"Fury had died long ago. He wasn't bald either. He never even appeared in the question."
That was the answer Zombie Captain gave after agonizing over it for quite a while.
On Earth-2149, Nick Fury had been a white man with a crew cut streaked gray at the temples, always fond of keeping a cigar clenched between his teeth.
Everyone had eaten him.
"Wrong answer. Sigh, your brain just isn't suited for riddles. Did it never occur to you that Nick Fury might actually have been the princess? Your understanding of the multiverse is far too shallow."
Deathstroke gave the negative answer with a helpless expression. He brought a plate of grilled lamb skewers out from behind his shield and shared them with Strangle.
"The answer is that Fury died from pleasure that night. You couldn't even think of that? I'm very disappointed in you. Want another round?"
The rotten captain fell silent. His eyes were fixed on the little black bean sprout chewing skewers. Its slender tendrils curled around a skewer and stripped the meat off it between sharp fangs.
Chunks of fragrant lamb fell into that bottomless-pit-like mouth. The Symbiote's beautiful red tongue nimbly licked its lips. It was eating so happily.
The more he watched someone else eat, the hungrier he became. Hunger addiction was far more terrifying than nicotine or alcohol addiction, because those could be kicked, but nobody had ever heard of anyone quitting food.
It was like dieting: once a small exception was made, the deep-rooted craving for food would push a person farther and farther down the path.
Deathstroke's questions were like a devil's temptation. From his movements, he had clearly taken something else out behind the shield.
"If I guess right, you'll give it to me?"
The one-eyed man raised a brow