Shatterworld #1

Now

New York - Scarab Corporation Office Block

September 17, 18:51 EDT

There were certain conveniences, he found, to this sort of setup. And he’d spent the last hour taking advantage of them. His hands were empty, but on one end of the table laid out on a silver tray was a series of barbed and serrated knives of varying lengths which he had recently put to their intended purpose quite satisfactorily. Quite a few of them were still sticky with blood and other fluids. At the other end of the table was a china plate, which had contained the remnants of the meal he’d just savoured, despite the poor condition of the meat (a lifetime of negligence will do that).

The selection of knives were all his own work - all hand-constructed out of flint, which had been the way he had first learned to craft his own tools (in a time when life had tended to be ugly, brutal and short), and he had kept that skill alive over his long life. Like many things about him, it was at least in part a practice of nostalgia. Much of the modern world was lost on him - he was enough the scientist to follow most advances in physics, rocketry, metallurgy and chemical warfare (though there was so much these days no man could follow everything), as well as subjects he took an interest in such as psychology, and military science as well. That said, entire changes of paradigm (for instance, social media) had changed the word while he wasn't looking, and he'd been unable to adapt to them. Then again, most modern humans wouldn't know how to drive chariots or hunt mammoths, so he supposed it balanced out in the end. The knives were as fine instruments as the most precise of surgical equipment for all their primitive manner of construction and composition - he'd gotten very good at crafting his blades over the years, and for all that there was no longer any need to make his own, he still did out of habit. Besides, it was so rare to find anyone willing to take the time to meet the exacting standards he required.

After all, he was civilised.

Vandal Savage was defined by his past, but lived in the moment. Prone as he was to careful introspection and reminiscence, frequently allowing himself to follow memories and carry trains of thought that he'd started centuries ago, it was hard not to acknowledge how much the sum of his past he was becoming, and he could scarcely define how long he had been alive. But even several hundred years into his endless life he realised that he had a choice. He could dedicate herself to remembering his past, every new day an exercise in keeping hundreds of years of memories alive, or he could look to the future, and instead set himself to achieving fresh challenges and discoveries. Never one to rest upon his laurels, he had opted for the latter.

Now, the ocean of his memories beyond the trickle that was his consciousness was beyond even his own comprehension. Pebble stacked upon pebble upon pebble. He could roughly trace the largest pebbles, but after so many years, everything in his foundation, in her earliest times, was nothing more then a outline which could only be traced through later memories, pieced together from later fragments. Searching for them was to be lost in the past, within his own head.

And despite himself, he preferred the present.

The meal had made him garrulous, and so he was on his feet and in his element, pacing in a predatory fashion and occasionally gesturing with his hands as he talked. A bloody napkin was in his left hand, where he had dabbed his lips clean. The man he addressed was seated in a chair. He was unrestrained, but had been so badly beaten it was difficult to imagine that he could have moved. His lips were swollen, his gums bled from teeth which had been torn out, one of his eye-sockets had caved in completely, and his right arm was broken in three places. The left side of his chest had been crushed, breaking ribs like match-sticks and puncturing a lung giving him a horrible deflated appearance. Blunt trauma had deformed his skull. His jaw was a shattered, completely out of alignment. And there was a precise cut across his midsection, done with a sharp knife and surgical precision, then stitched up neatly so as to do do no permanent damage. It seemed out of place, give that the rest of his body had been damaged with a brutal but calculated imprecision to ruin it entirely, but perhaps that was the point.

The tattered remnants of his costume still hung off him, where they hadn't been ripped away. It was enough, at least, to preserve modesty.

"Wesley Gibson. I knew your father." said Vandal Savage, sounding – as he always did – as if he was committing murder simply by speaking. He affected at once an air as if they were meeting the first time, along with an aspect of a disappointed parent educating a wayward child. Both were equally false - he had met Wesley a few times, though in a distant way, and he cared about him not in the slightest. In truth he was simply interested in recouping what he could from a failed investment - Wesley only mattered to him in terms of expended time. "Your father understood things you don't seem to have grasped, Wesley. His place in the scheme of things, for one. I won’t deny he was often difficult, but at least he would have had better sense than trying to kill me.”

Wesley was conscious, though barely. Vandal had been careful to keep him conscious - he didn’t want to waste the lesson. His breathing was shallow and rapid, to compensate for his damaged lung. His face was crusted with mucus and blood, which bubbled as he breathed through it with a rattling sound. There were tears in his eyes, tears of shame and terror and impotent rage. He smelled of piss.

It was a tremendous change from the Wesley of even a day before, a tight bound ball of aggression and unearned confidence, who had walked as though the world trembled at his every step. A man entirely unrecognisable to who he had been just a few months before that - then Wesley Gibson had been an insignificant wasted potential with a life he could barely endure, whose only avenue of escape had been in contemplating suicide. That man had possessed no obvious self-respect, no courage to stand-up for himself, and had let everyone treat him appallingly largely because he was terrified of being alone. He had a girlfriend who was cheating on him with his best friend and a boring, dead-end job working for a boss he hated who hated him right back.

It would have been easy for him to be overlooked, and to have been left to spend a life achieving nothing. But he possessed a very specific genetic combination of value to Vandal's interests. And so he had been found, recruited, and trained by low-level operatives within the Illuminati on behalf of Savage, after they confirmed he was a carrier of a very specific meta-gene. They had honed the talents he'd inherited over a period of months to make him into an assassin, teaching him to fight, to take a beating, to kill.

Then they'd given him a mission and set him loose, and Wesley had demonstrated a hitherto undemonstrated wayward streak. He had either forgotten or ignored his appointed purpose and resolved to get even from his perceived victimisation by his immediate society. He went on a rampage, killing everyone connected to his old life in a brutal manner, then when he ran out of acquaintances had simply targeted anyone he could think of. He had believed that he could kill, rape, mutilate and steal anything or anyone he wanted without any consequences, thanks to an over-inflated image of himself and his capabilities. It was a fairly common psyche to find in extreme personalities in the metahuman community.

But, one way or another, they all learned better.

Vandal clasped his enormous hands behind his back and gave Wesley a rawly calculating look, weighing 'The Killer II' in the balance. The first killer had been an assassin built by the Ultra-Humanite.

Vandal spoke, to fill up the silence more then anything. But despite his tone, there was no genuine regret in his words. “To think. I offered you so much, and this is how you repay me? I was convinced you had potential, Wesley. That I saw something in you worth nurturing, worth improving. Something that would one day make you worthy of admiration.“ Vandal said. "To think I trusted you. Do you think me made of stone? Do you think I am untouched by your betrayal?" He sighed. "But only a poor craftsman blames his tools. The truth is, I failed you." He began his pacing once more, though his eyes never left his wayward asset. "The truth is, I taught you your talents, I honed your body, but I left your mind the same fragile and snivelling weakling you had let yourself become. You used your powers to assert yourself over lesser men without the blessings you have received. You tortured those who you knew would break. You fled those you knew to be your equal. You proved yourself a craven." He took a deep sniff. It sounded like a bull snorting. Vandal was such an over-powering presence, his every action seemed larger then life.

Wesley felt himself wither. Not at the immortal's low regard, but because he feared Savage picking up where he left off. Savage had a way of making him feel particularly helpless. "I saw your actions, what world you desired to build yourself. And I knew, that it was as far as you dare dream. I had shown you some glimpse of my grand design, let you envision what was coming, what I shall achieve, and you sought to hide away from a war that would extinguish the gods themselves, because all you can imagine, all you dare dream, is a tiny corner of it full of cheap wine and expensive prostitutes," He shook his head, looking disappointed. Then he sighed, a touch theatrically. "What an age, when a man of your capabilities has no further aspirations than to become a petty gangster.”

"Your failure is perhaps forgivable, but mine? My only excuse is that I wanted what I thought you could give me too much to consider matters impartially. I have proved myself infinitely patient, time being a thing I have no shortage of, and yet I failed to take the time to do a thorough job. You see, I have dreams of my own. Bigger than yours, of course. Bigger than you have shown yourself able to comprehend. But you could have been a part of that, a part of those dreams, Wesley, if you weren't too scared to dream of more then your own life. If you could but show a little foresight, you could see the world as I do."

"So what should I do with you? I used to enjoy slow deaths, but now I just find them boring. I think perhaps I should start again, simply cut you loose, and yet perhaps I am still too invested. What do you think, Wesley?"

"…Kill me." Wesley forced out, his voice a hoarse wreck from all the screaming he'd been doing a minute ago. The words slurred and difficult to discern through what was left of his jaw. The tears in his eyes now fell down his cheeks, cutting through the crusted blood of his skin, and lined in his face was a look of heart-breaking terror. "Just… just kill me."

Vandal paused, then laid a gentle hand on his cheek. "Pray, repeat yourself. What should I do?"

"Kill me. Just… I can't… a nobody… please. Just kill me."

Vandal reached down, and rested his hand almost gently on Wesley's cheek again, giving it a soft pat. "You follow your treachery with a plea for mercy. Be grateful then that you are not entirely useless."

He took his hand away, and replaced it, clasped behind his back, keeping him ram-rod straight. "I am sentimental. I still do not desire you dead, so I shall let you redeem yourself. Perhaps. I’ll let you recover a bit, you’re no good to anyone like that. But, when you are getting healthy and strong again, keep what you are feeling now in mind, because your situation hasn’t changed."

He paused. “So learn from this, Wesley. Learn the realities of your situation, because I am only lenient once, and seldom even that much. So don't make me doubt you again, or I'll make you watch next time, when I eat your other kidney."

A door opened behind him, admitting two colourful looking men into the room. Vandal turned smoothly, and inclined his head. Wesley didn't react. He had finally drifted away into unconsciousness.

"I apologise for the mess." Vandal said, sweeping a large hand across his sanctum. The mess in question was tightly contained to a out of the way corner. "Thank you for making the time to see me." Vandal added, turning to stare at the two men who had just been ushered in.

"Don't be. It's educational." Slade replied. "And that off-brand Traders-Rasputin gentleman you dispatched to find us made a very tempting offer." Underneath Deathstroke's outfit was a single eyed man named Slade Wilson. He was as good as he could be when he had enlisted, the child of a broken home, another young idealist who wanted to grow up to be Captain America. That hadn't happened. He'd enlisted and become a green beret, a commando who had gone from non-commissioned officer to lieutenant, proving exceptional, and had survived multiple tours of duty in some truly god-awful hellholes across the world in conflicts that never made even the back pages of the news, not merely getting by but actually managing to thrive. He'd been an obvious choice to be selected for 'Project Rebirth: Weapon X'. He'd been designated 'Subject Delta', the first to go through the process and the intended leader of the team, after being subjected to what amounted to little more then high-tech butchery.

It had begun with a week restrained as numerous synthetic hormones and anti-rejection drugs, artificial proteins and bonding agents were pumped into his bloodstream, rebuilding his muscle structure with high-performance steroids and altering his metabolism to make him more efficient. Then had followed a week of microsurgery and brain-surgery as they pumped a series of accelerants into his cerebral cortex and adjusted his grey matter with artificial tissues, then had gotten to work on his fine-motor skills and senses, making him better still. His body had wavered, nearly rejecting the treatments a number of times, but had eventually stabilised, giving him superhuman strength, reflexes and capabilities, uncanny senses as well as making his mind far more efficient in terms of processing power. But it could hardly be called a success. Somewhere along the process, Slade had lost whatever idealism he had possessed, and had broken out, killed anyone who got in his way and put his new skills to work for himself. The US had lost a invaluable deniable asset, Slade Wilson was one of the best assassins in the world. Guns, swords, poisons, it didn’t matter how you wanted someone killed, Deathstroke the Terminator could do it. But somewhere along the line, he'd become addicted to killing. He worked better alone, less entanglements and opportunity to be compromised. However, this time was an exception at the employers request.

"He's not mine. He's an interpreter for a… colleague, and an advisor of matters spiritual."

"You've joined a cult? It'll be self-help books and taking up gardening next." The other man interjected. He wasn’t quite as muscular as his older brother, or as light on his feet and controlled in his movements, or even as purposeful, but in a strange but very definite way he gave the impression of being just as dangerous, perhaps even more. "Anyway, nothing has been decided yet."

He was was wearing black and red bodysuit that covered his whole body - ladybug pyjamas, as he called them. A matched pair of katanas were strapped securely to his back as part of a modified special forces harness, and a holster on each hip. His name was Wade Wilson, or if you preferred, Deadpool. Wade Wilson was an efficient, deadly, and crazy mercenary for hire. He was once worked for the military in special forces and covert ops until he was diagnosed with terminal cancer from a lifetime of smoking. Angry and distraught over his impeding death, he began to lash out and caused several incidents before he was dishonourably discharged. He'd worked as a thug for hire for a while, a job he was very over-qualified for, and continued the slow process of dying. Eventually he'd volunteered for Weapon X, he was the infused with the healing factor of a patient that he only knew as Weapon X, which had resulted in him being horribly disfigured and mentally unstable.

When the program had shut down, he'd put his new skills to good use.

Unlike his brother, who was largely professional, Deadpool looked almost petulant. A pout was hidden behind a layer of black and red cloth, as he tried to figure out why he was feeling slightly at a loss, wondering what he was doing there. There was just something… different. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but existence in general just felt slightly off. He didn't like that. It was hard enough dealing with the deeper existential problems of trying to function as a coherent consciousness in a epistemologically ambiguous universe dictated by the whims of narrative structure.

"For one thing, I've got a few questions. First up, do you interview all prospective employees with the broken remains of their predecessors on display like this? Because it's really more polite to just fill a room with schmucks for us to beat up. We get to establish ourselves as badasses, and feel good about ourselves, rather then get all scared of what you might do to us, and wonder if taking this job is going to be detrimental to our health and well-being." Deadpool rattled off, as he stared around the scene. "Anyway, I prefer to be referred to as a cleaner of the gene pool, and if we're putting together a team, which we should because team-ups sell comics, I think it's about time we got an art-shift and a new look. I even have a few schematics for new uniforms for everyone to wear since A-list characters can’t last a panel without a wardrobe change, which I'd like you to take a look at." Wade continued, then held up some old newspaper scraps. "I designed them myself one rainy afternoon. In crayon." He shrugged. "Hey, inspiration strikes sudden and fast, and if you look at them I believe you'll find my genius speaks for itself. I've been carrying them around for six years, waiting for an opportunity like this."

His heart wasn't really in the banter. He was still a little lost and confused by the situation he'd found himself in, spatially speaking. "By the way, you don't know what issue I'm in, do you? I seem to have lost track. I mean, I guess I might be making a cameo in yours, but I feel that's not the case, somehow."

Savage raised an eyebrow, then decided he didn't want to ask. He'd never worked with Deadpool before, and so was little taken aback at his... unique way of going about things. "Such a thing could be arranged, perhaps." He allowed at last, when Wade had finally shut up. He very carefully didn’t specify which exactly of the suggestions he was agreeing to. "But I see no reason to utilise more then the two for the task I have in mind." He paused. "Unless you believe yourselves inadequate?"

"I'm not cleaning your swimming pool. Don't have the skill-set to clean that sort of pool. Money is no object at all, even for a man with no pride." Deadpool replied without thinking and having entirely ignored the immortal's question, still looking around the room. If he stared long enough, concentrating on a different vantage point from the norm, especially while ignoring whatever occupied the foreground and occupying anybody else, he could usually recognise the boundaries of panels, see his yellow inner monologue boxes…

Nothing. He tapped the corner of his head a few times. Beginning inner monologue: In the immortal words of Rorschach, who I will find a way to co-star with someday in what will be the greatest trade-paperback of all time, Hurm. This medium has become corrupt. Decadent. Liberal. Confused. Everything in italics, no yellow background, betraying all it once stood for. Cowardly and superstitious lot. Comic Sans MS font missing, something something gutters overflowing something something something dark side. Possibly the fault of editorial change. Must investigate further.

Huh. "Hey, do you think they're experimenting and not doing panels right now? Ooh! I know, maybe this is a full page sort of thing? But that wouldn't explain all the… Maybe this is a movie! I thought it had already came out, and you'd think I'd know. Well, one things for sure, I know I'm not Green Lantern under this mask. Maybe…"

"Shut up." Slade growled, a little embarrassed by his brothers relentless babbling. He was approaching the point where it was necessary to rein his brother in, which unfortunately meant sinking to his level. He wasn't looking forward to it.

"I'm in the middle of a mystery here, attempting to classify the medium I've found myself in, and thereby set the limits of the possible! It is the most important question anyone can ask, except of course 'will I get paid for this?'. Which is why I'm not doing anything until the big homicidal immortal gentleman asks me to. He's the one cutting the checks."

"Silence." Savage said, bemused by what was rapidly becoming a farce. Savage was used to a higher standard of professionalism - or, to be cruelly accurate, a lot more begging and fear.

"Not until I see some money." A terrible thought struck Deadpool, that made him forget all about his attempts to comprehend his universe, as was par the course for him. He'd get worked up about something, and before he knew it he would be distracted and forget what he had originally been doing in the first place. "Wait. Wait wait wait. Wait. This isn't one of those 'honour to serve you' things, is it? Because my doctor tells me I have a natural deficiency in moral fibre, my power of friendship levels are dangerously low, and that I am in desperate need of a spine transplant, making me therefore exempt from offering my life for the cause. Unless I get a badge, and a big statue of me looking all noble and heroic, a clever caption underneath, and a trade paperback written by Mark Millar co-staring Rorschach."

Vandal Savage laughed. He’d actually followed most of that. ”Don’t be concerned. You serve a greater cause, but will not be expected to do so without profit to yourselves. Any asking price, with clean money that isn't traceable. Nothing that a pair of professionals with your talents cannot handle." He gave a smile that was cold and threatening. "Which is doubtless reward enough."

"We are? That doesn't mean you're going to pay me in baseball cards, does it? I mean, you must have lived through all the periods where getting them was as cheap as…"

Savage blinked. That was a new one. "Would you like me to?" 

"Yes. I mean no. I mean... I don't even know what I'm saying! Or why I'm here, or why it all makes so much sense! Damnit, stop confusing me! You're the most infuriating man I've ever met!"

Savage paused, regaining his centre and trying to suppress the swell of anger in his chest. Unable to speak without shouting, he did the only thing he could think of to move the conversation on, and back into the direction he'd envisioned. He pressed a button on the remote in his hand, and let what it did speak for itself.

A light came on in another section of the room, revealing a table covered with all a manner of the latest of weapons innovations, ranging from small gadgets that could double as surgical instruments to guns the size of your leg that looked as though they might be able to liquify an entire mountain. Some Stark equipment fleshed it out for good measure, as well as Wayne Enterprises communications and other, less immediately identifiable brands. Destro-Tech. Hammer-Tech. Kord-Tech. Lexcorp, all the big names in research and development technology. Even some wild-cards made by Ezekiel Stane, and yes, could it be? Reed Richards! With all this, you could fight a large war against anyone you wanted.

"Heavens to Betsy!" Deadpool skipped over like a giddy school girl and picked up one of the shiny - oh so shiny - weapons. His eyes shone with something like avarice… no lets be clear. Avarice was exactly what it was. He couldn't help it. He squealed happily, then coughed. "I did that out loud, didn't I? That was meant to be an internal thing…”

Savage took a deep breath, then decided that no, in point of fact, he'd had enough, and let out a rumble, the rumble of a bear that does not start fights but certainly finishes them when it's provoked. It was a rumble that seemed to bypass the two mens conscious minds and go right for their instinct - which was telling them to run. Wesley Gibson, lolling in his chair and largely forgotten, let out a small, animal sound. “That shall do." Savage said quietly before trailing off meaningfully, the tone of his voice now illustrating more eloquently then any number of words that he wasn't going to raise his voice, because if it came to that it was all over for both of them. He was getting sick of putting up with this, and when Savage got that way, entire bloodlines, races and tribes were wiped from humanity, extinct unto the eighth generation.

"Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. It would really be a shame if I didn't have anyone to use all this shiny weaponry on." Deadpool said, stepping away from the predatory gleam in his brothers eye like it was what he wanted to do all along and stroking it all with his fingertips (but not actually picking any of it up).

Savage turned and began pacing again. Holding up the same remote, he pressed a button, activating the screens behind him. One showed a facility they were both very familiar with in the wilds of Canada. Time and nature were in the process of reclaiming it, the wind had eroded most of the paint off the buildings and ripped off anything that wasn't bolted in place, and the stone was beginning to crumble while the iron rusted. Time had not been kind to that facility. The photo was taken from above by virtue of a satellite, and the day was fairly clear so the picture was good.

"Oh look, the uninitiated can get my backstory! Who did you cast as me?"

The next slide showed an estate referred to as Xavier's institute for the gifted. That was shielded, but Savage must have had ways of getting around anything.

Deadpool whistled, his quip about the fact that the remote only seemed to have one button that did everything dying on his lips. "We're going back to high-school again?"

"You might say that."

"Here I come 21 Jump Street!"

"Would you cut that out?" Slade asked his brother, rolling his eye in exasperation. That was his little brothers effect. Even the most serious and stoic of people will begin to act like morons in his presence. He was immune himself (or so he thought, though his brother was the only person he bantered with, or indeed held a conversation with), but that only made it worse. Because he had to put up with him all the time. “Mutants, Savage? Is that what this is about?”

“Broadly, yes. You are both aware of the ongoing social experiment that Charles Xavier began?"

"Of course. Intimately." Deadpool gave a wink that would never have been allowed in a family film.

"Shut up."

"Hey, if I had a buck for every time somebody said that, I wouldn't need this job." He paused. "Of course, I'd still probably do it."

"Pay attention." Savage warned.

"Of course Mr Savage." Slade said. He didn't quite snap off a salute, but he did regain his professional demeanour.

The next shot was of some fifty people in white and black uniforms, cut for function in the variety of hostile situations they inevitably found themselves in. It had been taken some ten years ago, and almost all of them were in their mid-to-late teens. They were mostly smiling as well, bar a few moody little tykes. In the middle and at the front was an elderly bald man in a wheelchair, Charles Xavier, the teams founder, leader, and many more things.

"I am sure you recognise them. The X-Men are an ongoing experiment, the most visible part of Charles Xavier's ongoing work in attempting to promote Mutant rights by putting together a team and advocating paramilitary behaviour as activists for social change, while pushing an ideology of coexistence." Savage said, warming to his subject, and not bothering to express his naked contempt of the whole approach. "This is the first line-up, though there has gone on to be countless variations as the roster shifts." He smiled. "Some die, others moved back into society and stopped declaring themselves to be dangerously independent, others go missing, or are radicalised by opposing ideologies. Long term progress is never meaningfully achieved, any support they generate is soft enough that even minor setbacks are enough to turn the populace against them. "

"Yeah, they're not very good at that, when all's said." Deadpool agreed. "Maybe it's because civil rights works best as a social movement, rather then a cult of personality."

"How perceptive." Savage agreed, surprised despite himself that Deadpool had something useful to contribute. "As you are probably informed, the X-Men number in the hundreds, although rarely more then a score or so serve as active participants on call, as well as a few splinter groups who insist on being referred to by variations of the name. Currently, one Scott Summers leads the majority from the mansion I showed earlier, which is now his property - despite Charles Xavier apparently being alive again. But regardless, even those who have gone on to lead lives reabsorbed into the world as a whole continue to uphold the legacy of their teacher's work in their own, private ways, going on to become members of international organisations of social reformers who make use of their talents, or joining the Brotherhood under Magnetto." He sneered. "All very touching, I'm sure. At least he is enough a student of history to realise mankind only acknowledges the strong."

"Is there a job in there somewhere?" Slade asked, a big hand clasped over his brothers mouth tight enough to dislocate his jaw if he twitched it to keep Wade from speaking, while Deadpool danced around trying to force the words out through sheer force of will.

“I have a number of targets in mind. However, the first of them - the man I want you to kill - is James Howlett, commonly known as Logan, or if you prefer, Wolverine. Hence you, Deadpool, it's my understanding that the two of you have met several times, and I assume you to be passingly familiar with his habits, capabilities, and the strategies most likely to find success against him. I've had my attention on him in general, and those he is connected to, for a while now. The man himself doesn't interest me, just one more dead-end on the route to mankind future, but he is well connected amongst the mutant army Charles Xavier built, and consistently identified by leading intelligence agencies as one of the worlds most dangerous men.” He smiled at that. "An exaggeration. Regardless, find him, restrain him, and make him a non-issue, by killing him would be best, but if that isn't reasonably practical find me a workable alternative and apply it. Once you do, there are some further dozen of influence who might become a problem. But once they are dealt with, the remainder should congregate to the mansion."

"When they have, you are to return, and lead an attack on the mansion, taking as many of them into custody as possible. Charles Xavier's legacy is an army of proto-humans. I want to put them to use, how shouldn’t matter to you.” Savage says, than hands the two brothers each a check. A blank check, already signed. The name on the line was not Vandal Savage. “Once you have done that, take them to a secure location and contact me, and my men will deal with the rest. You do that, and you can fill in any number you like up there. And I will see that you get it, even if I have to close every bank in europe to do so."

For a moment, silence. Then Slade smiled a predatory smile, had a little shiver, then lowered his head. A different man looked up, took the check, and scrunched it up into a ball then threw it over his shoulder. "Upon consideration, mister Savage I'm willing to waive my usual fee. Let's settle for pro bono, compliments of the establishment, and you can just settle the expenses upon completion." With that he took Deadpool’s check, and scrunched it up to.

It was so unexpected a response that the room went silent, both of them staring at him in slack-jawed amazement. They couldn't have been more amazed if Galactus had burst in, dancing the cancan and juggling key lime pies.

"Brother, what are you doing?" Deadpool managed to choke out. "Undermining me like this in front of the prospective client?" He rounded on Slade, now well on his way to being outraged. "We have this dynamic worked out already, and I do not appreciate you deviating from the established script! I'm the whimsical, lovably psychotic, crazy one! Me! You're the stoic, serious, gets the job done one! You're just going to confuse readers! We are the fighting, dancing, singing Wilson brothers! We do not do charity work! Why are you making us work for free? All that money..." His voice trailed off, as he considered all the possibilities that sort of money could bring. What couldn't he do with that sort of money? Then he started to consider what he could do. It was a much, much longer and more detailed list.

"Wade, this is a matter of honour." Slade replied, his voice low and containing deep satisfaction, folding his arms across his chest. "We do not cheapen that."

"What honour would that be? Weapon X was ages ago, you want a fight do it in your own time like everyone else. Right now, papa wants a new flatscreen television, and a trip to the Bahamas." He replied, himself in a role he rarely played, that of the voice of reason. "I'm not going to work for free. I do that enough already with Cable."

"Shall we say two weeks to deal with the primary target, and a further month to deal with the secondary objectives. And ten thousand for every additional mutant we deal with." He said to Savage as if Deadpool hadn’t opened his mouth.

"I have no objections at all." Savage said, eyes narrowing. Maybe he had misjudged this killer. While he usually preferred to work with those he had figured, and wasn't liking this new side of Deathstroke, honour was something he could understand. Slade as a mercenary was a controlled condition, Slade with is own agenda...

Well, he was a professional, and rarely failed. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"Good. Then I'll kill your animal for you. Brother? We're going."

They left, Deadpool still whining, but making no move to open up negotiations on his own behalf.

Vandal Savage remained a moment, deep in thought. Then he turned, and walked over to the still unconscious body Wesley Gibson. Reaching past his knives, he picked up the same remote he'd used earlier, and pressed the same button once again. The screens lit up once more, this time each focused directly onto a number of faces. He would always be thankful for the invention of the webcam. "Luthor." He said, nodding to the first screen, respect in his voice. "Ra's Ah Ghul. Doctor Doom." Three of the nine members of Luthor's little alliance. More then he'd expected, for what amounted to little more then a sideshow and a job interview in their ongoing aims.

"Savage. You look in excellent form." Came the dry, slightly accented sound of the Demon's Head. "How was your repast?"

"It sufficed, thank you. I dipped into my dwindling supply of Napoleonic brandy, which did much to make up for what was otherwise a merely passable meal." Savage replied politely. He didn't go into further detail, and none of them asked him to. "Following your recommendations, Luthor, I brought in two out-of-house specialists, and gave them their targets. They agreed."

"And you are satisfied to leave this in their capable hands, then?" The Captain of Industry asked.

"Largely, though I am somewhat disquieted."

"By Deadpool? He has that effect on most…"

"By Deathstroke." Savage said. Luthor scowled, before smoothing his features again into a mask of benign ambivalence, but Savage had caught it. Nobody interrupted Lex Luthor. "He's not himself. Acting impulsively, offering his services free of charge, pursuing a personal vendetta, it is all distinctive of something far more complicated than simple assassination. He clearly has his own motives." Vandal Savage clarified.

"DOOM anticipates such things in minions." Came the habitual bombastic delivery, a deep, electronically amplified voice that shook the scenery. "And DOOM has found that they make little difference. DOOM needs the best, and all the talent that we can get. They represent that. As long as he doesn't double-cross us, DOOM does not foresee any complication in having him work under us." He didn't talk in the third person all the time, just enough to remind people who he was, should they somehow forget. “And this mercenary has little to gain by double-crossing us.”

"It isn't as though we're allowing him any insight into our inner circle. That would be foolish." That was Ra's, ever the voice of caution. Ra's was a firm believer in stacking the deck as much as possible, he preferred a rigged game.

"He provides talent and anonymity on our part. A powerful combination. I didn't reveal any details, of course, although I have a feeling that he knew more about us than he was letting on. I simply hinted at future assignments. We have the League of Shadows for our more hands-on work, but the more variety to confuse those who would oppose us, the better." Savage replied. "Still, we cannot rely upon him."

Luthor laughed briefly. "Who can we trust,? How can any of our agents share our motives, considering how few are even aware of the… size of the organisation they're working for? They want money, they want power, and we'll give it to them as long as they give results and keep their mouths shut."

"Even so… I do understand the benefits of this venture. A test run of sorts will be helpful to assure that our true project goes smoothly, and the resulting distraction can let us advance our other operations… but, if or when it fails, those set up to be our opponents may grow wise, and we will lose the element of surprise."

"Then if it pleases you to do so, do not be content with just one specialist. Send in a few more. Supervise the action yourself, if you wish. But get it done."

"Have no fear on that count. Any of you." Vandal promised. "One way or another, it will be done."