Shatterworld #1

Felicia shook her head as she got to her feet, none the worse for wear from the collision, more due to skill then from luck. She'd leapt at the last possible moment and turned her dive into a roll, losing the suicidal momentum and springing back to her feet without a scratch on her - though the thickness of her expensive (and now ruined) coat had more to do with that then all those years practicing urban parkour. But despite her save, the prospect remained bleak.

Moving the motorcycle was not a proposition, she was fearsomely fit and far stronger then one would expect at first glance, but the bike was a heavy machine, and was on fire thanks to the tank cracking open. With Wolverine trapped under it, she was on her own.

And not for the first time in the last two months, she was very aware how much she didn't want to be here.

It wasn't fair to blame anyone else for her problems, but she wished she'd never listened to Nightwing, and taken Ted Grant up on his offer to teach her how to fight better. Or better yet, that she'd never listened to Nightwing or Spider-Man, and let them convince  her to turn over a new leaf and reinvent herself - and then like a prize sap gone and decided to make the hero thing more permanent then just 'following a boy' (well, a few boys, all of which were not only gorgeous, but uncommonly flexible).

She couldn't ask for assistance, or better still one of the dozen or so acquaintances she had in New York, no, she'd decided she wouldn't settle for less then the best. Wildcat, Ted Grant, the only Heavy-weight boxer to successfully defend the title of world champion for a grand-total of twenty-three consecutive years, all but undefeated the entire time, a man who'd set world records that still hadn't been broken. He'd finally ceded the title to Mohammed Ali, and mostly retired, at least from the sport, taking on a role as a mentor figure to a series of proteges, all of whom had achieved great things on their own - if not necessarily in regards to competitive boxing.

And so she'd resolved to learn from him, as generations of martial artists have, and they'd had a brief affair (the age difference didn't bother her, he'd held up well), which had been spectacularly fulfilling before she broke it off, and then she'd gone into personal security, private detectoring and anything else that was good for a thrill. She'd been too good a thief to need to worry about money anymore. And if she'd just had the sense to spend some of her ill-gotten loot going to the Caribbean or something instead of taking an opportunity to go with Wolverine, then things would be better.

The whole thing with Wolverine was ridiculous.

She had a type - that much wasn't a mystery. Edgy 'goodguys'. Spider-Man. Nightwing. Spider-Man again, only with the added Parker baggage. Nightwing again - no extra baggage thank you very much. Young, confident, boyishly charming and good-looking - and flexible. So what was she doing, playing against type? First Thomas Fireheart, or Puma if you preferred, then Ted Grant, and now Wolverine, all of whom were certainly attractive enough - if that was what you went for (which she usually didn't), but none of who ticked the right boxes at all.

And then circumstances had conspired against her, and she'd needed to get out of New York now that Fisk had muscled back into power and was looking to put her head on his wall and feed the rest of her to some dogs, and unlikely circumstances had forced them to into an equally unlikely partnership, and some time in the wilderness retreat had seemed like a good idea, particularly if Wolverine was willing to sexually pleasure her - he wasn't attractive exactly, but there was nonetheless something compelling, something dangerous about him that excited her. Story of her life, that: 'It seemed like a good idea - or at least an exciting one - at the time'.

Just yesterday, she'd been bored out of her mind, halfway stir-crazy and suspecting she was going mad. There was nothing to do in Alaska, as far as she could tell, and as for Wolverine - well, it had been fun, but the bloom was very much off the rose after the first month, and she'd had a whole new appreciation for how good she'd had it when she only had to see him when she wanted to, instead of every day. Now, that almost looked good by comparison, a few minutes excitement, and now this, more then she could handle. She looked up at Deathstroke as he got out of the jeep and casually walked her way, the high-powered, custom rifle resting on his shoulder casually. Deathstroke. A fair contender for the finest assassin in the world. Before going legitimate, or at least using her talents for good, Felicia had hung out with the worst crowd that would have her then - but she'd never met him before. He tended more the mass-murder then the steal from the rich for thrills and kicks.

"That'll do, pig. Kept on expecting to have to step in and save your arse, but you had it all your own way." Deadpool was saying as he got out as well. "I just want you to know you've done. it. You've finally earned my respect."

Slade didn't reply. He only had eye for one person. Wolverine's legs and left arm were buried under the bike, the flesh mangled and ripped, and showing no signs of growing back. His right arm was free, but from his twisted position he had no chance of levering the wreckage off himself, and he couldn't do much more then glare. Anyone else wouldn't have even been able to do that much.

Slade's voice was not how Felicia imagined it at all. It wasn't gruff or harsh. It was calm, collected, and cool enough to make her feel more chilled than the snow she'd landed in. "So, which consolidation prize is this?" He mocked in his dry way, indicating her as though she was a trophy rather then a person. "She looks a bit like Storm, only not quite so womanly-figured. Of course, even the real Storm is still only next best to Jean Grey, and no doubt Marvel Girl reminded you of someone else who turned out to be out of your league as well. Bit sad, really. You know, she's not a fraction of your age. You could have great-grand-daughters older then her." He leaned close. "What's it say about you that you feel most at home around kids? How long before you come sniffing after Rachel Grey?"

"Ha! Burn! Now whose the creepy one fixated on much too young women?" Deadpool piped in. "The Wilson family is shown to better by comparison once again!"

"Like I care…"

"Oh, you don't want to banter?" Slade cut him off. "That's fine, I'll get on with it then."

Kicking snow into Wolverine's open mouth to keep him quiet, Slade turned to stare at the Cat-burgler. "As for you, Wilson Fisk would pay me more money then either of us have ever seen before for your head. And twice that, if the rest of your body was attached." He looked at her thoughtfully. This matter of Wolverine had skewed his priorities and standards somewhat. He had a deep, personal hatred for Nightwing developed over the years to something that gnawed at his heart like a cancer, that made him do stupid things like go for the hurt rather then the heart, to try and punish him rather then more pragmatic solutions, and it would be tempting, so very tempting to use her against him. He considered mailing Jump City her ears followed by her fingers one at a time and watching Batman's first protege go crazy for a highly enjoyable moment, then, with difficulty, dismissed it. He had other priorities for the moment. That would be fun for another day. "But I don't have time for the hassle. So why don't you just run off. Today, I have other concerns."

Felicia got to her feet, and flexed her fingers. "You think I'm going to let you just kill him?" She asked incredulously, bending her legs and getting ready to spring.

Slade looked at her thoughtfully a moment, then conceded her point with a nod. Then he shot her in the knee, or tried to. Thanks to the most unlikely of chance, the well oiled slide caught, and the gun jammed. Bad luck powers had never been so welcome. She tilted her head, let out a relieved sigh, and darted forward with a well-aimed kick.

Slade leaned out of the way with a frustrated sound, and slung the weapon back into place as he bent around her vicious strikes - movements so minimal that he hardly seemed to move, then cracked his knuckles. "Well, since it would be a shame to murder such a pretty girl -" It wasn't much of an opening, a slightly over-extended swipe with her right hand. There was a blur, and she slumped, Slade's hand pressed almost gently to the side of her neck "You should take a long sleep."

Wade nudged the unconscious body with the toe of his boot, then nudged his brother with his elbow. "Dibs."

"Don't be disgusting."

"Disgusting? Oh. Ohhhh. No. Not like that. No, I wouldn't force her to do anything, or drug her, or pressure her or blackmail her or anything like that. What do you take me for? Some kind of savage? Shame on you." He shook his head, more vigorously then necessary. "Shame. After I defended you when nobody else would. No, I'd just keep her locked in my apartment, completely dependent on me for everything, and I'd be stern but fair, and over a few days she'd really get to know the real me, see a sensitive, vulnerable side. Then we'd talk a bit, and then we'd start to bond, and then she'd start to open up and even to smile, and then I'd start to confess things about myself I'd never told anyone else, and -"

"Stockholm Syndrome's not really any less distasteful then overt rape, Wade." Slade replied. "Possibly worse."

Wade bristled. "Then why is Beauty and the Beast a kid's movie, and part of an even bigger cash-cow franchise then me?" He folded his arms. "Anyway, I left the sexual overtones as subtext, you're the one that went and addressed them."

Slade shrugged. "Double standards about attractive women?"

"No, I think we're supposed to call that fanservice. Besides, I'm happily married."

"I thought you said you were a swinger."

"Actually we call it an open relationship, because getting her up to date on modern days is hard enough that trying to explain the sixties would be a lesson in futility."

Slade sighed. He wasn't going to win here. "It's all irrelevant. We're leaving her."

"Right. Because leaving her skimpily dressed in the snow miles from shelter is far more humane then imprisonment in my apartment, and possibly marriage to the world's most eligible former-bachelor." He paused. "I'd have to become a mormon or something, move to utah, but there's no price to high for tail like that."

"She'll probably survive. And we don't have room in the jeep for a fourth passenger. Or even a third, really. So nothing we can do, ergo not my problem."

"And if she does survive, she'll get back to civilisation and tell everyone it was us."

"On foot?"

"Even so. Don't know if you've ever heard of wide-coverage cells, given how much effort you put into avoiding people, but it isn't as hard to get into touch with people as it used to be."

"I suppose so. But we'll be done by then, so who cares? With the weekly problems they go through, who has time for revenge? Think of it as free advertising and plenty of publicity."

"And what happened to anonymity? You know, not getting caught? Not having guys who can bench-press planets or kill us with their brain and happen to like the guy we killed coming after us looking for revenge? We should kill her."

"Alright then. Do it." Slade conceded.

Wade looked at her for a moment. He'd killed plenty of people, but there seemed something repellent about killing an unarmed, beautiful girl while she was unconscious. It wasn't as though she'd done anything wrong as such (to him, she'd done plenty to everyone else), and he wasn't entirely convinced his plan couldn't still be pulled off, and she was a popular character who the writers probably would want later… "Well… when I say we, I mean you."

"Go on. Kill her. Stuff her in a fridge. It's traditional."

Deadpool gave him a truly disgusted look, then conceded his point with bad grace. "Don't make this my problem."

"It is your problem - because you are the one that cares."

"Since when do you turn down opportunities to kill someone anyway?"

"Not unless I have a contract. I don't kill for free."

"Unless it's Wolverine."

"Right." Slade agreed. He kicked some more snow onto the mutant's face as he did. "Or Green Arrow, or Nightwing. Technically I have an open contract on those two, however." He added, not fooling anyone, even himself.

"And you don't pick up set bounties, you need to be contacted directly."

"As a rule. Why waste time with nickle and dime stuff?" Slade said, adjusting his straps to be a bit more comfortable.

"You're aware we're in yet another recession, the economies practically in the toilet, and here you are turning down good paying work? And our only chance to make an honest profit our of this?"

"You know I know all that, right?" Slade replied. "Besides, we'll make plenty for the rest of the mutants."

"Doesn't she have nine lives or something anyway?"

"What?"

"Guess who I'm talking about. Try. Go on. Could it be the girl you just knocked out?"

Slade scratched his chin. "Not sure. Why do you think that?"

"The costume, mostly. Seriously, cat themes always go with the nine lives thing. Haven't you noticed that?"

"Not really."

"One eye doesn't mean you get to be less observant. Particularly not now that you're not even bothering to keep this quiet."

"I'd like to keep this under wraps, but that possibility was never reasonably practical, so we just have to make the best of it. Let her tell anyone she wants anything she likes - what's she know, really?." Slade replied.

"What do we know, really? All we got are a list of targets."

"And all we need are alibi's and body-bags."

Deadpool swooned. "That might be the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me." He breathed, fanning his chest. "That was just… wow, I think… just give me a moment." Finally, he straightened. "I'll stop whining about the pay thing, that was so cool that the job is worth it. But other then that, seriously, you're loco, brother." Deadpool said. "So lets say we do. Then what? You think we can just go back to our lives?"

Slade wasn't paying attention. He walked over to Wolverine, and rested his heavy boot on his right wrist. "Still trying to get up and win? You have an over-developed sense of your own capabilities if you think you can turn this one around. You've lost." He ground his boot down on Wolverine's hand. Wolverine didn't feel more then a vague discomfort, his bones were adamntium after-all. "I beat you." Slade said, removing his boot and placing it on Wolverine's throat, then pressing down until he started to choke. Black spots danced as his vision went dim. The last thing he saw was Slade leaning close. "Deal with it."