Shatterworld #1

His brother was happy. Deadpool could tell.

It wouldn't be readily apparent to the inexperienced eye, Slade wasn't one for obvious signs of contentment or pleasure. You'd never see him jumping for joy, or cheering, or even smiling much, he didn't allow himself the distraction. Slade held a frightening grip over his emotions, a skill he’d mastered between the ages of twelve and thirteen, when he had stopped allowing his father to hit either of them, by way of starting to hit the man back - and then, when that hadn’t worked, learning how to do it properly. He certainly did not allow emotions to rule his behaviour, ever (or at least, he told himself he didn't). Instead, he channelled them as fuel for his actions. But Deadpool had known him far too long for the stoic facade to have any effect, and saw right through him.

Deadpool hoped that his brothers state of mind was a good sign. But both his head voices were somewhat doubtful, and he found remaining optimistic in regards to that difficult in the extreme. "So you're done, then? No more of this craziness? All out of your system?"

Slade didn't take his eye off the highway. They'd left the wilderness for the outskirts of a city, and were now merging with other roads heading the same way. "We've only just started the job, Wade. Now comes the hard part."

"Yeah, but you'll go back to being your ordinary self now, right? I mean, seriously, I've only ever seen you get this worked up by Green Arrow." And Nightwing, though that went without saying. The once potential protege had managed to indirectly be involved in the death of Slade's oldest son, and then utterly ruin his relationship with Rose and Jericho (to be fair, Slade was largely culpable there as well, but he didn't see it that way so it was a bad idea to bring it up), then had said no to Slade's offer. Slade would spend the rest of the time allotted to him working tirelessly to destroy Nightwing out of compulsion.

"That's professional." Slade justified.

Deadpool scoffed, loudly.

"Mostly professional." Slade amended. "I just have an issue in regards to him."

"Yes you do. You certainly do. First you get all melodramatic and use flowery words and swear vengeance for something or another that probably never even happened, then you start talking to imaginary people and trying to create an army in your image, until finally I have to calm you down before you start trying to destroy cities and otherwise act like a low-rent domestic terrorist."

"I just don't like that he's been handed everything I've worked so hard for."

"You mean you're jealous." Deadpool accused mercilessly.

Slade didn't dignify that with a response. "Yes." He said at last.

"Yes what? Yes you agree with me?"

"Yes, I've got it all out of my system. I've won, that's that, I can cross that off my to-do list. Of course, we still need to make sure he stays dead, but that's besides the point." He sighed. "Not that it was particularly satisfying, but what can you do."

Deadpool rolled his eyes. "Brother, maybe you forget some times, because you are you, but you are one scary mother-%&#$er. If you'd given Wolverine a month to get ready, it still would have gone more or less the same way."

"I suppose." Slade reached for his phone.

"Hey, watch it, you're driving! You're setting a terrible example for anyone watching you." Slade didn't listen to his entreaty to consider the consequences someone mimicking him might arrive at. Who would be watching him, anyway? The phone he picked up was a disposable, one of several disposables he had active when on the job. This one connected him to one person and one person only, and after it was done it would be permanently discarded.

It took four rings before his contact picked up, instead of the usual two. "Speaking." Came the reply at the other end. He didn't bother to introduce himself, as if it would be anyone else. Christian Wolff was a money guy, the money guy, whom many organizations turned to for hiding and manipulating their finances. Every villain, terrorist, thief, mobster or whatever who managed something like success needed one to preserve their ill-gotten gains, and in Slade's case it was put the money into a off-shore holding account that couldn't be found, but where he couldn't access it whenever he needed to. That was what he needed an accountant for.

"Ten million." Slade said, as though saying too much to the man would contaminate him. "You have three days. Cash money." He hung up without another word. Even by his standards, that was brusque.

"Ten million dollars." Deadpool whistled. "That's a lot of Nike sneakers." He said, hoping his endorsement would net him a couple of bucks. "We celebrating or something?"

"We'll need a team." Slade said. "Specialists and professionals."

"Afraid the X-Men will bounce us like a check for your alimony?"

"On our own? Definitely." Slade replied. "I could take maybe ten. Leaving the rest for you. That's not great odds."

"Never tell me the odds!" Deadpool pumped a fist. Then paused and considered. "Though yeah, seriously, I could take a few, but not all at once." He paused and considered again. "So what, you call your accountant? Weak."

"I can afford it."

"That's not the point! I'm not letting you do this! It's reprehensible! An insult to all team-ups ever!"

Slade's eyebrows lifted fractionally. "What are you talking about?"

"The proper way to do a team-up - and yes, I'm aware it's not really your scene mr Ron Perlman on Steroids - is a rhythm I perfected. First, I decide on a couple of superheroes, more or less at random, loudly insert myself into their lives, ignore their repeated entreaties to go away, act very clingy and needy like the worst sort of fan, ignore everything up to and including physical violence, and continue to hang around until something interesting happens. Then, by contrived circumstances usually brought about by incompetence, I save the day, at which point I say my farewells and leave to go find another adventure, because I'm cool like that."

Slade's eyebrows approached his hairline. "And that works?"

"You wouldn't think so, but yeah, pretty much. Sometimes I even make team-ups retroactively happen."

"Huh." Slade paused. "I don't suppose you could get me a team-up with a few people? I've always wanted to work for Elijah Price."

"He's an art dealer, who would he want killed? And he couldn't afford you" Deadpool sighs.

"True, but he doesn't &#%$ around." Slade said, parking the car in front of the Imperial Hotel in Toronto, glancing up at the winter sky as he hefted his overnight bag. And his other, larger duffel bag, which a drugged Wolverine had been stuffed into for way of transportation. The position was no doubt uncomfortable, but the mutant was unconscious, and taking up the least amount of space physically possible. "I like that in a client."

Entering the cool modern lobby, he ignored the doorman and maitre d'hôtel, heading directly for the elevator. He pressed up.

Celine Dion tinkled softly through the speakers. Slade ignored it, until Wade started singing along, at which point he cleared his throat loudly. "I got you your own room. Live it up like a rockstar if you want, Vandal Savage agreed to reimburse our expenses tab, but try not to draw too much attention to yourself. I'll be up by 0600 and out of here."

"I'm hurt. It's like you don't know me at all." Deadpool said, leaning against the doors and folding his arms over his chest. "Not that I don't appreciate the chance for a sleep and a shower, both things we've been long without on the road, but - not to put too fine a point on it, you have an angry Wolverine in a duffle bag. That's bound to cause questions."

"Well if he'd just die when I kill him, like a normal person, I wouldn't have to drag him to an old army base in the middle of nowhere in order to finish him off. It's hardly my fault." He replied, hefting the bag as though it were full of folded clothes, rather then human cargo. "We get there in two days, and plenty to work with. We throw everything we can at him and see what sticks." Slade stated, folding his arms as well. "After that, we head back to Jump City. Once we have the professionals, we'll see about purchasing a few hundred bodies to be everywhere we can't, and arm them for the job. Hopefully, overwhelming numbers, shock, awe and good old fashioned ruthlessness should carry the day, and we can drag back a good 90% or so. Then we hand them over to Savage, and get out of dodge before the fallout."

"Seems unlikely. How many of them are there these days?"

Slade shrugged. "Good point. Have to get someone to research that too."

"You know, I do keep a couple of guys on retainer. Slapstick, Foolkiller…"

"I want a team of rough-and-tumble bastards, not five morons you keep around to make yourself look better by comparison."

Deadpool had to concede that was a pretty fair assessment. "Not your people?"

"My people aren't really much better than yours, just less personality."

"Have anyone in mind?"

“One or two. Some friends of yours, some colleagues of mine.”

Deadpool blinked. "Is that nostalgia talking?"

"Well they were brought together as a way of finding a way to deal with mutants. And they've all got valuable skills for doing just that."

"And they're all getting on in the years too. You're pretty much well preserved, and I'm a fixed point in the sliding timescale, but the rest of them are going to be getting a bit long in the tooth." Deadpool replied. "Actually, question? Who do you already have?"

"Taskmaster and Red X."

"Taskmaster I can vouch for. Who is the other guy?"

"New Apprentice. Healing factor, suit that works on some horribly unstable chemical cooked up by Doctor Chang. Xenothium, or something."

"And he walks around wearing that?" Deadpool asked incredulously. "Hasn't he ever heard of occupational Health and Safety?  Has he ever heard of adequate shielding, and biohazards? Has he considered the children? You know, it's probably radioactive. He's probably sterile now."

Slade privately conceded that was likely the case, but was hardly unduly concerned. It wasn't him in the suit, afterall. "He's good enough in a fight, but he needs a lot of work. Needs to be sharpened, to work on his killing intent, and to develop his skills, so go easy on the kid. I'm still breaking him in."

"What can he do?"

"Sneak around and use gadgets, mostly. He was a half-ass thief and a half-ass vigilante cooked up from spare parts until I taught him better. Keeps changing his name for some reason. Went by every variation you can find on the X theme. Without being an X man, or having an X gene."

"Legal trouble, huh?" Deadpool said, nodding sagely. "Yeah, that can be bad. Ever hear about The Captain?"

"Which one?"

"The Captain. That schlub from Nextwave who was around for a while. He keeps on getting leaned on when he tries to be 'Captain something'. He's gone through like thirty names by this point." Deadpool grinned.

Slade blinked. "What really?"

"Yeah." Deadpool glanced at where he presumed the panel to be. "I'm not going to repeat the joke, but trust me, it's worth looking up." He then followed this up with a cheesy wink. "Pick up a trade paperback."

"No, no legal trouble. I think he thinks it's cool or something."

Deadpool tilted his head. "I hope you're not paying him too much."

"He's the hired gun equivalent to an intern. I don't pay him a red cent." Slade replied. "Next best thing to slavery, interning."

Deadpool, who was well used to not getting paid for his work, gaped in shock. "That's Unamerican!"

"Please. Freedom includes the right to be exploited, Wade. If he wants to do a job I should have to pay good money for at no cost at all, he's got nobody to blame but himself."

Wade couldn't form a coherent argument against that. The elevator dinged at their floor.

"Well, I have a meeting. Long, tedious. Pointless. You want to help me get through it?"

"Are you likely to stab me?"

"No."

Deadpool fell out of step, then stopped completely. "No. No, I'll be out tonight. Don't wait up for me." he declared. Any meeting in which his brother wasn't willing to stab him was most likely a dull affair.

"Got plans?"

"Better. I got the call to adventure!" Deadpool replied, removing the pair of cheap sunglasses he'd stolen from the security guard without the man noticing, and putting them on, while humming 'sunglasses at night'. "Deal with it."

"Suit yourself." Slade said with a shrug that made it plain it didn't matter to him one way or another. "We're keeping a low profile, so don't do anything I wouldn't."

"That's what exactly?" Deadpool asked, folding his arms. "Or have you forgotten that when we joined the army, you're the one who got 'Poor Impulse Control' tattooed onto his chest."

"That… that was a long time ago." Slade said. He sounded almost embarrassed. "Well, don't do anything that means we have to leave town in a hurry, running for our lives." He compromised at last, then unlocked his room and nodded to the man waiting for him.

"Hey, what happened to that tattoo? Did you get it removed, or…"

"My healing factor wiped it, same as all the others." Slade replied, not really paying attention anymore. His attention had found a new target to focus on.

"I've discussed my feelings about the word factor, and how it relates to you, Slade." Deadpool grumbled, then glanced at him again. "Hey, wait, then why do you still only have one eye?" but Slade wasn't listening.

Sebastian Shaw, as always, preferred the guise of a victorian gentleman - the traditional 'uniform', of the inner circle of the Hellfire club. He wore his back hair in an old fashioned stye, pulled back into a ponytail and secured by an elaborate red bow, his sideburns allowed to grow thick. His shrewd eyes probed Slade's cold one, and the mercenary could almost see his calculating mind working on a way to turn this situation to his advantage. Powerful shoulders despite the thin frame - a brawler, Slade thought, and something in his gaze seemed impossibly old and jaded.

Curiouser, and curiouser. Early in his career, back when Adeline was still alive and he was trying to justify himself to society, Slade had gone after quite a few nazis. He'd left that work, they were getting rarer, but were still far from an endangered species, mores the pity. Baron Zemo. Baron Strucker. Baron Blood. A lot of barons. Plenty of Doktor's too, but they'd mostly defected and got jobs working for NASA, or so he'd heard.

But Sebastien Shaw was with them by association. Not a baron or a doktor; not even a Nazi, per se. He was a Mutant supremacist, one of the first. And as soon as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, he had decided he wanted a full-blown nuclear war between the United States and Russia. Back then, Shaw, who before the war had been a poor pennsylvanian Steel worker, hadn't a lot going for him, beyond some truly cut-throat business practices and a few connections, but he was a visionary, and he'd returned to America, forged a multi-billion dollar company with his bare hands, then went about creating himself some influence. First, he joined a very old gentleman's society called the Hellfire Club, which had been founded by Allestor Crowley to await 'The Coming of the Over-Man', but atrophied, and become a hangout for the privileged to complain about modern trends they didn't approve of over brandy and cigars. He taken it over, replaced it's upper echelons with people whose motives he could trust, if not their loyalty, got it into prostitution for the pocket change, smuggled drugs and laundered money for organized crime, all to give him capital which he turned into connections. Soon, a fair percentage of Washington's finest were in his pocket - big surprise there - and did his best to put the weight of money and influence behind making his endgame a reality. Of course, by then the world had moved on to the super-race, of human experimentation and genetic engineering. That was as much as Slade knew… though he had vague memories that Shaw had something to do with the Sentinel problem as well.

He didn't know who it was who thought giant robots designed to shoot civilians on sight was a good idea, but it was probably the same person who kept approving million-dollar experimental surgeries on serial killers. And the public wondered why there were so many super-villains at large - half the time it was their own tax dollars paying for them.

Sebastian Shaw was alone, which struck Slade as out of character, he had expected to meet a selection of mutants with useful powers as Shaw's escort, working as a all-purpose coterie of flunkies and bodyguard. He supposed not bringing them saved time - he was always up for a fight, but beating up a posse wouldn't accomplish much. Maybe Shaw had a secret he didn't want getting around.

"So, you're working for Vandal Savage." Slade said conversationally by way of introduction, hoping to get a rise. He glanced over his shoulder, but Deadpool was long gone.

"I approached Mr Savage, who saw the benefits of an alliance. We have much in common, desires that our acting to mutual benefit can see realised. His track record for dominance and influence is without question, as well as his significant financial base. And now, coupled with the legitimacy and talent I represent and the avenues I can open for him, a partnership is mutually beneficial." Shaw replied, with infinite dignity.

Slade coughed. "Now I'm just the muscle," he said, the self-deprecation entirely feigned "but don't you need to be partners to call it a partnership? As in, equals?"

No reaction. Of course not, Shaw was much harder to rile then that. Shame. Part of Slade - a big part, truth be told, wanted to keep on pushing until Shaw tried to fight him. He restrained it. Business before pleasure. Without further ado, Slade picked up the bag, hefted it in one hand just to show he could, then tossed it at the Mutant's feet. "There you are. Special delivery, one metal-skeletoned mutant, well tenderised, marinated in enough oxycontin and phencyclidine to sedate a herd of elephants, or to keep him out for years. Packed in a vacuum sealed bag. Small enough to fit into most overhead compartments too." Slade said, then folded his arms across his broad chest. "I'll have the rest for you in a couple of weeks."

"You were supposed to kill him." Shaw said, though his stainless steel eyes sparkled with something that could well have been avarice. And knowing the man in question, almost certainly wasn't anything else. Death wasn't final, not quite, but to someone like Shaw control was so much sweeter. He'd never destroy what he thought he could use. He engaged with others only for the purpose of advancing his own position, and expected the same from them - everything he did was playing for advantage in some way.

"Yes. Just him, not the others. Him specifically. And I will." Slade replied in a measured tone, bristling a little that his plan to do the task was being questioned. "Unfortunately, the trick is making sure he stays that way, and I need a few things to make that happen." Slade continued. "He was built to last, to survive. By nature, and by human design. So killing him isn't an easy matter. Even for something of an expert on the subject. But I'm sure you can personally attest to that."

Shaw eyed him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with his hand. "Do you know why I'm here?" He asked after a moment.

Slade's lip twitched. His eye chilled Sebastian Shaw’s soul. "To check my progress. And to offer assistance as a pretence for your spying." He replied. "You're micromanaging me. I don't appreciate it."

Shaw didn't bother to deny it. "I'm here to warn you away. You're not up to this. Neither of you are." He replied, folding his arms belligerently and sticking out his chin, looking ready for a confrontation. He wasn't difficult to read. He resented out-of-house experts being brought in for this job, one he clearly thought was his own responsibility. He was spoiling for a fight, figuring if he got one he'd prove his superiority, prove that he was better then the independents it took to get his job done.

Slade's face was as still and emotionless as a mask. He met Shaw's eyes evenly, and clearly wasn't intimidated. There wasn't a hint of fear there, not even a glimmer of bravado. Slade just stared back. "Care to explain?" He asked, sounding as though he were talking about the weather, or noting that he needed to buy more paper towels.

Shaw leaned forward; Slade did not lean back. "I have a certain respect for your capabilities. The two of you are good. Together, you might well be better. But the X-Men aren't posturing amateurs. I have tested them, many times. I have called on powers and allies greater then you can imagine. And time after time I have failed. They were the very best."

"I'm sure they were." Slade replied. "But what has that got to do with my brother and myself? You're talking about you." He leaned forward, and couldn't resist a smirk. "I'm not as old as you, Shaw, but I'm old enough to know something of history. It's been my experience that physical power and, to a large extent, mental power are both morally neutral and effectively real: conflicts are won by the stronger side. If you have failed, time and time again, then there is your answer. The reason is you yourself. You're not up to it."

Shaw opened his mouth, but Slade lifted a single finger, motioning for silence. "I want you to shut up now. I've got a few things to say, and if you interrupt I'll have to kill you. Got that?" Shaw's hands had clenched into fists. A pulse beat at the hollows of the mutant's temples, clocksprings of veins pulsing to the painful rhythm, and his eyes turned to dull lead, but Shaw pursed his lips and didn't reply. "Here's the thing." Slade begun, and his tone. "You play for advantage. But whenever you do start to see results, you try and hold out for something better. It's your failing. You don't know what to make of the expression 'Mission Creep'. You should just take the opportunity when it comes. Trying to squeeze more is counter-productive, particularly for the sake of imaginary objectives so far out of reach they might as well not exist at all, and so without fail you take your eye of the prize and try to go for something else, that you think will help you even better. And while you delay and second guess and finally just stand there, you get sucker-punched, because your enemies have taken the time to put their act together."

Shaw's face reddened, but he stayed silent. Slade's smirk widened a little. Gratifying, that. "I don't make mistakes like that. Not on other peoples work. Rarely on my own. Because I don't act, unless I know what I want. That was a hard lesson, but one I'm grateful for." He unconsciously rubbed his eye socket. "Knowing when to commit is everything. So I'll take my brother to help me, like Savage suggested. Because I can trust him, and he knows how to handle himself if there’s an outbreak of stupid. And we'll have the X-Men tagged and bagged in the time that you'd spend trying to work out your priorities instead of getting the job in front of you done."

Slade stood up. "To do that, all I need from you tonight? Some privacy. I need plenty of rest. Beyond that? Nothing. I have my own ways of doing things. I don't need you, or anything you can offer. Why don't you see yourself out." Slade grunted. Shaw maintained eye-contact a long moment, then got to his feet.

"I'll be taking Wolverine."

"You'll be taking nothing but what you brought in with you." Slade replied, folding his arms. The two stared at one another again, and again Shaw looked away first.

"Fine. Have it your way. You're in a position to have what you want - for the moment you're useful. But the moment you cease to be…"

"Then our business will be concluded." Slade interrupted, then yawned, widely and obviously. "Now I've been driving nine hours straight, and I'm tired. If you want to rattle off threats, come back in the morning and do it then."

Shaw glared some more, then wordlessly turned and walked past Slade, lingering in such a way as to leave no question that Slade had just gained a powerful and influential enemy.

Slade couldn't care less. He waited until the door closed, then he stretched, muscles bunching like a cat. First the mercenary removed his mask, then peeled away the layers of armour and kevlar and heavy fabrics, until he was stripped down to his skin and scars. The hard planes of his enhanced musculature seemed greyish and without life in the artificial light. Then he walked across the suite and into the adjoining bathroom. He ran the shower as hot as it would go, and left it running until the room was full of steam. Indulging in a moment of introspection, Slade regarded the span of his hands. They were large and strong, and bereft of any scars. He made a fist with the right, then the left. Fingers, check, all present and in working order. He methodically went through every joint in his body, and they all gladly responded. So why did he feel hollow and lifeless?

He checked his face in the mirror, and as always struck by how gaunt and careworn he was starting to look. Bags under his eye sockets. His skin less firm. He didn't look like himself, without the mask. He looked like a tired old stranger. A part of him noted he was starting to look like his father had, but he repressed that brutally. He was too late in his life for daddy issues. He took a deep breath, held it as he counted to ten, and closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of deep jungle, warm moist air, and the smell of blood. As always it calmed him down.

He was past sixty now. The best years were long gone, and he wouldn't be seeing them again.

Sometimes he felt so old he marvelled that his bones hadn't ground to powder, his muscles hadn't atrophied into useless ropes of grizzled sinew. Yet here he remained, the same man he'd always been inhabiting the broad-shouldered body of a man a fraction of his age. Slade was a man not used to conflicting emotions, which made the swelling self-loathing deeply uncomfortable.

When he opened his remaining eye, the moment was past. He was strong and quick and possessed of an edge that had made him dangerous long before the enhancements began. Slade bared his teeth. Old, but there was not much he could do about. Old he could live with. But strong, that was important. He was still brutally hard on himself. Far past sixty though he was, he was all hard muscle and gristle, tough as he physically could be. Despite his enhancements, not because of them.

Then he stepped into the shower.

Hot water hissed powerfully from the shower-head, flushing his skin a raw shade of red with its warmth, plastering the clear shower stall glass with condensation, filling its interior with billowing steam, and Slade relaxed and let the burning hot liquid scald his skin raw, until he was pink and tender.

Then he caught up on personal maintenance. He brushed his teeth, and soaped his hair. He reopened the cuts that had closed on his chest with the throat-slit razor he mostly used for shaving out of habbit, and let them bleed a little before taking a needle and thread and sewing them closed. His healing factor wasn't perfect. Such measures were necessary, if he wanted to take care of himself. There wouldn't even be a mark tomorrow. When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his hips, and trimmed his short warrior beard.

Satisfied, he took the time to fold his clothes and then walked over to lie on the couch. The room had a bed, but at that moment he couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in it. The couch seemed good enough. Digging out his spare semi-automatic, he switched off the safety and lay it within easy reach, confident he could have it in his hand in an instants notice. It's a mark of how tired he felt that he didn't double-check all the locks as was his usual habit.

Then he drifted off to sleep, with his one eye open. He needed sleep, more then even normal people did. The human brain wasn't meant to function at ninety percent capacity all the time, neurones blazing like a forge; he needed to rest as much as possible. That, he'd long since identified and accepted, was his weakness. The chink in his armour, when his day came (for Slade fully expected to die in battle), the way so many had experienced at his hands, it would be that which they exploited, that they used to do him in.

Not that he'd make it easy for them. Slade was careful, patient and methodical. Once, back when Grant had been alive, he had worked out how long it had taken him, in retrospect, to achieve what he now considered a decent level of caution - weighed up how much experience it had taken him to get good instead of lucky - and had begun to suspect that most people died before they got there. Afterall, Grant had.

He relaxed, and let himself drift away.