Shatterworld #1

In the hotel corridor, a freckled young man in a smart navy blue blazer, the hotel uniform, was making something of a fuss outside one of the doors on the second room.

"Hey! Number 143!" The young man was yelling, banging on the door as loudly as he could, filled to bursting with belligerence. "Hey! No cooking in these rooms! Hey! I'm talking to you!"

The smell might have been cooking, but probably was not. But the young man had never been closer to a battlefield than his computer screen, so he had no way of recognising that scent.

There was no reply at all. "Hey! Don't ignore me. Don't act like I'm not here! I want to talk to you! Now come out!"

With slow, ponderous dignity, the door opened inwardly while the young man was fumbling for the key. The young man looked up. And up further. All the way up. The man who opened it was too big to fit in the frame, towering above the uniformed man by a good half a meter, and was dressed in a big scary suede coat. He was so big his presence made the whole hall seem out of proportion, the doors, windows, stairs and hotel employee who a moment ago had been much more belligerent all looked like small versions designed for the use of children. The size was bad enough alone, but the man was terrible. He looked like what heavy-metal enthusiasts wished they could, with his barbarian long hair and features that would have been appealing if they weren't so jagged and feral. His eyes were burning with all the horrors of the jungle, all the wilderness from which man had clawed his way out of in past ages but could never truly escape. He stood hunched in a threatening lean that was so natural to his body language, his eyes narrowed in a legacy of aggression too complete to contemplate. "Yes?" He asked politely, his voice a graceless avalanche of syllables, low and scary and hitting something primal in the young man, who was already backing away. It spoke of violent death, of red tooth and claw, and awakening racial memories that brought about a painful tightening in his bladder, and an urge to climb a tree and cower.

"Oh, it's just that, ah, some - some of the other guests are, are complaining and… the smell, you see…" He babbled, only dimly remembering what had brought him here in the first place.

"I'll talk to them." The big man smiled. His teeth seemed far too large, and far too sharp to fit in his mouth.

"No! No, ah, that's not necessary. Just finish up what you're doing, and…" He made a futile gesture. "Maybe open a window or something."

"You're sure? It's no trouble." It was not a friendly, or reassuring smile, and yet how could it be?

"No, no, I'll handle it. Ah, yes. Yes, I'll be going now."

"No problem." Sabertooth closed the door and chuckled. That was almost entertaining. But the door didn't close. A heavy combat boot was blocking it ajar.

The hotel employee collapsed with a sigh so soft even he didn't realise he'd made it, a pinched nerve interrupting the blood-flow to his brain and knocking him out. "Better come out." This voice was deadly soft and deadly serious.

Sabertooth opened the door again. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Deathstroke? Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes." He grunted. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't you have senators to kill or something?"

Slade's mask was without expression, but his voice was not. "I need to take some 'me' time." Slade laughed. He was unarmed but a simple kitchen knife, which he was casually throwing up in the air so that it spun and caught the light, then catching between his thumb and fore-finger, half an inch behind the tip. He was doing it without looking, without so much as glancing it's way.

It was showing off a little, but Sabertooth was the same problem as Wolverine. Guns weren't of much use. You could put five rounds in the skull of Sabertooth, and he'd still eat you before he even healed. Preparation gave you an edge, but Sabertooth'd push through it. The only way to beat them was to do it over, and over, and over again. "A busman's holiday, if you will."

But repetition wasn't something Slade had ever struggled with. "So, I don't suppose you want to borrow a cup of sugar?" The mutant asked, then pounced. Sabertooth acted without thinking, counting on the raw instinct that had carried him across countless conflicts to see him through. He roared and bore down on the mercenary with the force and inevitability of an avalanche.

Slade stepped back, standing sideways, moving his arms back behind him and grinding his feet into the ground. He turned towards the impending disaster, twirling his improvised weapon idly with marvellous dexterity and a seasoned flair, then ducked under the mutant's lunging blow, cutting first his achilles tendon then through his wrist all the way to the bone, leaving Sabertooth's foot and hand hanging numb and unresponsive at the end of his limbs. He straightened, fended off the mutant's other brawny arm, then placed a hand against Sabertooth's chest and gave him a gentle push. Sabertooth toppled, unable to balance over-extended on one foot.

"Apologise." Slade growled, stepping forward so he was looming above him, threw the knife up in the air and caught it in his other hand, like a juggler. He wasn't entirely unable to hide his amusement.

"What?" The mutant blinked, trying to centre himself. "I haven't…"

"Not to me. To him." Deadpool had come this far, but was doing his best not to be involved. He'd already done this fight, and he wasn't interested in rehashing old material. "My brother. You attacked him. Apologise now."

"Go to hell." Sabertooth growled, getting his feet back under him and coming in low.

"Been to hell. Despite it's reputation it's undeserving of all the press, believe me." Slade replied, rolled his remaining eye, then broke off the tip of his knife in Sabertooth's bull neck, punched him in the kidney, jammed the broken knife into a nerve cluster around the mutant's shoulder, then grabbed a handful of his barbarian mane of hair and slammed him face first into the dry wall, driving his head through it and out the other side. "Apologise." Slade repeated, sounding a tad more measured. He planted his foot into a sensitive part of Sabertooth, ground it making him howl, then tugged what was left of the knife free free. It relinquished its place with a sickly sucking sound and a spray of dark arterial blood, the tip still stuck somewhere inside. Slade glanced at what was left of the blade, already blunt and scarcely any use, stuck it in the wall where he could recover it if it looked like it might be some use, then skipped backwards, settling into a defensive stance.

Sabertooth pulled his head out, drywall coating his hair like chalk, and roared. He had to stop to spit out a tooth knocked free from pulped gums. He powered forward with wild abandon, swinging his arms in a vicious roundhouse punch that made the air whistle, barely cognisant of Slade's shifting stance. Slade stepped out of reach, scooting across to the other side of the corridor. Sabertooth charged after him, which was a mistake. Slade wasn't as strong as him, but he was strong, and knew how to handle anyone foolish enough to over-extend. 

Sabertooth's burly frame collided with the wall at a speed human bones were never meant to withstand. The bricks cracked from floor to ceiling. The glass window shattered. Sabertooth's spine went too. Slade paced towards the towering figure of the mutant casually, nonchalant in his motions, a swagger in his step. "If you don't do as I tell you, I might just start to get nasty." He said. "My brothers over there. Why don't you tell him just how awful you feel? It might do your health some good."

Deadpool was still keeping out of this, but he still managed a cheery wave.

Sabertooth's twisted spine straightened itself out, and he lunged again. Slade was expecting it, but Sabertooth had a bit more of his measure and it was a feint. Slade corrected quickly, but not fast enough, and Sabertooth's claws ripped through kevlar and chainmail like wet tissue paper, carving deeply into his chest, right where Wolverine had a few days ago. Slade slammed his forehead into Sabertooth's nose to make him back off, then drove his fist into Sabertooth's throat, making him choke and gag. He knew he should stay at a distance, this sort of thing was more Sabertooth's speciality then his, but he was just having much too much fun. Besides, Sabertooth was only dangerous when he started to think, if you could keep him angry the fight would go all your own way.

Sabertooth retaliated, and so did he, then Slade went for the throat again. Sabertooth caught his wrist, but Slade got control and broke the mutants hold at the thumb instead, then broke his thumb as well. Sabertooth tripped him, and the two went down in a tangle of powerful limbs, punching, gouging and jabbing with elbows and fists. He noticed a gleam in Sabertooth's neck as his healing muscles forced the metal point Slade had left in there out, and Slade hit it with the side of his hand, sticking the metal right back in. In retaliation, Sabertooth's fist hit Slade in the kidneys, hard enough to drive him into the floor, and his thumbnail dug into Slade's cheek, carving right through the mask, slicing neatly through flesh up towards his eye-socket. Slade didn't even flinch.

He couldn’t see out of that eye.

When they got to their feet, yet another vicious exchange later, the two of them both backed away and took a breather. Slade cracked his neck, ignoring the blood streaming down the thick gash in his leg, and the three along his chest, gained when his opponent slashed at him as he swung. He winced a little at the face, however. Sabertooth popped his shoulders back into place with a jerky, awkward shrug, and started to reset his shattered elbow. He rubbed his face to try and check his features were all where they should be. "You got game, old man." He grudgingly admitted.

"You're not all soft yourself." Slade replied with an idle shrug. He was giving a lot worse then he was getting, but he wasn't having as much fun as he was when this started. Something about Sabertooth having started grinning. Standing there covered in more blood then the human body should decently contain, with sucking chest wounds and broken bones, grinning. Slade didn't like being grinned at. It was up there with being laughed at. Calm, he told himself. Don't get angry. Passion is the enemy of efficiency. "You know, I always liked you better then the others. Call me romantic or whatever, but there is an honesty about you that I respect. Why did you have to go after Wade and mess it up?" He replied with verve and brio, letting Sabertooth play for time to heal as though it didn't make a hair of difference.

Sabertooth shrugged. He could actually feel his bones knitting and the blood retreating from semi-congealed scabs. His head twisted involuntarily as his vertebrae slid into their niches, and strength returned in a rush as his body reproduced the three litres of blood lost through his chest and throat wounds. "Seemed the call to make at the time. Wild animal, remember? Now you done beating your chops?"

Slade seemed to consider this. "Figure I'll give you one last chance for old times sake. Apologise."

"Blow it out your arse."

Slade nodded once, walked over to the wall and reclaimed what was left of the knife. It was blunt now, and missing about an inch of blade where the tip had snapped off (and was still in Sabertooth's shoulder, somewhere). Slade shifted his grip on it, weaving idle figures in the air in an absent-minded way, fixing his one eye upon the top of Sabertooth's sternum. It gave a clear view of the body without the distraction of the opponent’s eyes. "Alright." He said, no longer playing around. "Have it your way. I guess I'd better kill you."

The moment he'd finished talking, Slade stepped forward and snapped the knife out, wicked-quick, at Sabertooth's throat, but Sabertooth was quick as well, and managed somehow to get a hand up and the first stroke only split his palm in half. Sabertooth only bared his teeth and forced his hand further along the length of the knife, until he could grasp Slade's hand, gripping hard enough to trap the blade and crush the fingers painfully. Delicate bones snapped within Slade's hand, and he couldn't suppress a small grunt as Sabertooth drew himself up to his full height, towering above the mercenary grinning toothily. "Oh, someone's going to die alright. It's all over now, you slippery bastard. Bar the screaming of course."

His piece said, his head darted forward, jaws snapping open. Slade stepped back, letting Sabertooth over-extend yet again, and Slade still had a hand free. He grabbed the big mutant's ear and pulled off as much of it as he could get a grip on, making the big mutant flinch, and in that involuntary opening he cut the knife out of Sabertooth's hand. His own hand was a mess, but he still had one. Tossing the knife to his good hand, he went in low then sliced upward, splitting the crotch of Sabertooth's leather pants, dividing his scrotal sac then drawing the knife up and out in a long, buttery stroke. Sabertooth's testicles, suddenly untethered from each other, swung back against his inner thighs like heavy knots on the end of an unravelling sash-cord. Blood stained his pants around the zipper. For a moment the mutant felt as if someone had jammed a handful of ice into his crotch… and then the pain struck, hot and full of ragged teeth. Deadpool winced in sympathy. Sabertooth was tough, but there were human limits. He screamed, in a noticeably high voice, hands between his legs. His pants had turned bright red almost to the knees. Slade took the knife, flipped it so the blade was facing downward, and drove it into Sabertooth's right eyeball with an audible pop. Sabertooth didn't have the air to manage a scream, but did make a breathless noise and clapped a hand to his face. He was in no fit state to fight back now.

Slade ran his hand into Sabertooth's long hair as the mutant fell to his knees, jerked his head back so that Slade was the only thing holding him up, then slammed him face first into the floor as hard as he was capable. The force of Slade and the weight of Sabertooth's body drove the knife in far further, until the broken tip had punched through his skull and was protruding out the back of his head. Slade then lifted his foot, and stomped it down as hard as he could on the back of Sabertooth's neck, breaking it like a farmer dealing with a rabbit.

For a moment, Slade was still raring to go, not realising the fight was over. Then he let out a long sigh, releasing his bundled aggression and the considerable exertion that had flooded his body, and took an equally deep breath, settling down. "You were right. All over." He told Sabertooth, then glanced at his brother. "I think so, anyway. Think he'll stay down?"

Deadpool - who had been keeping out of the fight at least - hardly knew what to do about being acknowledged, but glanced at the mutant. "Well, I would." He admitted. "And I'm at least as crazy as he is, so…" As dangerous lunatics go, Deadpool was remarkably well-adjusted, or at least resigned to his condition.

Slade sighed again. "Good." He said, then looked down at himself critically. "&%$@, I'm a mess."

"Well, he definitely took the worst of it. And isn't that what matters?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is." Slade agreed. He paused a moment. "I think I'll go cleaned up. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

"What, in case he does some really exciting bleeding?"

"On the off chance he gets up." Slade made a fist with his left hand which was alright, then opened his hand, stretched a little, and nudged Sabertooth with his foot, but the big mutant was empathetically not moving. Slade took a deep breath, still coming out of the fight, then removed what was left of his jacket and body armor, shrugging out of it, leaving himself wearing nothing beyond his singlet.

Deadpool raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't help but be impressed. Slade was in absurdly - even ludicrously good physical condition, even before you considered his age, even by the standards of superheroes - he was built like a classical depiction of a gladiator. He had flawlessly chiseled pecks and stunning abdominals, with a noticeable heft to his deltoids and immaculately defined arms. His forearms were nearly the size of his biceps, and he had a thick, powerful neck, a build marred only by the scars all over his hands, and his arms, and everywhere, all of them faded away to ancient white lines, of the sort you mostly only can find on some lifelong bikers.

You had to really look hard, and know what you were looking hard for, to see the subcutaneous reinforcement to his muscles, the organic titanium fibers woven into his sinews, the copper wires where veins should be. Most superpowers that were designed, rather then an unlikely collaboration of factors and happy accident, don't come about by a single chemical and a one-time treatment. There were maybe six inches in Slade's big frame that hadn't had been rebuilt.

"Good idea. You have looked better." Deadpool mentioned.

"At least I'm still pretty." Slade retorted, staring down at himself as well, running a finger over his body, tracing the gouges the fight had left in him. Deadpool replied with a very rude gesture, that Slade ignored, though Wade was privately forced to agree. It really was a shame about the personality.

After due consideration, Slade decided he really wasn't much worse for wear, but it all added up. He sighed again, and stepped into a hotel room at random, nodding politely to the city council-member and escort he had been in the process of negotiating business with before the sounds of violence had made him decide he'd rather cower under the bed then commit a scandal (the man screamed and curled into a fetal position, the escort didn't even flinch, and neither did her cold and empty eyes), and then walked into the bathroom. He looked at his face fixedly in the wavery, spotted mirror for thirty seconds or more, then shook himself back to awareness with a physical jerk. He was spacing out again, losing his iron grip on the present. He had to stay focused - find his center. Or he'd start making mistakes, and sooner or later he'd die. Sooner, if he was going to go picking fights with people like Sabertooth.

Everything seemed right. He moved the way he always had, never missing a step or a trick. It was all in the right place.

And yet he still scarcely recognized himself.

He opened the medicine cabinet, favoring his left hand, and glanced at the odd little collection of items in the chest - things previous tenants hadn't thought worth stealing from the look of it: two disposable razors, one used (glancing up at the mirror, he mimed cutting his throat with it, it felt natural, inevitable almost, then tossed it into the bin); bottles of make-up; a compact; several wedges of fine-grained sponge, ivory-colored where they had not been stained a slightly darker color by face-powder; some gauzy bandages, some disinfectant, some of what he took to be thread, then realized was dental floss. Not exactly everything you'd need in an emergency, but good enough he supposed. He wasn't hugely concerned. First he began pushing the bones in hand back into place, letting his healing factor take care of the breaks. Besides that, his injuries were not particularly severe, and there was no chance they would turn septic; he was more or less immune to infection. He went through the motions, methodically treating himself, dealing with every scratch Sabertooth had caused in turn. His hands were steady, though his right throbbed nastily. This did not particularly upset him; he was a little sore, but Sabertooth had been beaten so severely he'd never forget it. He found himself staring at himself in the mirror again, and made himself look away, finished quickly then left the room.

The councilman was still cowering under the bed, either praying, crying or talking nonsense, Slade wasn't entirely sure. The escort had come to the conclusion that Slade wasn't planning on killing them, and was getting dressed. Slade ignored both of them.

Stepping back into the hallway, he tossed the supplies to his brother. "Get my back?"

"Sure thing." Deadpool replied, pleased despite himself to finally have something useful to do in this scene. Being a human rifftrax was all very well, but he was used to stealing the show, and the comic relief was very much a consolation prize. He winced a bit after seeing just what he had in the way of equipment, then shrugged and got on with it. His brother was pretty much all scar tissue already, so what did it matter?

"You know, you fight in such a brutal way it makes merely dirty fighting almost admirable." Deadpool said, with no small amount of admiration. "You just smacked him around like he was married to Hank Pym." Not really poor taste, that whole thing had been blown so far out of proportion it was ridiculous, but a little cruel perhaps. "I think I like watching you hurt him."

"I actually think I like hurting him." Slade replied. He checked his back, twisted without pulling the stitches, and nodded approvingly. "Thanks."

"I could say the same to you."

"You never need to."

"I know."

Sabertooth stirred. His healing factor was starting to catch-up. Slade loomed above Sabertooth, grabbed a handful of his hair again, suddenly icily calm. Sabertooth did his best to take a swing, but he was so uncoordinated with agony and the effects of the beating all he managed was to flop his arm around a bit. "You going to kill me?" Sabertooth managed to say, one bloody eye looking out through his hair.

Slade paused thoughtfully, giving this the honest consideration he felt it deserved. "Are you going to apologise?" He said after a moment.

Sabertooth thought about testing Slade further, and decided against it. His neck still wasn't straight, there was a piece of metal running into his brain and out the other side, and he didn't even want to think about the state of his groin and his chances of fathering any new children. No need to let the day get any worse. "Sorry." He coughed.

Slade looked at Deadpool. "That good enough?"

"Well, I guess sincerity is in the eye of the beholder." Deadpool  replied, wondering if there was going to be any more macho posturing, then shook his head. "No."

Slade bent down, seizing Victor Creed suddenly and very powerfully by the foot and jerked it. There was a cracking sound, and suddenly it was facing the wrong way, and the jagged splinters of the bone were poking through his skin. Sabertooth screamed, howling with pain. He almost threw-up. "You heard the man." Slade said mercilessly. "Sincerity. Like you mean it."

"I'm sorry!" Sabertooth shouted, between the screams.

"Well, there's more feeling, I guess." Deadpool allowed. "Though I'm pretty sure all he's feeling is pain. This'd be easier if we could just talk this through like ordinary people."

"My way is faster." Slade said.

"Well that much is true." Deadpool conceded. "It does save time being evil as %$&#."

"So will that do?"

"Will what do?"

"So you're happy then? Got your dollar's worth of closure?" Slade asked, speaking very slowly and patiently.

"Wait, that's what I was giving you the money for?" Deadpool blinked. "I thought you needed the change to catch a bus or something."

"That wasn't clear?" Slade asked, getting to his feet. Sabertooth wasn't in a state to start fighting again. He started clawing at the handle of the knife, trying to loosen it enough to get it out. "How was that not clear?"

Deadpool sighed. "It's not that I don't like watching him suffer, because really, this was a picture-worthy moment if there ever was one - I half want to put pictures of it up on my instagram account. But Slade, a dollar's worth of closure isn't even sending him a stern note. This is something you should be taking to a therapist about. I'm serious, you need so many years of professional help."

"Who has the time to waste?" Slade replied rhetorically, then glanced down at Sabertooth. "Good enough. Now, are you working for Mr Sinister?"

"What?" Sabertooth was healing, but he wasn't even close to recovered.

"Think carefully about your answer, if I'm not convinced, there are all sorts of things I might do."

"No! No, I'm not working for anyone!" He sounded more horrified at the idea then he did Slade beating him further.

"No? How about Stryker? Or Shaw? Working for them?"

"No!"

"Vandal Savage?"

"What?"

"That didn't sound like yes or no."

"No! I'm not working for anyone, alright!"

"If you're lying, I will skin you, and make you into a rug." Slade said, sounding ernest enough that you could believe it. Though given that he was indulging in some light torture with every sign of enjoyment it was hardly out of character.

"Why the %$#& would I lie?"

"Fair enough." Slade said, letting go of him and stepping away.

"Right." Sabertooth said, finally pulling the knife out of his face, and starting the slow and uncomfortable process of getting up. He was unsteady, he had a lot of healing left to do, but everything was all more or less back, and in a semblance of working order. Or so he hoped, at least.

Slade stepped back, and didn't try to stop him.

Getting to his feet, the mutant started brushing himself off.

"Want a job?" Slade said after a moment.

Sabertooth paused, considering it. "Yeah, alright." Sabertooth replied.

And that was that.

"I'm heading to the abandoned base. Meet us there."

"What?"

"You know which one."

Sabertooth paused a moment, then nodded. "I do." He thought of pointing out that they were kicking him out of his room, but didn't see much point, and wandered out. The police had probably been called given the destruction their fight had caused, it might be better to find somewhere to lie low.

Deadpool folded his arms. "Sabertooth? Really?"

"Good to have a guy like that around." Slade said plainly. He noted a couple of corpses were occupying a corner of the room Sabertooth had been living in, and they'd been scalped - the mutant was up to his old tricks. He supposed that was the smell people were complaining about, and he shook his head with a kind of exasperation. Bizarre as it was, the two of them actually got on surprisingly well, when they were on the same side. "Besides, if we're going to keep on running into one another, we might as well be the ones calling the shots."

"Yeah, no."

"We could kill him if you prefer."

"One day I will." Deadpool replied. "One day I'll kill him, and he'll stay that way. But that days not today." He folded his arms. "Look, if you need muscle Sabertooth has you covered. But you can't trust him."

"I don't. You're the only one I trust, brother." said Slade, and meant it. "To be honest, I don't have a clue what is going on. We’ve found ourselves in a war of lies, disguise and dissembling. But I don't care enough to want to know anyway. We're better off not trusting anyone. And at least I know what Sabertooth's interests are."

Deadpool didn’t look convinced. 

"Come on,’ Slade rumbled. "That’s why the two of us have survived this long. We fight smart, we always have. Brains have got us out of more scrapes than balls."

"In your case, I’d hardly trust either."

Slade stared at him. Deadpool opened his mouth to elaborate, but Slade was already leaving. With a sigh, Deadpool fell into step behind him. Sometimes it was enough to make you wish there were easy answers.