Chapter 8
"So both at once, or one at a time, bub?" Wolverine said, stepping away from his chair, lowering his centre of gravity and spreading his arms, waiting for an opening. You don't just charge a man as good as Slade unless you have back-up, or he's distracted. Slade was faster then him, just as skilled, and he could probably crush Logan's neck in one hand.
"Hey, if we're not getting paid, then what's in it for me? No money, no Deadpool." Wade folded his arms and smirked. His face seemed more misshapen than usual, as though it had been made by a child out of clay, without the benefit of tools, or of skill. "There is no honour, without dollars, American. I'm pretty sure Shakespeare said that - maybe Hemmingway or Nietzche, maybe Churchill or one of the writers for the Simpsons. Somebody quotable. I'll just hold-back, take a few pictures, and make cutting comments now and again to remind everyone I'm here." He paused, side-tracked by questionable logic. "Because if I don't, there'll be no reason for me to be in the scene. And then I won't exist." He paused again. "Besides, my own cunning plan to take him out was fiated. What I'm trying to say here is that you're on your own."
Slade smirked as well, ignoring his brothers tangential prattling. "Hardly seems sporting. Perhaps I should tie one hand behind my back." he said, cold, calculated, yet patronising.
Wolverine came forward swinging. Time to put himself the test. Wolverine had never fought Slade before, and wasn't entirely sure what his weak point was—he was all armour and solid muscle—so he went for the usual failsafe: the face. There was a mask, but his claws would go right through it and out the other side.
He should have seen the return blow coming. Slade leaned back out of the way, the claws whistling harmlessly past, then did something with his feet, shifting his weight before he countered. The hard fist smashing into his face caught Wolverine off-guard and he stumbled back several feet before losing his balance completely and landing roughly on his rear, an embarrassing blunder in any fight, but even more humiliating now.
"Get up." Slade said plainly, adjusting his stance minutely, yet somehow endeavouring to seem relaxed and contemptuous. It was a gift.
Fuming, the cannuk roughneck scrambled to his feet. his inner equilibrium barely stabilised before he crouched low and began to circle his prey like a hunter on safari. Not for one second did Slade take his eye off of his formidable opponent, but Slade made no moves of his own, seemingly content to watch. Running out of patience, Wolverine leapt at his adversary with an angry, frustrated growl, baring his sharp teeth.
His rush at the mercenary was doomed from the start. Slade easily side-stepped the most dangerous mutant in the world's strikes, then countered with a single kick to his back that knocked him off his feet again, flat onto his face. "This time get your balance first. You're embarrassing me." he goaded, adjusting his stance again. Wolverine clambered to his feet and lowered himself, only to find that Slade wasn't playing defensively anymore.
Slade was on Wolverine before the former X-man he had a chance to react, slamming his hard fists into the smaller mutant. A thumb jabbed at his neck, going for the pressure-points, while his knee drove up like a piston between Wolverine's legs. Wolverine felt the agony, but he felt it the way he knew it was night outside. It was undeniable, but it didn't meaningfully effect him very much. He only grimaced and resolved not to let that happen again.
Slade lashed out twice more, and Wolverine could barely match the blows, stumbling backwards with every impact while Slade moved around his claws as though they weren't there. He was hit three more times, then he managed to catch Slade's fist in his hand, stepping closer so that he could feel the mercenary's breath sting his face, and drove his claws at Slade's throat. Slade twisted his arm, breaking the mutant's grip, turned aside the claws with his other hand, and even as Wolverine struggled to reassert dominance, he surged forwards, with a dizzying combination of high left, to the temple, a savage low right, to the kidney, and a devastating second left in the centre of his face, flattening his nose like a pancake with a spray of blood and cartilage, leaving only a pulpy mess where once had been Wolverine's face. He'd be fine. His features were already pushing itself back into shape, but to Slade the violence was immensely satisfying.
Slade spun and kicked downwards, his heel snapping the links between ligament and bone beneath the knee, sending Wolverine staggering and stumbling and swaying away, barely able to keep upright. He staggered back out of reach, and wheezed, a bit more theatrically then necessary. "Gotta hand it to you, bub." Wolverine panted. "You been eating your spinach. Don't think legs are supposed to bend that way."
Slade didn't say a word. He just advanced, fists raised, single eye narrowed. Wolverine came in low, weaving like a boxer, feinting left then coming in hard right. Slade caught his wrist with a grip like steel pincers, and seemingly without any effort lifted all of Wolverine's two hundred and seventy pounds (all metal and muscle and gristle) over his head, then tossed him clear over the bar, through the serving window, into the kitchen, where he landed on the big flat grill. The cook hadn't turned it off, he'd just left. Steam squealed up as the hot metal flash-seared his skin. Wolverine howled, flopping and jerking until he rolled to the floor in a smoking heap.
Wolverine picked himself up, and got his feet underneath him, taking a few breaths before stepping back into the bar where Slade was waiting patiently and calmly. But this time he wasn't waiting. No sooner had he stepped through the doorway then Slade waded in, suddenly exploding into brutal, astonishing action. His economy of movement was both lethal and almost hypnotic, there was a cruel precision in the punches and kicks as they came, hard and fast. It was all Logan could do to ward off the first few. He threw up his claws desperately but it made no difference at all.
There was no time to speak, or even to think, because he was too focused on avoiding those knuckles coming at his face, or that boot about to stomp down on his back. He knew that he was being an idiot, trying to match Deathstroke's skills. He needed to stop trying to think of a strategy, and let the animal take over. His instincts could handle this, but he wasn't being given a chance to do more than act—
Something awoke in Wolverine then. Something fierce and primal and unwilling to give up, not willing to just lie down and take his beating. 'Enough. Stop this. Let your conscious mind go limp. It's only getting in your way. You don't need it. Your instincts can handle this. Use the claws. Go for broke. Just enjoy yourself. No time or space for anything fancy, just -'
He staggered back again, but this time he didn't lose his balance. He didn't fall. He only bared his teeth, backed off for a moment. The two paced around each other like prowling tigers, then Slade moved I, and Wolverine attacked back, harder. 'Use the claws. He can hit you as much as he likes, you'll get right back up again. No matter how hard, how painful it might be, there's nothing he can do to keep you down. Because he's just a killer, and you're the most dangerous man alive.'
Wolverine was finally hitting his stride, and was a blur. He attacked wildly but craftily, leaving himself opening and taking advantage of every opportunity, bending back, leaping in, feinting, thrusting, not bothering with defence but constantly striking trying to overwhelm his opponents immaculate defences. He spun, attempting to slash into the meat of Slade's legs with his spare hand while Slade held his right, then when Slade leapt back he sprung from his spot with all six claws aimed forward and at the Mercenary's chest. But Slade had never lost his balance, he leapt eight feet in the air and Wolverine sailed beneath him to crunch into the wall. Recovering quickly, Wolverine flipped up and landed on his feet, but Slade was ready for him again, and sent him staggering back with a well-placed kick.
Slade remained cold, calculating, scintillant. He made no waste of movement, no motion not absolutely necessary, now forced onto the defensive but with no hesitation or so much as a momentary lapse. Indeed he seemed almost content. But no matter how hard Wolverine pushed himself, Slade was always faster, stronger, a dozen steps ahead. His skills were incredible, a perfect rhythm to everything Wolverine had to offer. Indeed, he barely even seemed to be trying.
Then he lowered his hand a fraction too late, a minute accident but the only one he'd made, and what Wolverine had been desperately waiting for. Swinging in, one of Wolverine's claws ripped across his chest-plate and into the softer flesh beneath. It was only a glancing blow, but it did send Slade back a step. Before Wolverine could capitalise on that, Slade skipped back, regained his balance and lowered his arms. Then he glanced down at the cuts.
"There he is. I was starting to worry you were going to disappoint me." He sounded pleased and of good cheer, now that he had three bleeding cuts on his chest. The fight had lasted barely three minutes including the banter, but it felt like far longer to both of them. "That there was nothing left of you. It took you a while, but you showed me otherwise. Now, let's see what you have to show for it."
Slade stepped back again, pulling off his mask, and stretched out his right hand. Wolverine tensed. Deadpool rolled his eyes.
"Quit playing around, or you're off the team, and you'll have to give back your badge and discount card." Deadpool said, then gestured at his brother. "Hey, look. Blood. You're actually bleeding. I can see it. Which means, we're not censored. Which means, anything goes. So why don't you take one of those nice weapons you always have, and actually use one of them? This scene needs some explosions!"
"Good suggestion." Slade replied, then reached behind his shoulder and pulled at the handle of something silver. Wolverine tensed, expecting a gun (bullets couldn't kill him, or at least they hadn't yet, but they certainly hurt), and so was surprised to see that it was a sword. Not the usual, short hacking blade Deathstroke favoured in close-quarters, more suitable for butchery then marital arts, this was something else, something altogether different. This was a long, fine piece of Japanese steel that had been shaped by a master to a deadly blending of purpose. The Muramasa Blade. He'd know it anywhere.
Shiny and very, very sharp. Bright enough to throw his own shocked expression back at him. Sharp enough to slice through adamantine. Sharp enough to even kill him.
"Where did you get that?" Wolverine breathed, suddenly very conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. "Tell me what this is about."
"No. %&#$ off, Beta Male." Slade replied simply. He didn't brandish the weapon. That's not what it was for, it was for killing or, failing that, maiming - he had no spiritual oneness with the blade - it was just a weapon in his arsenal, one of dozens, but - maybe - the one for the job.
Wolverine snarled like an animal - classic posturing. "Tell me what this is about, and you walk away with a flesh wound." He growled.
"Mister greasy canadian pedophile is threatening me? Oh this is rich." Slade chuckled softly to himself, then slowly walked forward, the sword held loosely in his right hand so that the tip of the blade scraped along the ground as he advanced, cutting into the wooden floorboards and leaving a long scar behind him. "But why not answer? This is about you. You've lived too long, and made too many enemies. Some of them have toys like this, and know men like me."
"Scott wouldn't -"
Deadpool rolled his eyes, in a manner that was perhaps just a little jealous that one dangerous psycho was accepted as a part of the superhero community and he wasn't - at best he was tolerated, and that on a good day. "Fearless leader doesn't even know it's gone, though how he can resist using something like this I'll never know, given the number of reasons you've probably given him over the years. Now why aren't you fighting?" He shook his head. "Or are you going to wax philosophical about your respective burdens, duties and obligations and eat up our time? Because people hate that when the characters start doing that sort of thing, particularly when they could be fighting for no adequately explained reason. Nobody reads the words, but they like it when the men in bright primary coloured costumes hit each other, preferably with big sound-effects." Although now that he thought about it, there was a lack of ludicrous sound-effects in this story, bar that one 'snikt' when they first got here. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that.
"Nah." Slade said. "If I wanted to talk, I'd have called him. I'm here to murder him. Wade? If you're not going to fight, do something useful. Do I see a jukebox over there?"
Deadpool nodded once, slowly. That feeling he wasn't the craziest man in the room had come back, and with a vengeance. "I suppose so. Impressively retro, perhaps there's a local hipster crowd they want to pander towards. Any preferences?"
"Springsteen." Slade said, tossing him a quarter.
"Of course." Deadpool muttered, catching it without looking, and walking over to the machine. 'Born in the USA' began playing, as loud as the machine could go, as Slade walked the last few paces to bring himself into range. Slade swung the blade in a fierce crescent that Wolverine threw himself out of the way from. Snatches of his reflection—flashes of expression, faded blue of his jeans and deep earth tones of his jacket darted across the surface of the thin, deadly blade when it slashed up at him. Before Slade could bring it to bare again, he tossed himself at the mercenary, bringing two fistfuls of claws at his kidneys. Too slow. Always too slow. Slade stepped aside, letting him stagger past, and then cut into the meat of his back, shearing through muscle an inch deep, from left shoulder to right hip.
Blood gushed, and muscular action didn't close the wound. Slade's mask shifted again, as Wolverine made a grunting noise and turned. The mercenary was smiling viciously.
Slade whipped the blade four times so fast it looked like one movement that you'd have missed if you blinked, leaving Wolverine's clothes and skin red with the blood that oozed from cuts on cheek, breast, arm and thigh. Cuts that were not closing. They'd be worse, except Slade was toying with him. He enjoyed it too much to want it to stop and be over. He stepped back, giving Wolverine room, and rested the blade on his shoulder. The pose was casual, but the tension in his shoulders was not. He was trying to lure Wolverine into doing something stupid.
Wolverine was not taking the bait. Not anymore. Not since Slade raised the stakes, and put death on the line. Instead, he was watching every movement Slade made, no matter how minuscule, in case it was the precursor for an attack. He wouldn't be caught off-guard. Slade simply kept the blade where it was, occasionally striking out with the speed of a striking snake, cutting him superficially then returning it to place just as fast. With the reach the sword afforded and his considerable skill, Slade was free to attack with impunity, and all Wolverine could do was try and minimise the damage by dodging. It wasn't working out all that well for him. In a melee, the claws were invaluable. But here they were barely better then nothing. He backed away, but Slade kept pace with him.
Wolverine threw a stool at him. Slade stepped around it without missing a step.
Wolverine threw a table at him with a heave of his shoulders. Slade cut it in half, both pieces falling by either side of him, still not missing a beat, then replaced the sword on his shoulder.
"Savage offered me money for this. I wouldn't take it." There was a blur, and a hot sting above his left eye, and suddenly blood was dripping from Wolverine's forehead all over his face from a long gash. "And he's just the only one who came to me. Some people have offered quite a considerable bit more over the years to other people. You've made a lot of people very angry, James." He feinted with the sword, Wolverine throwing up his hands in anticipation of a blow that didn't come, then brought it between the two of them, hefting the sword and switching it from right hand to left hand and back again. He moved up onto his toes, then rocked back on his heels.
"But to me, you're not worth anything but the pleasure I get from this." Slade feinted again, and when Wolverine closed in he put his shoulder behind a straight cross with his empty hand, hitting Wolverine in the solar plexus and making him choke and gasp for air as he almost swallowed his tongue. Slade then punched him in the mouth, cracking six teeth and dislocating a jaw, bruising his knuckles in the process. An adamantine skeleton and a near-instant healing factor made that sort of violence less then effective, but Slade was too stubborn to stop it just because it hurt him a lot more then it hurt Wolverine. He stepped back as Wolverine righted himself, and waved the sword threateningly, forcing him to back down.
"Because when I volunteered for Weapon X, I thought I was going to be a hero, not another murderer on a government payroll. Thought I was going to be Captain America. I learned better pretty fast, and got smart. See, a country isn't worth working for, nor are the idiots who inhabit it. They want something done, they should fight themselves rather then wait to be saved… but you…"
"Well, you're selfish, like me. Difference is, you were Weapon X, even if I was the first person they worked on. Thanks to you, thanks to your messed up genetic material, my brother is now a maniac who doesn't know who he is half the time because he can't see the world through his own delusions." Slade cut him again. A line across the chest, ragged and deep. "Which makes you ultimately responsible, and if it wasn't for you, one way or another Wade would still be himself."
"Talk to your therapist." Wolverine spat, lunging low.
"Oh don't worry about my mental health. Now that you're in front of me, I have a pretty good opportunity to vent." Slade said, moving his foot out of the way, then cutting him again. The chin. It would have been the throat, but Wolverine had ducked fast enough - just - not to die.
"Whoah! Lets slow down here. It's good to know you care and all, sometimes I have my doubts, but leave me out of this." Wade said, in an unusually quiet voice, holding up his hands, although neither was paying attention. "I'm pretty happy the way I am. You probably think I'm mad, but it feels good to me."
Neither of them reacted. Slade was too busy milking the fight for all it was worth, and Wolverine was too busy trying to stay alive. Wolverine, given his powers, his reputation and his fighting style, didn't make a habit of running from fights. Normally there wasn't any need. But he knew hopeless when he saw it. Any moment now, Slade was going to run out of things to say, and take his head off. And that would be that. It wasn't that he was outclassed, exactly (he was brutally honest enough to admit Slade was better than him, but that didn't bother him much - so were a lot of people) it was simply that this fight favored Slade, his brand of martial arts to start with, then he got the sword and Wolverine didn't. Slade had all the advantages. Which meant he had to escape. His bike was still out the front, if he could get to it, then the wilderness would swallow him up. And if the two hired killers tried to follow, then it would swallow them up as well. Here, the ball was in Slade's court, the mercenary had a clear target and all the weaponry he could want. But in the wilds, things would be more even. Out of civilisation he wouldn't even see Wolverine coming, and all his fancy skills and weapons would only get in his way.
The problem was actually getting away. Slade was between him and the exit, and the only thing that he knew about which could definitely kill him was between him and Slade. He tried circling around, and got a shallow cut on his upper bicep for his trouble. It was odd, his wounds weren't healing, and he was bleeding heavily, but if he felt the ebb of his powers, an immanent collapse brought about by blood-loss, his body wasn't showing it beyond numbness and pain. But that could change any moment. He didn't want to go down here, unable to even fight back.
Then Slade lunged, going for the kill. The move was hurried and left an opening. It was his second mistake, and once again it was all Wolverine needed. Throwing himself forward, he darted into Slade's swing, twisting aside at the last second. it was a risky manoeuvre, but it was so unexpected Slade was momentarily put off balance, and Wolverine got away with only another jagged cut across the chest as he slipped past. Fortunately, there was no earthly use for the male nipple, as his right one was now a mess of badly lacerated flesh and pounding agony. Turning his staggering momentum in a running start, he darted for the door, making a break for it. He expected to hear the thump of boots behind him, or smell the sharp discharge of gunpowder. But there was nothing. They weren't pursuing. He didn't stop and consider why, he just leapt for his bike, kicked it to life, and roared up the road.