First Date

Summary:
June 14, 2014: Deathstroke comes to have words with Logan and reminisces on their first meeting.

Hole in the Wall Bar

A dirty, dingy bar inhabited by rough and tumble sorts.


Characters

NPCs

  • Maverick

Mood Music:


Present Day

"Everyone out." the word comes from the doorway of the bar and from a voice that carries authority in it as if it were a superpower that could bend minds and will. And Logan would know, he's familiar with people who can actually do that. And with normals who sound like they can. They all tend to be military types. The jukebox's music was hardly a deterent to the single spoken word, the tone and pitch cutting through the country music like a knife, and the hole in the wall dive's clientel, bikers and hard ass good ol' boys alike all look up with anger and irritation in various degrees on their faces. As a whole the entire lot of them freeze. In a room filled with predators, everyone that turned to look at the door just got Deer In The Headlights looks on their faces. Logan can literally smell the fear spike in the room. There's a quick shuffle as the people begin to leave, then leave faster, throwing down money on tables and bartops, some taking their pints and bottles with them, some leaving them lay, but all of them inevitably leaving. Even the barman, a grizzled old timer with an Army Ranger's tat on his denim vest bared shoulder seems to freeze in place before a hand goes under the bar. "Don't do it sargent." says the voice, "Just go. I don't like killing brothers, dosen't mean I won't." the old man's jaw sets, rolls in a chew, and he spits on the floor before plucking up his rag and heading for the door, leaving Logan alone at the bar. He pauses to poke a gnarled finger into the armored chest of the speaker, "You fuck up mah place, Imma take it outa yer ass boiey." The armored man towers over the old vet, staring down at him, but then nods once, "Fair 'nough." he says before the old man nods and walks past, leaving the bar completely empty.

In the dirty dingy mirror behind the bar, Logan can see the reflection of Deathstroke, a very large man made larger by the layers of battle worn heavy armor he wears and the arsenal of weapons he carries that could easily take out a regiment all on it's own. Most guys carry that much gear, they scream 'over compensate' this guy carries it like every bit of it is an arm or a hand, a limb that he's every bit as much at home with as he is his own skin. Once the bar's empty the faceplate of the helm snaps up, showing the eyepatched face, the white goatee, a face surprisingly older then one might expect of a man in his obviously superb condition. "Hello again Old Man." Deathstroke says to Logan's reflection in the mirror, "Been awhile."

“Fury, right?”

Logan doesn’t so much as look up when the order is barked, nor does he look around as the other patrons decide to take off. A half-pint of Molson in a dirty mug nested between two heavy hands. He lifts his head slightly and sniffs the air. That era of his life is mercifully clear, and the scent is familiar even if it does have a few more decades on it.

“Wait, no, Wilson. Nice eye patch. Heh. You look old as shit. Maybe I oughta be callin’ you old man.”

Deathstroke's eye narrows, "Do I look like some candy ass administrator to you?" Fury's a Colonel, and no one likes an officer, not really. Buncha pencil pushers. He moves over to the bar and settles into a stool one away from Logan, which puts him just out of Logan's easy reach, but Logan well within his own, "I look good for my age." Slade counters easily. He reaches over the bar for a pint glass and pours himself something from the nearest tap. "That smell thing was creepy as hell back in the day, I get it now." he says, taking a hit from the foamy mug.

“Fury was stormin’ the ETO when you were a kid, Wilson. Show a bit of respect.”

Logan lifts the mug and takes a swig of the contents, swishing it around in his mouth before pushing it to one side and leaning an elbow on the bar. He turns, just slightly, to look Deathstroke over with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’ll bet ya do. Heard you aren’t workin’ for Uncle Sam anymore. Should I assume yer here to try and bring a bounty in on me? Or are ya just feelin’ nostalgic?”

Deathstroke nods his head, "He got more then enough respect from me, then he went corporate. Storming a beach only gets you so much rope Logan, you know that." he shoots the Old Man a look. Him and Logan have been in places hairy then Germany before and they both know it. WWII was the war all the soldiers remember, it's the one they all talk about. It's the one with the literaly spokesman/poster boy. It's not the war that Slade fought. His didn't have poster boys and spokesmen. It had shadows and dirt and deniability. "I heard you left Department H." Slade counters, "Heard we did similar things for similar reasons." Ops as black as theirs is a small world, word gets around. "You're a wild card Logan, even worse then me. Me I got a rep, rules, reasons. You?" he waves a hand, "You don't think things through. Makes people nervous. People who have my number."

"Well, fuck those people," Logan answers, "I did my time with Department H. Got tired of killin' people some suit - some pencil pusher - thought oughta die. Best thing 'bout workin' for yerself? You make the calls. If ya don't like the job, ya don't take it. Let 'em be nervous."

He lifts the mug and takes another sip, finishing off the contents and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, "If yer here to shake my monkey tree, then you've somehow lost wisdom with age - usually goes th' other way 'round. I don't have any reason t'hurt you so I reckon you shouldn't give me one. I've got rules - they just didn't write 'em down in some black ops handbook in the Sixties."

Deathstroke continues to nurse the beer for a moment, his mind drifting back as Logan's words slooooooow to a crawl and his mind fires off memories he's not dragged out into the light of day in decades. One of the curses of his condition, perfect recall, even of events that happened before Lynch played fast and loose with his DNA, complete eidic memory… It's funny, it's not the images that you remember first, not really, and not the sounds either. Slade wasn't lying to Logan when he said he got it now, now that his nose is superhuman. It's always the smells…

1976: Team X/Team 3 Joint Task Force

"WHERE'D THEY GET A MA DUECE?!" Marverick screams over the thundering sound of the massive shells hammering watermellon sized divots out of the canyon wall just across the natural trench formed in the stone of the Nicaraguan research facility. "How the fuck should I know!?" Slade shouts back. He's young, clean shaven, hard jaw, harder eyes. Too young for eyes like that, and too young to be leading Team 3, but his people, all of them nearly a decade older then him, seem to follow without question. It was all the resume most of Team X needed to take the kid seriously. "Intel said they hadn't implanted the defenses yet!" there's a pause and as one all the members of Team 3 say flatly, "Fuck Intelligence." as if it were a mantra. He pauses, eyes getting that far away look for a moment as he thinks. A round from the ma duece misses his head by a handspan and the young man doesn't blink. Logan and his people have seen this before, he's planning something. "Mason, Clayton, Cash, give Mav cover fire, couple of shots and move, keep the deuce on you. Mav, get high and take your shot, you're only getting one, make it count. If they have one set up, they have more. Keep them busy…" he turns his eyes, blue, determined, cold as ice, on Logan. "Come on Old Man. You and me are hitting that incineration chute. We have fifteen seconds between exhaust ventings. You feeling spry enough to keep up?" he asks Logan, knowing the reason they didn't use the chutes as the entrance points to begin with was because the walls were heated to nearly 500 degress and every fifteen seconds a blast of flame hot enough to turn an oak into a charcoal stick shot forty feet into the air. "Whadda ya say Old Man? Wanna get those files and get the fuck out or hunker down here until you go gray?"

“Don’t matter to me if I get char broiled, kid,” Logan grins around the cigar between his teeth, “I’ll grow it back. You’ll be a box of ashes they mail back to Ma Wilson with a flag and a template letter.”

He doesn’t wait for the answer. He’s already moving straight through the hail of .50 caliber shells. Mercifully none catch him. He’d heal but it’d sting like a bitch and probably blow a limb clean off – he doesn’t have time to knit himself back together. He’s never been a team player and it shows in the way that he moves towards the chute. He doesn’t cast a glance back to see how his squaddies are doing. He doesn’t even seem to be paying much attention to the Kid they signed on to lead this little dance.

Deathstroke's expression doesn't change, but Cash's smart alec voice carries anyway, "You didn't know Logan? Slade doesn't have a mother, he was spawned from a case of 7.62's and a K-Bar sheath after they spent too long in a footlocker." Slade doesn't respond, merely nods once, "Draw the fire boys, and if you can make sure Cash takes a round to the gut." To his credit, Slade never issues a word of complaint, nor does he let Logan leave him behind. He dogs the mutant all way down the chute, slipping and falling once as the rubber on his shoes melts and there's a hiss of moisture and the smell of cooking human flesh. Slade merely grunts and slides the rest of the way in the fastest soldier's crawl Logan's ever seen. He comes out the other side on a knee, M16 shouldered and eyes down the sights. The skin on his forearm is blackened around the edges, still peeling back from the burn blisters which are visible. The pair of them miss the flame by less then two seconds and Slade is standing lightly on the balls of his feet, weapon held tight to the pocket, "You good?" he whispers Logan's way, ignoring his own wound to make sure the Candian is fine. "Don't care." he says before Logan can answer, "Move out." and he starts to lead the way, having memorized the lay out of the building before they got there.

The incineration room is a dumping ground for the corpses, where those that didn't survive the experiments are left, thankfully they can't see anything as they're all in body bags. Whoever was tossing the bodies on the furnace belt ran to defend the compound when it came under attack, as of now it's empty. He opens the door and moves into the hall quickly, "100 meters, past the labs, fifth door on the left. Records office." he says, offering up the map to Logan in case he dies. The Mission comes first. "Double ti-" the word dies in his throat as around the corner comes a group of six armed men obviously responding to an alarm somewhere, they pull up short, surprised to see the two white guys in the hallway.

“Prick,” Logan mutters. He’s covered in a myriad of burns himself but they’re already knitting closed, healing over and leaving only vaguely red flesh and a burnt uniform in his place. He isn’t armed, though when his arms stretch out to the side his claws pop and it becomes quite clear he’s not planning to face the enemy entirely unarmed. He takes the map and slips it into his belt, not bothering to look at it. He prefers to wing it.

“Hey, fellas,” he calls as the enemy troops round the corner, “Catch.”

He ducks down, scooping a beaten trash can up from by the wall and heaving it in their direction. A distraction. He moves after it with claws unsheathed, diving at the nearest man with savage intent. They’re already unloading their rifles into him but he doesn’t stop. In fact, the bullets seem to pop out of his flesh and clatter on the floor even as they hit him.

Deathstroke waits, patiently. As one of the men pulls a grenade from his belt and reaches for the pin a trio of buzzing sounds whip past Logan's head close enough to part the pointy tips of his pointy hair and all three catch the man in the face, his hand falling limply from the grenade before the pin can be pulled. Behind Logan Slade's M16 is still smoking as he moves forward, stepping to the side in small careful steps as he does, another three shot burst taking a second man in the chest, this time at lest the angle doesn't put Logan in the line of fire. When it's done, he eyes the bone claws and the closing wounds and finally offers up a reaction. His brows, both of them, climb his forehead, "The fuck…?" Slade says, stareing. Team 3 doesn't possess any superhumans, just badasses, and they weren't briefed on all of Team X it would appear.

Logan makes short work of the soldiers that Slade doesn’t shoot. He’s not gruesome about it. He doesn’t make them suffer. One goes down with Wolverine’s claws straight through his chest and into his heart. The other gurgles quietly when his throat is messily cut out. The final one’s eyes widen as the claws, still red with blood, plunge upwards through his jaw and into his brain. As they fall to the ground, the claws disappear into Logan’s forearms and the wounds knit up as though they were never there.

“Gawk on your own time, bub,” he calls over his shoulder, stepping over the corpses and running down the corridor, “I don’t know ‘bout you but I want to be back in time for dinner.”

Deathstroke gawks anyway, for a whole 2 more seconds, "Agreed." he says and his expression goes business like once more. To his credit he doesn't shoot any other quick glances at Logan or his hands like most men do, and he takes lead again, putting Logan at his back. Also not something most men do after they see the circus. Kid's a pro's pro. They make it the rest of hte way down the hall without incident and find the records office. "There and there." Slade says, pointing to a pair of filing cabinets, "Anything labeled Project Unbreakable. They want the whole thing." he says as he heads for the reel to reel magnetic tape strips that make up the 'high tech computers' in the room, he tosses an empty rucksack to Logan as he goes. It's the 70's, paper files are a thing people, so it hauling them out. This crap gets much easier with the invention of the thumb drive.

“Uh huh,” Logan mutters, catching the duffle with one hand and proceeding to unload any and everything into the bag. He’s grabbing the Project Unbreakable files, certainly, but also just about anything else. He’s more of an assassin and less of an espionage guy. Let the suits sort through it all later.

Deathstroke pauses in the middle of filling his own rucksack with the magnetic tape, "Something in here seem off to you?" he asks, looking around, his eyes narrowing. "This roo-…" his words trail off and he does another look through. "We're missing a couple meters off this side." he says, pointing at the wall where all the computer reel to reels are. "There's something more here. Help me find a switch or lever?" the room is packed with stuff, but more importantly is that now that Slade mentions the room being odd, Logan just picks up the barest hint of an odd scent. Something faint. Bleachy… anticeptic. Which is an odd thing to be in a records room and it's hard to smell beneath all the blood and cordite and burned skin smell that clings to them both still.

“Smells bad,” Logan growls, looking up from the duffle bag as he finishes filling it with papers and other record, “But I don’t see how that’s our problem. This whole operation stinks.” Nevertheless, he starts to poke around for a little further information on the mystery.

Deathstroke joins in as soon as he shoulders the back of reels, his eyes narrowing. "I'm a big super secret evil lab and I want to hide something in a safe, I make it a big one, but how do I get into it?" he looks around, floor, ceiling, walls, then stops and sighs. "I'm a scientist, which means a nerd." he walks over to the wall where an intercom sits and checks the paint around it, nodding, "Yeah, figures." he flips the intercom open, the panel a fake, and presses the button on the other side, "Man from UNCLE TV show crap." he mutters as the reel to reels slide open and on the other side is a small room, one wall of blackboards with scribbles on it and photos hung as well. On the floor cowers a guy in a lab coat, an inch shorter then Logan with big horn rimmed glasses and a comb over he's the exact opposite of the two Alpha Male's in the room, and it's from him that the smell of bleah is coming, with the wall opened it's suddenly more obvious. With him comes the scent of death too, the bleach fighting to cover it. Slade glances at the man, then the picture, "We need to see if… if…" and his words trail off as he stares at the images and he grows dangerously still. The photos show experimental subjects, strapped to tables, needles in their arms, foam on some lips, blood from eyes in others. Some of the pictures, not all, are of people who couldn't be more then fifteen years old and not younger then ten. Teenagers. "kids…" the word slips past Slade lip in a whisper so faint Logan almost can't hear it. It's not all the pictures, only one in ten or so, but they're the ones that stand out. Slade's ever steady heart rate begins to pick up rapidly, hammering hard and fast and audibly to Logan's sensitive ears.

Logan says nothing as he looks at the photos and the scientist cowering before them. His face is an impassive mask, his brow knitted and his shoulders hunched. He moves over, reaching a hand out to the scientist as though to help him to his feet. As the man tentatively takes his hand and rises to his feet, the Wolverine’s claws suddenly pop with a visceral ‘snikt’ and disappear into the man’s stomach. He withdraws them, hand sopped with blood, and lets the scientist slump to the floor howling in pain.

“Let’s go.”

Deathstroke turns on a heel and stops for a moment. His teeth grind and for the first time Slade shows an emotion that's militaryily related. He's angry. No. Not angry. This is … something else. "Not yet." he says, holding his rucksack out for Logan to carry, "You go." he pulls a pair of satchel charges from his back, hefting one in each hand, "I'm not finished here. Not yet." One of them he drops on the floor of the records room, the letters WP on it show it's not just a charge, but a white phosphorous one. With a yank of the pull tab there's a puff of acrid smoke and a soft hiss. Fuse is live. "Five minutes." Slade says to Logan, and when he looks at the mutant this time his eyes aren't hard, they're haunted. "You'd better run." and then he heads out of the records room, his 1911 in one hand the remaining charge in the other. His stride is purposeful and even. He's not heading for the evac point, which was not the incinerator they came in through. He's heading for the lab. The mission didn't call for a demo of the building, not that it said anything about keeping it intact either. Just get the intel… Logan's orders differed really in only one real way. Team X was not supposed to share the intel once it was retreived. Now's the moment he could do just that. He's the one holding all the intel… he could leave, be a good soldier…

"I can make the run in under five," Logan answers calmly, glancing at the explosive and following after Slade, "Not sure 'bout you, though. Nothin' on the sheet about blowin' this joint up and while I'm all for it I can't help but think I'd regret lettin' you blow yourself up 'cause you're sore over some asshole and his 'good work.' Here, you take this."

He holds out the two intel bags to him, "I'll plant the explosives. And before ya argue, I'm not negotiatin'."

Slade continues walking and with an almost nonchalant motion of his hand blows the lower jaw completely off of a man in a lab coat that rounds the corner, the man goes down in a gurgle and blood but is shockingly in no danger of dying soon, "I run four and a half minute miles." Slade says evenly as he walks, and the 1911 barks again with a wave of his hand, the .45 taking a running soldier square in the pelvic bone just above his naughty bits and low on the belly. A round that large had to break the bone, he won't be walking for awhile. Slade pauses only long enough to stomp a combat boot into the man's face as he falls to the floor. There's a crunch sound under it and Slade walks on without looking back, "No time." he says flatly and he reaches up to yank the tab on the charge, leaving him holding a hissing live bomb. He pauses at the door to the lab and turns to eye Logan, "You in?" he asks, offering the mutant his M16 from his back.

"Fine," Logan rumbles, waving a hand as the gun is offered to him, "Don't need it." All the same he follows after Slade, not that fussed by the explosives. He's been in tighter situations than this and eventually come back from there. It's more concern for the new kid blowing himself up because some neo-Mengeles got under his skin.

Slade quirks a brow, drops the rifle where is lays so it won't foul his movements and eyes the door, "It's a big lab, we need to get the charge to the center. Room will be guarded. You make the hole, I'll make the throw. Then…" he shrugs, "Let's hope you keep up Old Man."

"You know, yer a bit of a fuck, Wilson," Logan growls, stepping forward and popping his shoulders to limber up a little, "I could be out of here right now and you'd probably be a stain on the concrete and here you are talkin' tough. Tough black ops guys don't start cryin' and goin' off script when they see somethin' that upsets 'em, kiddo. 'Member that. And next time you talk down t' me I'm gonna slice yer Achilles and watch you try 'n hop outta here."

He spits on the ground, lifts a foot and kicks the door open noisily to draw the attention of the guards. When they turn to him in shock he winks and dives forward, claws popped and face a mask of ferocity. For his diminutive stature and demeanor he's a whirlwind of death when he wants to be. Bullets fly but they don't so much as slow him down. They're far too concerned with the clawed Wildman to notice Slade.

Slade is much larger then Logan, even then, though the size was more height and lean muscle. He fired the pistol twice as he sprinted through the lab, catching a guard in center mass and dropping him as Slade himself leaps a table covered in paperwork and beakers. He slides across the floor, hitting a set of cabinets that hold bunson burners and impliments who's purpose is best left unknown. He spins around teh edge of the cabinets and continues his run as papers on table tops and glass beakers explode around him, fired by guards from various make shift cover at the far end of the lab. He spins once and hurls the charge like a discus thrower, letting it sail throught he air and then fall amid some lab equipment near the middle of the room, lost to sight in the jumble of chairs and cabinets. "Time to go!" he bellows, firing a few shots from his pistol as he tries to push the soldiers back down behind their cover.

Logan looks up from his work. Just over a half-dozen guards lie around him in various states of dismemberment, some writhing in pain while others are well and truly dead. The Wolverine himself is practically covered in blood and other viscera, shoulders heaving slightly from the effort of it all. When the word comes to leave, however, his claws retract and he turns tail. He doesn't glance at Slade or offer a witty quip. He wants out of here. He might heal but he knows what being blown up feels like and he's not interested in experiencing it again.

Slade slides around the corner of the door as bullets chew into the frame, and his hands grip the straps of the rucksacks, his momentum dragging him and them along the floor. He hops up and starts to run, shrugging his way into one sack and carrying the other tucked against his elbow like a floppy football. He may have been a bit behind Logan to start, but his legs are far longer, and he wasn't lying about his speed. As he pumps after the Canadian, arms churning, he begins to gain ground. His shoulder's lower, he leans into the run, and bowls on towards the evac point. A point they still have to fight their way through. Checking his mental clock… Slade's pretty sure they don't have time for that. He doesn't comment on it, saving his breath for the flight.

Logan may be short but he’s got muscle mass that no normal human being possesses and is built to perform better than most on the physical front. He keeps his lead, holding his arms out to the side as he runs straight through the checkpoint. Snikt. His claws pop, slicing through the throats of the two guards who just happened to be standing one Logan-width apart. He leaves the rest to Slade, carrying on without looking over his shoulder.

Slade's pumping arm hurls his combat dagger in the direction of the guy manning a heavy no nonsense looking BAR, causing him to flinch away and duck behind the corner he was manning, which is all the time Logan and Slade need to fly past. When the man sticks his head around the corner again, it explodes like a baloon, splattering the wall the same time a booming gunshot can be heard. Then light machinegun fire tears into the men at the evac point, a vehicle loading bay that Logan and Slade both simply leap off of, legs not even stopping their churn. Maverick, in bright yellow armor pops up from behind a Jeep, an M60 in hand and begins to pump the guns belt of ammunition into the building behind the two fleeing men, his mutant power enhanced strength making controling the beast of a weapon a cinch. Slade follows Logan around the far side of the shot up Jeep and towards the relative safety of the jungle that grows along side the road there. Maverick backing up slowly to join them, straffing the vehicle loading back with gunfire anytime he spotted movement. "Any-" Slade says, his chest heaving for breath, "Second-" heave, "No-" the word doesn't finish as WHOOMP! sounds from inside the building, followed closely by a second, and then sections of teh entire structure begin to collapse in on themselves in impressive fashion. From somewhere fires begin licking skyward in a manner that proves they're burning more then natual fuel, and a wave of heat hits the three men as if it had been fired from an air cannon. Slade presses his back to a tree and slides down to his butt, panting softly. Maverick eyes the pair curiously, his gaze falling to Slade, the bags he carries, and then to Logan, his expression carefully blank. Slade doesn't notice, to busy breathing.

Logan's healing factor is already spiriting away the lactic acid that would make him tired. He's got a bit of a sweat and his breath is a little heavy but it seems more like he just went for a leisurely jog than outran an explosion. He glances over his shoulder at Slade and then back at Maverick.

"Team 3, huh? Let's split."

Slade pushes himself to his feet, "Yeah." he says, bent over before standing up the rest of the way to kill the stitch in his side. He sets his jaw and absently reloads the pistol before holstering it under his arm. "My first command. Come on, we still have a fifteen klick hike outa this jungle to the evac sight and," he checks his watch, "fourteen hours to do it in." Unbeknownst to Slade it's not the same evac location or time Team X was given. He turns to glance at Maverick, "Nice armor… gotta get me some of that." he nods towards where a pair of rounds are flattened on Mav's chest, unaware it's more the mutant's power then the armor that saved him. Maverick just nods, the still smoking M60 in hand.

"Yer on yer own with that, Wilson," Logan answers, fishing a cigar from his pocket that miraculously survived all the trouble he just went through, "But we'll see you back at the Black Site for a beer."

He turns his head to Maverick and the rest of Team X, gesturing, "C'mon."

Maverick's expression is hidden behind the face mask, but Logan can see it happen before it does… because it's Maverick, and North is nothing if not a good soldier. Slade nods once then falls over in a boneless heap, the butt of the M60 impacting the back of his head. Maverick eyes Logan, "You know better." the German says, his words clipped as he scoops up the intel bags, roughly jerking the one off of Slade's back and then slinging both onto his own with ease. Slade's eyes flutter and roll a bit as he makes a little sound and then starts trying to get to his feet, one hand fumbling for his pistol. Maverick looks down at him with a respectful shake of his head, "Mission comes first." he says flatly, turning the gun around to the more lethal end and pointing it Slade's way.

"Fuckin' Christ, Mav," Logan sounds more exasperated than angry as he watches Slade go down and then the gun turned on him. He watches him fumble with his sidearm for a moment before planting a hefty boot on his wrist. Enough to hurt and make him think twice about struggling but the pain will be gone as soon as he lifts it. No permanent injury.

"Intel's ours, bub. Maverick there has the clearance to kill you but he's not gonna do that, are you, Mav?"

The Wolverine lifts his eyes, staring daggers through the East German. They might be top notch soldiers but with Creed absent, Logan is the Boogeyman. Making sure the rest of Team X take his lead, he turns his attention back to Slade - looking down at him.

"I don't like you much, Wilson. Yer a cocky little prick an' the way you wigged out back there I'm thinkin' you ain't cut out for this work. A moral code don't survive long in this vacuum. I don't want you chasin' us for that intel. It's ours. You've got evac and you've gotta make it. Chasin' us down and then getting' back might be a bit much even for Mister Four Minute Mile."

He looks up to the rest of the team and exhales. Deep down he doesn't truly want to, but if they sense timidity or weakness in him they'll just gun the kid down. He's got to play the alpha predator. Slowly, one claw pops free from between his knuckles and he holds it up where Slade can see it. Long, sharp bone.

"So, I'm gonna clip yer wings just a little."

He reaches down and in one, swift motion slices the claw expertly through the meat of Slade's thigh. It's not a deep cut that will bleed out nor does it sever tendons that will make it difficult to walk. It is, however, painful. Not the sort of thing one runs on. Enough to make a plane but not enough to chase down a pack of mutants and make a plane.

"Sorry 'bout that, kid. But jobs a job an' what can I say? I mightn't like you much but I like you too much to let Mav kill ya. We share a … " he pauses, looking up and waving a hand a little, " … warrior's soul."

Slade's face squirms up into a look of pain both at the near bone breaking force on his wrist, and then the cut on his thigh. He does the math quickly, knows the score. He could chase them, maybe get the intel, but he'd certainly miss his only chopper out of here, miss it and it's disavowment and no more back up ever. Team 3 would be done, on to Team 4. Written off. Slade's face hardens, "You know I'm going to come for you." he says flatly, evenly. "Not tomorrow, not the next day, but one day, we're going to revisit this moment." his tone is matter of fact.

"I know," Logan answers, lifting his boot off Slade's wrist and looking down at him through a cloud of cigar smoke, "An' if yer still sore about it then - if you don't think what I did here was the right thing, then we'll make amends. But I hope when that day comes you think that you could've been feedin' the worms and the ol' Canuck saved yer life."

He lifts a boot, aiming to drive it across Slade's jaw. Not to do any lasting damage, just to knock him unconscious long enough for them to clear the area. Even with a bad leg the guy is still dangerous and he's not going to leave him with a clear line on their backs.

That done, he looks to the rest of Team X, "Bug out."

Slade's wrist free, his face shows anger, and when Logan's just about done talking he makes a grab for his pistol again, only to slump limp to the jungle floor once more, a boot print along the side of his face…

Present Day

Logan's words slowly come back into focus, the words sloooooooow drone picking up a more normal gait and he finishes the swallow of beer, the entire memory taking place in the time it takes Logan to make his speech about his own personal set of rules and the people that sent Slade. He sniffs once, clearing the smell of jungle loam and burning willie pete from his nose, instead picking stale beer and sawdust from the bar around him. "Yeah, I remember your rules." he says simply, taking another swallow off of the beer. "Only mission I ever failed. The only one. Ever." Slade says evenly. "First one too. Took me a goodly amount of time to get over that, youth and egos and all that. Young and angry, something tells me know you know what that's like. I got older, I thought back on it, I learned a couple of things from the encounter, things I'm grateful for you teaching me."

"Uh huh," Logan answers. His own memories of that particular incident are cloudy. He doesn't remember having the claws. He doesn't quite remember who among Team X was there or the horrors they saw in the facility. Instead, he recalls intel that he had to injure Slade to recover. He looks into the now-empty mug, shrugs and stands up, "Thought you might."

"You've learnt things, sure, but so have I. And I'm different'n what I was then. Rather'n make this a mission you fail, how about makin' it one you don't take?"

Slade smiles a bit as he slides off of the stool as well and turns to face Logan, "Because I don't fail." he says simply, "And because I made a promise to you Logan, a life time ago I told you this day would come." He lifts the sword from the bar by it's hilt, and the damned thing is nearly as tall as Logan himself is, "I'm a man of my word. I /keep/ my promises." his voice is deeper then it used to be, there's more gravel there, more time, and an iron forged in cold control that the younger version of him forged in rage instead. This is not the same man, not even a little.

"Fuck you, Wilson," Logan answers, rolling his eyes and pushing away from the bar. He climbs to his feet and rolls his shoulders, shaking his head, "Real grateful. Save you from a bullet in the brainpan and you turn up years later because yer sore over failin' a mission."

He raises his hands, "I got outta that business. I do the right thing best way I can now. You go on livin' the Deathstroke myth and givin' the spec ops boys wet dreams. I'm fuckin' done. Do yerself a favor and forget you saw me."

He turns about, moving towards the door.

Slade watches Logan walk away, "This is usually where I'd make a speech about cowardace, to get a rise out of some soft rookie, prick the ego. Like someone else once did." there's a smile in his voice, "But not the Wolverine, instead I'll tell him the truth he already knows. They're watching you Logan, if you do things they don't like, if you insinuate yourself into active ops, they won't send me again. I'm the scalple. They'll send a broadsword. Black choppers with mini guns and rockets and they might wait for you to not be surrounded by innocent people. Maybe. They know it's hard to kill you, but you're an easy man to hurt. And they will, hurt you that is, badly." he rests the sword across his shoulders, his fingers curled around the scabbard and the hilt almost lazily, "And this, between us? It still isn't done Logan, not /quite/ yet."

"Good fuckin’ luck to ‘em,” Logan answers, not even looking over his shoulder, “They’ve been tryin’ to bring me back to the Farm ever since Weapon X. They’ll fail. I’ll disappear again. They already blew their chance sendin’ you here and pissin’ me off.”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing sidelong over his shoulder.

“An’ hurtin’ me just makes me angry, kid.”

He pushes the door open and steps outside and into the street. Let them watch. Now that he knows he’s back on the radar it’s only a matter of time before he drops off of it.

Slade smirks a bit as Logan leaves his mask slides down back into place with a metalic snikt-click as he tilts his head to the side. He watches Logan leave from the feed he gets from Waller's satelite surveilence. After a long distance he asks the empty bar, "You get that?" he asks no one, and in his ear his man Peabody speaks, «Yup. He thinks they're trying to get him back to Weapon X… Lemme guess, dig more up on Weapon X?» "Of course. And send the recording to Weatherman so she knows the contract was carried out, message delivered. I wouldn't be worried about him for the time being, he has no intention of getting involved again, not right now anyway. My guess? He's gone before the end week." he starts to reload all of his weaponry, «Boss, you really gonna fight that guy?» "If he'd chosen to? Yes. Like I told him, I keep my promises and I pay my debts. I paid one today, I just saved him from a less pleasent messenger." «Okay?» "I still owe him failure." Slade states clearly. "Keep an eye out for his known contacts. Funny thing about Samurai, all they really want is a Shogun to serve no matter how much they pretend otherwise. He'll find a master eventually and when he does he'll find a mission." «You sure that's wise Boss?» "Wise?" the last of the guns goes back into place and he throws down a wad of money on the counter to pay the currently absent barman for the lost business and turns to leave, "No. Not wise. Necessary." his voice is hard and distant.


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