Shatterworld #1

A few hours had passed. Deadpool had gone through all the things he could find, but found nothing engaging. He'd tried moving the furniture around, to see if his brother would notice, but that got old really quickly, and he was pretty much certain the answer was a resounding 'no'. So he tried sneaking out of the house, but Wintergreen always materialised before he could get far, and reeled him back in that polite but instant British way he had long perfected. Deadpool could have gotten out anyway, of course, but he didn't want to be an asshole. At last he decided to follow the oldest and noblest of American traditions, and sit back to watch TV, despite the quality of the programs or lack thereof. He'd tried a movie, only to find that Slade didn't have any, entertainment being far below self-improvement in his priorities. There were taped training sessions and observation records (and really, why should that be surprising), lectures and events he wanted to be able to refer to, a DVD for teaching oneslf to speak several languages, when he wanted to brush up his skill, but nothing to take the edge off a dull evening, except taped episodes of Arrested Development.

Apparently, still waters ran deep. Or else one of his kids got him hooked on it. He didn't have a netflix account or something because keeping off the grid was something of a factor. So Deadpool had turned on the Disney channel to show solidarity to his owners, and hope they'd let him into the next Avengers movie.

Slade finally joined him, dressed in a white silk shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, and dark slacks. He'd showered and stretched, and his face was less stern and severe then normal. Pretending to kill a lot of people was great for his complexion.

"So, lets hold a planning session! I've never understood the appeal myself, just make it up as I go along, but whatever works. Hey, it would be a lot more bearable if we had snacks."

"Wintergreen is making dinner. We can eat later."

"I take it that you had him prepare Mexican?"

"Chimichangas, heated up in the microwave." Slade replied. "I know what you like, don't worry."

"Then what are we talking for? Lets go eat or whatever."

"Sit down. Shut up. We will figure this out, then you can indulge yourself."

"Check myself before I wreck myself? Fine. So if we can get down to brass tacks, so I can eat, how do you plan to find Wolverine? I mean, his popularity is waning, so you can't count on him making ludicrous and blatantly gratuitous public appearances where he isn't wanted anymore. I got that covered for him. We could get Sabertooth to track him, he always seems to be able to find him, 'cept I don't know where he is either. Chicken or the egg. What if we get his estranged son, Daken, to..."

Slade looked at him blankly. If he didn't no better, he'd think his brother had done some research. "How do you know so much about his family?"

Deadpool looked at his feet, and shuffled them. "I wanted to be an X-man. Don't judge me." He mumbled.

"While you're hardly normal, you're not a mutant, Wade." Slade said. "What's wrong with being an Avenger? Or joining the Justice Society, if you don't want to be the governments bitch? Something with a little dignity, that gets you a little respect. Not a bunch of private school rejects with messed up genetics."

"It wasn't a private school. And I told you not to judge me."

"Whatever. Will the job be a problem for you?" Never getting involved with a client was even more important for an assassin then it was for a Private Detective.

"What job? We're not getting paid! You saw to that!"

"Good. Regardless, we don't need to track him, because I had Thomas Blake find him, and the intel checks out. He's in Alaska. Alone for the most part, though he has people over now and again, and has a squeeze over, though what she sees in him I'll never know. Done his best to defect from civilisation and the human race."

"Tom who?"

"Blake. You know..." Slade sighed. There was no getting out of this one. "Catman."

"...Catman? You gave work to Catman? Slade, are you on drugs? And if so, that's some good stuff. I mean, I don't know if he was ripping off Cat-woman or Wildcat, but the guys a flabby failure, who only hasn't gone the way of so many other C-listers because actually putting him in the ground would be an unforgivable waste of ammunition. I doubt he has the credibility to even get a seat at the Iceberg lounge, let alone go after..." Deadpool trails off meaningfully. "He had a catamaran, for the sake of the gribbly tentacled outer gods."

Slade shrugs. "I think he wanted to be Batman, actually." He said lightly. This was a side of Slade that only his brother ever saw, and was probably the closest thing to a man behind the mask of 'Deathstroke the Terminator' that was left. All anyone else got to see was a curt, disinterested and threatening demeanour, or occasionally a strategist and warrior. "But people change. And working with the Secret Six has done wonders for him."

Wade bristled. "You defending his catamaran?"

"I'd think you would be the expert on being treated as a joke."

"Yeah right, I only play the fool. And I still think you're being had. Why would he want to be in Alaska? Wolverine, not Catman. Seriously, there's fifty thousand trees to every woman, and nothing to drink."

"He's a loner without a purpose, and no meaningful connection to anyone anymore. It fits."

"Fits so well that apparently mister Catman was able to track him down in six hours. Yeah, I'm real convinced that’s good intel.”

"He got an address from an old associate, then confirmed it. Noah Kuttler vouched for it. And I paid Luthor rates, so he knows he better be sure."

"You mean the Calculator? The guy who runs around with giant buttons on his chest?"

"Just because you have a gimmick doesn't mean you're useless." Slade replied evenly.

"Well, maybe, but it's just not exciting. I mean, Wolverine? Retiring? You'd think he'd at least try to find an ambiguously ethnic girl half his apparent age and start a family embracing pacifism, only to be forced to make his way across America alongside a recently blinded Hawkeye to save his new family from The Hulk, or something else marketable that they can try and convince people to buy despite being negative continuity. Not just withdraw into himself and drop off the radar." Deadpool shook his head. "I'm honestly kinda disappointed. Maybe we'll be doing him a favor."

Slade doubted that, but didn't say so. He didn't want to get too far off topic. "My instinct tells me not to bother with anything artful, taking him down. Just lure him somewhere, call him out, put him down, toss him in front of a train or two, then leave him somewhere until he starves to death. Bringing minions will just get them killed, and clue him in, which will lead to a long hunt through the wilderness. If I bring in the Deathstrike Clan-"

"That's still a really, really stupid name, that was already taken by some cyborg lady. You should have gone with something catchy like-"

"The Deathstrike Clan." Slade repeated, raising his voice slightly over the top of his brothers. "We'd lose anonymity and give warning. Besides, I'm still not entirely happy with them yet. They need work."

"You're telling me. You don't even own the rights to their name."

A few years back, Deathstroke had been dragged into the secret war that had waged in Asia since the dawn of civilisation, and had killed a man. As a direct consequence he had become grandmaster of a splinter-faction of the Lin Kuei, which were an ancient Chinese clan who worked as assassins in the seven cities of heaven that were only connected to this world once every decade (or some woo-woo like that).

Slade had no interest in their ancient war or the responsibilities and dogma that came with it, but he had an eye for talent, and in them he'd seen potential. In order to make use of them had been adapting their outdated tactics and doctrine, and trying to get them to embrace modernisation and the advantages it bought, as well as artificially inducing meta-human qualities into them stolen from a range of sources (Miracolo, Extremis, there were plenty of ways if you knew what you were looking for, and weren't worried about putting down failures). He had made up for their depleted numbers by recruiting from convicts, and borrowed cult leader tactics to try and convert them to their new tasks.

So far, he's had limited success, but hope springs eternal. One day, he'd have his own private army of highly trained, disciplined and fanatical meta-human magic-assassins, but it was proving to be a lot of work to get them to a level where they were ready to cut it in the real world. For the most part, robots and drone strikes were easier, and doing it himself was easier still.

"Well, sure. But he does have a lot of friends, you know, and I'm not sure we can take all of them. What do we do if Freakazoid, Bueno Excellente, or Squirrel Girl or someone else shows up?"

Slade shuddered a little from contact revulsion. "Alaska is a long way from Gotham or Wisconsin, and anyway, how would he contact them?"

"Don't tell me you aren't concerned? You don't have to act tough, there's nobody to impress around."

"I don't get scared when it comes to dignifying absurdity." Slade replied haughtily. "And neither should you. What safety do you have to be concerned about?"

"Well... actually, good point. Though there is my dignity to consider."

"Dignity...?" He trailed off, then shook his head and got back on subject. "Regardless, Wolverine's an easy target. Couldn't be more vulnerable if he was trying to be. Living alone, cut off from civilisation and nothing immediately in his favour but his skills and the home-field advantage. All his friends are miles away, so if he does get word out we'll be long gone before they actually show up. Odds are pretty much all in our favour, even in a fair fight."

"If I were you, brother, I'd cheat as much as I could." Deadpool replied shaking his head, then stepped back. "But you say it's a matter of honour, and I pretend to respect that, though why we can't turn an honest profit from honour I don't know."

"There are some things more important then money."

"What, like friendship is the real treasure?"

"…Yes. Like that."

"Well 'conceptual' rewards should be saved for 'conceptual' assassinations." Deadpool replied, folding his arms. "Because this op - we do call it an op, right? Even if we are independent unaffiliated contractors? Op just sounds awesome - is already running at a loss. You paid Calculator and Catman for services out of pocket, which puts us firmly in the black, or the red, or whatever the bad colour happens to be.”

“And it’s such a mystery why you still live in that crappy apartment”

“And thanks to your little 'keep the change, my good man' big-shot 'look who thinks he's Frank Sinatra' move, we don't stand to make the cash again." Deadpool folded his arms.

"You keep saying we, yet it was my money." Slade pointed out.

"And just who is the main beneficiary on your will? I stand to inherit sir, once Wintergreen and your kids have finished picking your corpse like vultures. The diluting of your finances is of great personal concern. Now why, in the name of Oprah's many chins, won't you give me a straight answer?"

Slade slammed the table with the palm of his hand, the furniture cracking in protest. It seemed a little melodramatic, such a sudden over-reaction, but it did get the message across. "Damn it Wade, that's my business. And after all I've done for you..."

"No call for cheap-shots." Deadpool mumbled over the top. "Besides, at least I tell you why. I don't say 'Hey brother, how you been, listen I want you to 'whack' this creepy chick'. I say 'Hey brother, what's happening, how are the kids, kill anyone interesting? Oh, before I forget, there's this creepy stalker chick named Dr. Ella Whitby, who collects my severed limbs and keeps them in a fridge for nefarious reasons. Could you kill her so I can sleep at night without the comfort of a light on, please?'. Or 'Hey, there's this guy, Ajax by assumed name, lets %&$# him up, you and me.'." He paused. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"No problem."

"So don't act like this is the same, because you're hiding things from me, and I don't like it. Makes me feel expendable, like I'm blindly trusting you and you're going to betray me."

“And after all I've done for you..." Slade repeated. ”… I'd expect a little trust, alright?" He finished, ignoring his brothers babbling. It's a skill that comes and goes.

"I just went over this. I trust you, but I'd like you to trust me. Come on, I'm sure there are hundreds of legitimate reasons not to want to get paid, even if I don't have a clue what they might be. Is it like not wanting to be placed in a higher tax bracket or something? Tell me. I promise not to laugh."

"Pick your equipment and whatever else you think you need, and load it all up in the back of the truck, then dress warm. We're going north." Slade said, with finality, then stood up and walked away. Wade thought a moment, changed to the disney channel to show solidarity to his owners, then changed the channel again and squealed when he noted he was just in time for a new episode of 'My Little Pony; Friendship is Magic', which he was sure was reaching the very apex of its popularity given it's universal appeal, and wasn't a tired reference squeezed of any interest at all.

He idly wondered what Cutie Mark Nate would have, and if it would match his.