Winning over Deathstroke

A madman!

An absolute madman!

That was Talon's assessment of Deathstroke.

Simple, but it cut to the bone.

This had been an utterly unplanned outburst of rage, every punch and kick expressing simple, direct hatred.

Talon braced himself against the wall and stood. Even the gentlest breath sent pain shooting through his nerves.

His gaze fell on the unconscious Deathstroke.

This was a perfect chance to finish him off.

But he didn't dare.

He couldn't be sure the man wasn't pretending, waiting to deliver another fatal blow.

Talon had been terrified out of his wits. Over more than a century, he had personally severed countless heads-unfortunate souls who interfered with the plan, Talons who failed to measure up-but never had he been dragged into a quagmire of hand-to-hand combat like today's, discarding weapons to claw and bite like a beast.

He never wanted to see Deathstroke again. Even thinking about the man made his stomach churn.

Talon didn't dare linger. He stumbled his way down from the rooftop.

Fortunately, the "double" had hidden in an alley, where the troublemakers hadn't spotted him.

After a harrowing series of setbacks, the mission was complete. In Wayne Tower's underground parking garage, Talon handed the double over to Harold.

"What happened? You look like someone shoved you into a paper shredder."

"Worse than that... urgh!"

The thought of Deathstroke made Talon's stomach spasm. Bracing himself against a concrete pillar, he vomited a mouthful of bloody fluid, along with the broken pieces of rebar lodged in his stomach.

Thank God. That felt much better.

Meanwhile, Harold remained highly vigilant after taking custody of Bruce. He circled him several times, scrutinizing his handiwork from head to toe.

"What are you looking at?!" Talon asked.

"I need to make sure those bastards aren't pulling another fast one."

That remark angered Talon.

He had every reason to be angry. He had risked his life to bring this man back, only to have him suspected of being a fake. By thinking that, Harold was questioning both his ability and his intelligence.

"I nearly died out there, and you think I brought back a fake... besides, Bruce Wayne is dead. There's only one person left with that face!"

Talon bit out every word, his teeth clenched as though he wanted to devour Harold alive.

He considered his reasoning flawless-if Bruce Wayne were still alive, there would have been no need for Deathstroke to infiltrate the place in disguise.

Besides, Mr. Double's eyes were filled with terror, his speech halting and incoherent. Clearly, the battle between the undying men had scared him senseless.

That was hardly how Batman should behave.

"What you should be doing now is taking him to a psychiatrist and making sure nothing goes wrong at the Equity Transfer Ceremony in a week!"

Harold felt a vague unease, but his rebuttal caught in his throat.

Having lived under Liam Wayne's control since childhood, he didn't dare defy his father.

Meanwhile, in Gotham's East End, William followed the noise and found Deathstroke lying on a rooftop.

"Wake up. No sleeping here."

"You think you're funny?"

Deathstroke turned his head toward that loathsome face.

The man who had made him impersonate Batman for a month had appeared. Before coming here, Deathstroke had sworn to stab his wakizashi through the man's belly over and over, but strangely, the moment that face appeared, the anger in his heart quietly faded.

He even felt a little like smiling.

Damn! This is fucking disgusting.

He swatted away William's offered hand.

"Don't offer me your cheap pity. And get lost! While I still don't feel like killing you."

"So a rotten personality really is written into a person's genes. Looking back, I can't believe it myself. How did I ever mistake someone like you for Batman?"

Deathstroke held his head and turned to leave, only for William's words to stop him in his tracks.

Beside them, Alfred tightened his grip on his gun, and Casey raised her fists to her chest.

"What did you say?"

"Are you deaf?"

William knew he shouldn't provoke Deathstroke right now, but everyone had a temper. Over the past month, he felt he had treated Slade well. He could even say he had offered him genuine friendship. Though some of that had been colored by a selfish desire to befriend Batman, he still couldn't stand how quickly the man had turned on him.

"Heh! Yeah, I should thank you. Without your damned plans, I still wouldn't have my memories back. So what now? Do you need me to kneel at your feet and kiss the back of your hand?"

Deathstroke knew exactly where his anger came from.

He had never thought much of Batman, a fool like Sisyphus who imagined he could save Gotham through violence.

Yet during his amnesia, he had tried to play that clown, even treating Bruce as a figure to chase after.

He couldn't forgive his former self, so he could only pour his anger onto the man who had started it all.

But the instant Deathstroke met William's disappointed gaze, a powerful wave of sadness welled up inside him.

Only a short while ago, they had still been friends.

Of course, Deathstroke had no idea that his inner thoughts were displayed in full inside a speech bubble.

After reading them, most of William's anger dissipated. If this friend was destined to leave, he would let him go.

"Don't go after Talon. They're an organized legion of undying soldiers. You can beat one, but you can't beat a whole group."

William's warning came from behind Deathstroke after he turned to leave.

William didn't mind sharing Alfred's intelligence with Deathstroke. Even if they had fallen out completely, he didn't want to see the man throw his life away.

But that very remark, spoken without any ulterior motive, filled the last half-segment of Deathstroke's affection meter.

[Congratulations! You have successfully won over the amnesiac maiden Slade Wilson.]

Deathstroke stopped once again. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath.

"I'll come get my luggage tomorrow. Tell Wolf I won't be boxing anymore."

With Deathstroke's departure, this phase of the operation was essentially over. All that remained was to wait for Bruce to make his move at the Equity Transfer Ceremony.

Alfred invited William to his bar for a chat. This was an excellent opportunity to get to know Bruce and the butler hero better. There was no reason to refuse.

After seeing Casey and Floyd off, Alfred also took charge of Bruce's double.

Through their conversation, William learned that Alfred was something of an old Gotham hand. After retiring from MI7, he had returned to his hometown and opened a small bar. Back when Gotham's gangs ran rampant, he had even served as Falcone's adviser, working alongside Maroni to expand that underworld emperor's territory.

No wonder Alfred carried such a strong air of the underworld about him.

While Alfred turned to order a drink, William discreetly used his hands to measure the circumference of his arm.

Tsk, tsk. Still built like a double-door refrigerator despite pouring down glass after glass of whiskey. This gentleman pushing sixty really was blessed by nature.

Alfred turned back with another drink in his hand.

William withdrew his hand and continued asking questions.

"What happened after that?"

"I met Thomas Wayne. He was a good man. Gotham's corporate wars were raging back then, and he hired me as a bodyguard to stay alive."

"What kind of corporate war requires bodyguards to get involved?"

"The kind where you send assassins to kill key figures in the other company, of course. What else would it be? Market manipulation, corporate bribery, or digging up inside information? That's child's play!!!" Amid hearty laughter, he drained his glass.

William laughed too. After all, the dirty tricks he had just been imagining included drowning someone's money tree and braising their silver arowana.

After several rounds of drinks, Alfred gradually began to open up.

"Bruce is still wary of you, actually. I'm the one who insisted on helping you. Do you know why?"

"William, I already knew you when you were still crying in your swaddling clothes."