The assassin didn't respond at first. He finished paying for his coffee and drank what was left of it before tucking away the firearm.
His stroll to her table was casual, almost as if greeting an old friend, and he all too comfortably helped himself to the seat across from-
hers.
Slade's sunglasses hid his already muted emotions, but it was clear this was man who'd been in situations like this for many decades now.
"Who sent you?", asked Slade as he shuffled in his seat to get comfortable. In his head he had already calculated at least 23-
Slade is entirely at ease, a folded paper on the table of the cafe, one hand resting delicately on the handle of a Turkish coffee.
He takes a sip and seems utterly unaware. If only the red laser a handgun didn't peak out from under the table and point right at her.
"Something childish."
The voice responded, a masked figure descended from his perch, landing on the ground in almost perfect silence.
"Curiosity."
He wore a mask, obscuring any discernible emotion beyond the coldness of a single eye.
"I wonder if I'd be like you if I-
He looks into the mirror, beard long and unkempt, a hole in the socket his eyepatch usually covered. He looked old. Damn did the years seem to suddenly sneak up on him. And what's to show for it? What is left now? Not even Deathstroke remains.
Now Slade is something far worse.
stroke.xn--6ii/
My omnibus is coming soon and I'm so excited.
I've done my fair share of political manipulation, too. Just different methods.
Best of luck with yours.
