secured behind his back with military-grade restraints, his tactical gear replaced with an orange prison jumpsuit that seemed almost insulting given his reputation.
The irony wasn't lost on him. A month ago, he'd been leading a team of international assassins through Gotham's shadows, considered one of the world's most dangerous men. Four weeks in GCPD's temporary holding facility had given him plenty of time to plan, to analyze his failures, to catalogue every mistake that had led to his capture. Now he was being transported upstate like common cargo, destined for a maximum-security facility where he'd await trial for crimes that barely scratched the surface of what he'd actually done over the years.
Two federal marshals sat across from him, their faces hidden behind tactical masks, weapons at the ready despite the numerous security measures that supposedly made escape impossible. The driver and co-pilot maintained radio contact with the escort vehicles as they made their way through the winding back roads that would eventually connect to I-80 north.
"Twenty minutes to the state line," the co-pilot reported over the intercom.
The marshal on the left shifted in his seat, studying Slade with obvious amusement. "You know, Wilson, I gotta say when they briefed us on transporting the great Deathstroke, I was expecting someone a little more intimidating."
His partner chuckled, the sound harsh in the confined space. "Yeah, me too. The legendary assassin who got his ass handed to him by a kid in a cape. What was he, twelve?"
"Ten, I heard," the first marshal replied, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Batman's little sidekick took down the world's deadliest mercenary. That's gotta sting the professional pride."
Slade's expression didn't change, but something cold and violent flickered behind his single eye. The marshals were too confident to notice the way his muscles tensed, the slight shift in his breathing. They thought the restraints made him harmless. They were wrong.
"I mean, think about it," the second marshal continued, warming to his theme. "Decades of training, military enhancement, all that expensive gear, and you get schooled by Robin. ROBIN. Like something out of a comic book."
"You're both dead men," Slade said quietly, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone stating basic facts. The words cut through their laughter like a blade. "When I get out of here, and I will get out, I'm going to find you. I'm going to find your families. And I'm going to show you what a real professional does to amateurs who run their mouths."
The laughter died. The second marshal's hand moved unconsciously toward his weapon, but the first one tried to maintain his composure. "Big talk from someone in federal custody."
"Maybe he should ask for a refund on those enhancements," his partner added, but the humor was forced now, strained.
Slade studied them both with the cold patience of a predator. Left marshal had a slight limp, favored his right leg. Old injury, probably military service. He'd snap that knee first, let the man scream while he explained exactly how amateur his training had been. The right one kept touching his sidearm nervously, obvious rookie tells. He'd make that one watch.
The kid had been good, Slade admitted to himself. Better than good, actually. Ten years old and he'd brought down an entire floor of a construction site on top of him, using structural engineering like a weapon. Most adults couldn't read a building's stress points well enough to pull off that kind of controlled demolition. The boy had calculated angles, weight distribution, and timing while under fire from one of the world's deadliest assassins. That took more than courage. That took the kind of tactical brilliance that separated survivors from corpses. But respect didn't diminish the burning humiliation of being beaten by a child.
Batman should have killed him when he had the chance. They all should have. The Dark Knight and his boy wonder both. Any real man would have put a bullet in Slade's head the moment they had him down. Instead, they'd chosen mercy, chosen their precious moral code over practical necessity.
It was going to cost them everything.
When he got out, when he was free and armed and ready, he was going to remind them why professionals didn't leave enemies alive. The kid would scream for his parents before the end, just like he'd screamed in that circus tent. Batman would watch his precious sidekick die slowly, learning too late that heroics were no substitute for the will to do what was necessary.
"Twenty minutes to the state line," the co-pilot reported over the intercom, his voice cutting through Slade's violent planning.
Slade remained perfectly still, his face a mask of professional indifference. But behind that mask, he was making promises. Silent, deadly promises about what would happen to everyone who'd put him in this position. The marshals would be first, when the opportunity presented itself. Then Gordon and his police. Then the federal prosecutors. Then Batman and his precious bird.
He'd been working on the restraints for the past hour, applying calculated pressure through micro-movements that stressed the metal at specific points. Military grade meant nothing when you understood metallurgy and had enhanced strength to exploit weaknesses. The transport was well-designed, but every system had flaws. Every fortress could be broken if you had the patience and knowledge to find the cracks.
Escape would come eventually. He just hadn't expected it to come tonight.
The impact came without warning. Something massive struck the transport's left side with tremendous force, sending the armored vehicle spinning off the highway. Slade's tactical mind had a split second to register shock before training took over. His enhanced senses catalogued everything as the world exploded into chaos: screaming metal twisted around them, glass shattered in diamond sprays, and gravity seized control of their fate.
The transport rolled three times before physics finally won and deposited them in a smoking heap at the bottom of a shallow embankment. Whatever had hit them hadn't been an accident. The timing was too precise, the isolation too perfect. Someone wanted him free, and they had the resources to make it happen.
Slade felt a cold smile touch his lips as his enhanced physiology kept him conscious while the marshals were knocked senseless by the impact. His restraints, weakened by an hour of systematic pressure and now compromised by the tremendous forces involved, parted like tissue paper. The familiar weight of freedom settled over him like coming home.
He took a moment to appreciate the irony. These two idiots had spent the last hour mocking him, secure in their authority and their federal transport. Now they were unconscious and helpless while he was free and lethal. Time to collect on those promises he'd made.
The first marshal was groggily reaching for his sidearm when Slade's hands found his throat. The man's eyes widened behind his tactical mask as recognition dawned, but it was far too late for apologies or backup calls.
"Still think I need those enhancements refunded?" Slade whispered, his voice carrying the promise of death.
He applied pressure with surgical precision, feeling cartilage compress under his fingers. The marshal's hands clawed desperately at Slade's wrists, but there was no breaking that grip. Slade watched the life fade from the man's eyes with professional detachment, counting the seconds until the struggles ceased entirely. When the neck finally snapped with a sound like breaking kindling, it was clean and efficient. Just the way he'd been trained.
The second marshal had managed to clear his weapon despite the crash, but his hands were shaking too badly to aim properly. The gun barrel wavered as he tried to find a target in the cramped, debris-filled space. Amateur. Slade moved like liquid shadow, his foot connecting with the marshal's wrist in a strike that shattered bone and sent the pistol spinning into the wreckage.
"Mall security," Slade repeated softly as the man screamed, cradling his ruined hand. "I'll keep that in mind for your widow."
His next strike caught the marshal in the temple, precise force applied to the exact spot where skull met brain stem. The man's head snapped sideways with a wet crack, and he collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Blood trickled from his ears, pooling on the transport's floor in the aftermath of professional violence.
Slade stood in the wreckage, breathing steady despite what he'd just done. His hands were clean, no blood, no evidence. Just two dead federal marshals and the kind of silence that followed when a predator finished with its prey. The orange jumpsuit was torn but serviceable, and somehow the damage made him look more dangerous rather than less. Prison clothes or not, he was still Deathstroke.
The transport's rear door had been damaged in the crash, hanging awkwardly on twisted hinges. A few well-placed kicks sent it flying into the New Jersey night. Slade emerged from the wreckage like something from a nightmare, blood trickling from a cut above his left eye but otherwise unharmed.
He paused, assessing his surroundings with the methodical precision that had kept him alive for decades. Rural road, pine forests on both sides, no immediate signs of civilization. No escort vehicles in sight, which meant whatever had hit them had been precise enough to isolate the transport completely. No sirens yet, but they would come. He had maybe ten minutes before backup arrived, fifteen if he was lucky.
Someone had gone to considerable trouble to free him. The question was who, and what they wanted in return.
"Mr. Wilson."
The voice came from the road above, cultured and confident despite the destruction below. Slade looked up to see a figure silhouetted against the glow of emergency flares, standing beside what appeared to be a Rolls-Royce that had materialized from nowhere.
"I was hoping we might have a conversation."
Slade climbed the embankment with predatory grace, his enhanced vision adjusting to pick out details even in the dim light. The man was young, maybe thirty, his completely bald head gleaming faintly in the emergency flare light. Despite the early hour and the chaos below, his appearance was immaculate. Suit tailored to perfection, posture straight and confident. He wore power like a second skin, every gesture calculated and precise.
Behind him, a striking woman with dark hair and sharp features held the Rolls-Royce's door open. She wore a black tactical suit that seemed designed more for function than fashion, though it couldn't hide her natural elegance. Professional muscle, but expensive professional muscle with the kind of presence that suggested she was far more than just hired security.
But what caught Slade's attention more than anything else was the metallic cases arranged near the Rolls-Royce's rear. Military-grade transport containers that he recognized immediately. His armor. His weapons. His entire arsenal, apparently retrieved from federal lockup with the same casual efficiency that had orchestrated his rescue.
"Lex Luthor," Slade said, not asking. He'd made it his business to know every major player in the private sector, and LexCorp's young CEO had been making waves recently.
"Guilty as charged," Lex replied with a slight smile. "Though I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur with an interest in unconventional solutions to complex problems."
Slade glanced at his equipment cases, then back at Lex. "Efficient."
"I believe in proper preparation," Lex replied diplomatically. "The same way you have specialized skill sets, Mr. Wilson. Which brings me to why I'm here."
"You broke me out of federal custody and retrieved my gear to have a chat?" Slade's voice carried a dangerous edge, though he was genuinely impressed by the scope of the operation. "This better be worth my time, kid."
Lex's smile didn't waver at the implied threat. "Oh, I think you'll find it quite worth your time. You see, Mr. Wilson, we have something in common. We've both recently had our professional endeavors complicated by individuals who seem to believe their moral superiority gives them the right to interfere with our business."
Slade's expression darkened at the obvious reference to his encounter with Batman. The humiliation still burned. Not just the defeat, but the way the Dark Knight and his boy sidekick had systematically dismantled his entire operation, turned his own team against him, made him look like an amateur in front of his peers.
"Batman," he growled. "And his little bird."
"Among others," Lex nodded. "Though I understand your particular grievance is quite personal. A contract unfulfilled, a reputation tarnished, professional pride wounded by a child in brightly colored tights. These things matter in our line of work."
"What do you know about my line of work?" Slade challenged, taking a step closer.
Lex gestured toward the wreckage below. "I know that six hours ago, you were facing life in federal prison for conspiracy, terrorism, and multiple counts of attempted murder. I know that tomorrow's headlines were going to declare the great Deathstroke finally brought to justice by Gotham's Dynamic Duo." His smile turned colder. "And I know that right now, you're standing free in the New Jersey countryside with your equipment restored and no immediate plan for what comes next."
The accuracy of the assessment was irritating. Slade had been so focused on escape that he hadn't fully considered the logistics of what came after. His resources had been frozen, his safe houses compromised, his usual contacts either dead or disappeared.
"What's your point?" he demanded.
"My point, Mr. Wilson, is that we live in an era where individual excellence is being systematically suppressed by self-appointed guardians," Lex replied, his voice taking on a lecturing quality. "You're one of the world's most accomplished soldiers, enhanced beyond normal human limits, with decades of experience that few can match. And yet a man in a costume and his teenage protégé were able to neutralize your entire operation."
Slade's jaw clenched. "It won't happen again."
"No, it won't," Lex agreed. "Because next time, you won't be working alone."
From somewhere in the darkness beyond the road's edge came a sound that made Slade's enhanced hearing snap to attention. A low, rhythmic whooshing, like massive wings beating the air. But when he looked up, what descended from the night sky wasn't any aircraft he recognized.
The figure that landed on the asphalt with superhuman grace was unlike anything Slade had ever seen. He wore a form-fitting containment suit that seemed to absorb light itself. Black material that appeared almost liquid in its fluidity, with technological elements that pulsed with a faint, ominous energy. The suit covered him completely, including a helmet that obscured his features entirely, but the proportions were unmistakably humanoid.
More unsettling was the way he moved. With the fluid confidence of someone accustomed to powers far beyond normal human limits. Every gesture spoke of barely contained strength, of capabilities that dwarfed normal human enhancement. When he touched down, the asphalt cracked beneath his feet as if he weighed far more than his size suggested.
The technological elements of his suit hummed with power, energy conduits running along his arms and chest like a circulatory system designed for something far more potent than blood. The helmet's visor glowed with an inner light that suggested advanced optics, but there was something wrong about it. An irregularity that made Slade's tactical instincts scream warnings.
"Gentlemen," Lex said conversationally, though his voice carried a note of barely contained pride, "meet my associate. He's been quite eager to field-test his capabilities against worthy opponents."
Slade stared at the figure, his enhanced mind cataloging details and possibilities. The flight capability, the obvious strength, the technological integration. It was like looking at a dark mirror of Superman. But where Superman moved with natural grace, this figure carried himself with mechanical precision. Where Superman's presence inspired hope, this being radiated something far more sinister.
"You made one," Slade said quietly, the realization hitting him with sudden clarity. "You actually made one."
Lex's smile became genuinely pleased. "I prefer to think of it as evening the odds. Tony Stark has his partnership with Superman. Bruce Wayne has his alliance with Batman. I believe in maintaining competitive balance."
The suited figure said nothing, but something about his posture suggested coiled violence barely held in check. Slade's combat instincts screamed warnings. This wasn't just enhanced human. This was something that operated on an entirely different level.
"Impressive," Slade said carefully, though every fiber of his being was calculating threat levels and escape routes. "But if you're trying to intimidate me..."
"Intimidate?" Lex looked genuinely surprised. "Mr. Wilson, I'm trying to recruit you. You see, the world is changing. Individuals with extraordinary abilities are emerging from the shadows. Tony Stark has his Iron Man technology and his alliance with an alien savior. Batman has his growing network of allies."
He gestured toward his silent companion with obvious pride. "And I have been developing countermeasures. But countermeasures are only as effective as the strategies behind them. Which is where professionals like yourself become invaluable."
Slade studied the suited figure more carefully, noting the way energy seemed to flow through the containment suit's conduits, the mechanical precision of his breathing, the unnatural stillness that suggested artificial life. "What exactly are you offering?"
"Partnership," Lex replied simply. "Resources. Support. The opportunity to complete contracts that were interrupted by costumed interference." His expression hardened slightly. "And eventually, the chance to settle scores with those who believe themselves above consequences."
The woman stepped forward slightly, her hand resting casually on what appeared to be a concealed weapon. Her dark eyes held the kind of calculating intelligence that marked her as far more than simple hired muscle. "Mr. Luthor's offer comes with certain expectations regarding loyalty and discretion."
"Of course it does," Slade replied. "But I work alone. Always have."
"As did I, until recently," Lex said. "But the landscape has changed, Mr. Wilson. Individual excellence, no matter how refined, has its limitations. Stark proved that when he started working with Superman and Batman. They've formed alliances, built networks, created support systems that amplify their individual capabilities."
He paused, letting that sink in. "I'm proposing we do the same. A league of our own, if you will. Individuals of exceptional ability, working toward common goals, supporting each other's objectives."
"And what might those objectives be?" Slade asked.
Lex's smile returned, but there was something predatory about it now. "Order, Mr. Wilson. The restoration of natural hierarchies that have been disrupted by alien interference and vigilante activism. A world where excellence is rewarded, where the strong lead and the weak follow, where moral posturing doesn't supersede practical necessity."
He gestured toward the destruction below. "You have a blood debt with Batman and his young ward. I have philosophical differences with Superman and his growing influence. My associate here has his own motivations. Separately, we've all faced setbacks. Together, well, together we represent a very different kind of problem for our colorfully-costumed friends."
Slade considered the proposition, his eyes never leaving the silent figure in the containment suit. The logical part of his mind catalogued the advantages. Resources, support, the opportunity to plan and execute operations on a scale that individual contractors rarely achieved. But another part, the soldier's part, remained deeply unsettled by what Lex had apparently created.
"What's to stop you from deciding I'm expendable once you get what you want?" he asked bluntly.
"Mutual benefit," Lex replied immediately. "I'm not interested in cannon fodder, Mr. Wilson. I'm interested in building something sustainable. Something that can adapt and evolve as circumstances change." His expression grew more serious. "The age of heroes is upon us, whether we like it or not. The question is whether we'll be shaped by that reality or shape it ourselves."
The suited figure finally spoke, his voice electronically modulated but carrying undertones of barely restrained power that seemed to vibrate through the air itself. "The offer is genuine. Your reputation precedes you, Deathstroke. As does your failure in Gotham."
Slade's hand moved instinctively toward where his weapons would normally rest, finding only empty air. The suited figure didn't react, which somehow made the implied threat more unsettling. But knowing his gear was nearby gave him options.
"Careful," Slade warned.
"Truth often stings," the figure replied calmly, energy conduits pulsing slightly brighter in his suit. "But truth also presents opportunities. Batman bested you because he had advantages you couldn't anticipate. Next time, you'll have advantages he can't anticipate."
The mechanical precision of his speech, the way power flowed through his containment suit. It was becoming clear that this wasn't just technology Lex had developed. This was something far more ambitious. A perfect counter to Superman, designed and controlled from the ground up.
In the distance, sirens finally began to wail. Emergency responders and law enforcement converging on the crash site. Time was running out for this unusual roadside conference.
"What's it going to be, Mr. Wilson?" Lex asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer. "A lifetime running from shadows, picking up contracts when you can, always looking over your shoulder and remembering how a ten-year-old in tights made you look foolish? Or the chance to be part of something larger, something that could reshape the world's power structure permanently?"
Slade looked once more at the wreckage below, at the evidence of Lex's capability and resources, at his own equipment cases waiting nearby. The practical soldier in him recognized opportunity when he saw it. And the part of him that burned for revenge against Batman and his boy wonder whispered seductive promises about payback with interest.
But more than that, he recognized what Lex had accomplished. While Tony Stark had allied himself with an alien savior, Lex Luthor had created his own. The implications were staggering.
"I want a full briefing on your operations," he said finally. "Resources, personnel, objectives, timeline. Everything."
"Of course," Lex nodded. "Mercy will arrange transport to a secure location where we can discuss details more thoroughly."
"And I want assurances about operational autonomy," Slade continued. "I don't take orders from children, no matter how well-funded or how impressive their toys."
Lex's smile turned genuinely amused. "Mr. Wilson, I wouldn't dream of giving you orders. I prefer to think of our arrangement as collaborative consultation between experts."
The sirens were getting closer now, their wailing echoes bouncing off the surrounding hills. The suited figure looked toward the sound, then back at Lex.
"Time to go," he said simply, his voice carrying undertones that suggested the approaching law enforcement would be less than an inconvenience to him.
Mercy opened the Rolls-Royce's door wider, the vehicle's interior lights revealing luxury appointments that probably cost more than most people's houses. Lex gestured toward the vehicle with theatrical courtesy.
"Shall we continue this conversation somewhere more private?" he asked. "Your equipment will be transferred to our facility for your convenience."
Slade Wilson had spent his entire adult life making calculated decisions about risk and reward, about when to fight and when to retreat, about which contracts were worth taking and which were elaborate traps. Standing on a New Jersey highway at dawn, federal marshals dead behind him and sirens approaching, he calculated the odds once more.
Batman had humiliated him. The federal government wanted to bury him. His resources were compromised, his reputation damaged, his future prospects limited.
But Lex Luthor was offering him something unprecedented. Not just resources and support, but a place in what appeared to be the next evolutionary step in the shadow war between heroes and those who opposed them. If Stark could partner with an alien god, then perhaps it was time for Deathstroke to partner with someone who could create gods of his own.
"Why not?" Slade said, moving toward the vehicle. "I've always been curious about how the other half lives."
As the Rolls-Royce pulled away into the pre-dawn darkness, its taillights disappearing around a bend just as the first emergency vehicles crested the hill, the suited figure took to the air once more. From above, he watched the chaos below. Confused responders, investigators trying to piece together what had happened, federal agents who would soon realize their high-value prisoner had simply vanished.
The energy conduits in his containment suit pulsed with satisfaction. Soon, very soon, he would have the opportunity to test his capabilities against worthier opponents than transport vehicles and federal marshals.
In the vehicle's luxurious interior, Lex poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter while Slade examined the car's appointments with professional interest.
"To new beginnings," Lex said, raising his glass.
"To settling scores," Slade replied, but his mind was already working through the implications of what he'd witnessed. Lex Luthor had created something that could go toe-to-toe with Superman. The game was about to change in ways that even Batman couldn't anticipate.
Outside, the New Jersey countryside rolled past in darkness, carrying them toward a future where the balance of power would shift in ways the world's heroes couldn't yet imagine. Where excellence would be rewarded, strength would rule, and moral constraints would be revealed as the weaknesses they truly were.
The age of heroes was indeed upon them.
But so was the age of their perfect counterparts.
—
End of Batman: Shadow of Gotham
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