Blood Ties

Chapter 11 -A Missing Presence-

Slade shoved the magazine into the gun before sharply cocking it and slinging it over his shoulder. The mercenary slid two deadly katanas into their sheaths with a slither of metal on leather. He grabbed a few extra knives and placed them in their hidden slots, then reached for a long orange band and tied it around the top of his forehead. He grabbed his two-colored helmet with a clunk of his metal armored glove on the helmet.

He twisted around and left the room. He stalked down the empty concrete hall, his heavy boots thudding against the floor, white lights highlighting his graying hair.

Slade rose the helmet to his head and clicked it on, the tails of the bandana clamped in place by the leather strap that made the mask isolated and filtered.

Deathstroke kept his steel gray eye straight ahead as he plodded along. He paused when he saw an open door to his right. He gazed into the room for a moment, observing scattered belongings and crumbs over a rumpled bed.

He shut the door and moved on.

Deathstroke emotionlessly ignored the vacant second motorcycle and headed for his own vehicle. He pressed a button on the hidden panel on his glove, the ground slightly rumbled and the air reverberated with the grumbled sign that the hidden door to the garage was opening. Deathstroke swept a leg over his seat, settling comfortably on it before kicking up the kickstand and revving his engine.

Deathstroke tore out of the garage, speedily gaining ground as he felt the wind rip at the bandana trailing behind him.

He allowed the song of tires on asphalt and guttural roar of the engine to engulf his ears, silently driving until he was free from the shadows of the underground base. The high noon sun beat down upon his dark suit, soaking up the heat but easily cooled by the high speed wind his acceleration created.

He drove lazily but not uncautiously, weaving between cars, people in allies, and the garbage strewn about Gotham's streets. Cars honked at him, a few people screamed, most stayed out of the way of his speeding. Probably because when a one-eyed armored man on a motorcycle is screaming towards you, you keep out of the way.

He let routine guide his motions, his eye single to one goal.

He slowed as he drew closer to his destination, hitting another secret button to open the gate. Deathstroke creeped into the small garage, cutting the engine to roll in silently.

He lifted the kickstand with his foot as he slid off his mechanical mount, eye gazing around out of habit to secure his surroundings. Everything was the same, just a bit more dirty.

A few rusted blades hung on the wall, a strip of small bombs in their rightful place. A layer of dust coated the counters and weapons, and the ground had a considerable amount of dirt and grime. Nothing surprising, simply logical after not being used in a few odd years.

Deathstroke didn't pay attention to the details as he climbed the creaky stairs worn with age. The paint was peeling off the walls, some places even had ragged holes where the walls were hit by something. Some were suspiciously shaped like bullet holes, others slash marks of a blade. Scuff marks littered the walls and floor, but Deathstroke had seen it all before and paid it no mind. The mercenary turned to a hallway, the carpet matted and unrecognizable. His footsteps thumped against the once mahogany carpet as he came up to a familiar door.

He stood in front of it for a moment, staring at the not-so-white plastic planks of painted wood.

He violently kicked the door open before stepping calmly inside, eye scanning for any sudden movement.

Deathstroke entered a familiar room, but paid it no heed as he walked forward to a cracked and hazed window. On the wall opposite to the window a slit in the wall held no interest to the mercenary, neither did the giant blood stain around the slit. He didn't even glance in that direction as he looked down and ran his gloved fingers along the ledge of the window. Then he pried his fingers under the pane and lifted. The window gave way and it opened until it skidded to a stop, the window refusing to shift more than halfway. The mercenary climbed out of the stuck window, boots clunking against the metal fire escape.