"How many is this?"
In the depths of Limbo, Deathstroke held up two fingers and waved them before Baldr's eyes.
The warrior, with nothing left in one eye socket but a bloody hole and even his eyelid gouged away, was wrapping himself in a filthy rag. At the same time, he watched Hela warily with his remaining eye, showing no intention of answering Deathstroke's question.
Though he wore nothing but a strip of bug hide around his waist, was filthy as a mud-caked monkey, and stank no less than Wade, he had his back pressed tightly against the wall, trying to maintain a more advantageous fighting stance. That at least showed that his mind had recovered.
His remaining eye would occasionally peer through the gaps between the three of them toward the pitch-black insect tunnel, as if he were planning to escape.
"The Sorcerer Supreme is asking you a question. Answer him, my foolish little brother." Hela prodded Baldr's head with the Blackstone spike in her hand. "Or do you want to die again?"
"Heh." Baldr remained unmoved and even laughed. "Then go ahead, my sister of unknown origins. You came all this way to find me. It wasn't just to kill me again, was it?"
Deathstroke smiled and shook his head. He slowly crouched, leaning on Godslayer, which had taken the form of a scimitar. "That's right. Baldr, God of Light, you really are a clever little fellow. We do have something for you to do."
"I refuse. How could an Asgardian warrior serve the mortals of Midgard? What a joke!"
Baldr refused with remarkable resolve, not even bothering to hear Su Ming's terms.
Words alone were not enough; he immediately turned his head aside to better convey his "contempt."
"Oh? I like tough guys like you. If I