THE DEATH KNELL

Slade Wilson picked up the small laptop resting on the table, its surface still faintly warm from the little girl's hands. He tapped the keyboard rapidly, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he entered the name into Batgirl's system.

No results.

Frowning, he switched to an appearance-based search, letting the algorithm scan through Gotham's vast surveillance network. Still nothing.

Unsurprising. Batman's security measures were meticulous, and Slade had fully expected to be erased from the system. He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. This had been a long shot anyway.

He set the laptop down and rolled his shoulders, shifting his weight as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. The dim glow of the Batcave's overhead lights reflected off the metallic trim of the table, casting sharp angles of shadow across the room.

Barbara watched him carefully. Without a word, she moved away from the workstation and returned to the table, her expression unreadable. She didn't ask him about the results of his search—didn't press him for answers. Instead, she let the silence settle between them, as if what had just happened was already something of the past.

She changed the subject. "You said Indian Mountain is really that terrifying?"

Slade let the cigar rest between his fingers, considering her for a moment before answering. "If my memory serves, then yes. The moment you step through the doors of that underground research facility, all you'll see are monsters—things twisted by science gone wrong." His voice was steady, but there was something darker beneath it. A quiet recollection of the horrors he had seen.

Barbara shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "That's... unsettling."

Slade exhaled, watching the smoke curl lazily into the air before continuing, "But let me correct one thing. Deathstroke doesn't get scared. And he never abandons a mission."

Barbara tilted her head, her sharp mind latching onto his words. "Then what is your mission?" She paused before adding, "I can't imagine someone paid you to save me or my father. We don't exactly have that kind of money."

Slade studied her, noting how quickly she had adjusted to the situation. Just hours ago, she had seemed overwhelmed, a young woman thrust into a world far larger and deadlier than she had anticipated. But now, she was thinking clearly—rationally.

She was learning.

"Some things can't be bought," Slade said finally, flicking the ashes of his cigar onto the table. The smooth metal darkened slightly from the heat, a faint yellowed stain marring its otherwise flawless surface.

Barbara didn't push further. Instead, she lowered her gaze, her fingers absently rubbing at the sleeve of her sweater.

At that moment, Victor made her entrance. She dropped into a chair, exhaling loudly as she sprawled across the table. Pete, her partner, followed closely behind, looking as though he had just run a marathon.

Slade pushed a half-finished bottle of whiskey toward her, and Victor wasted no time in taking it, tilting it back for a long drink.

"We found their base," she said between breaths. "So... what's the plan?"

Slade exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. "We go in. We extract Gordon."

Victor blinked. "And that's... bad?"

Slade glanced at Pete, who had gone unusually quiet. The man's complexion had paled considerably, and the way his shoulders tensed suggested he had already pieced things together.

"It's a trap," Slade said bluntly. "No doubt about it."

Victor groaned, rolling her eyes. "Of course it is. Nothing's ever simple, huh?"

Slade ignored her sarcasm. Instead, he turned his attention back to Barbara. "You're coming with us."

She stiffened slightly. "What?"

"Without you, your father won't trust us. He needs to see you to know we're on his side."

Victor leaned forward, smirking. "Oh, but we don't get the same protection?"

Slade arched a brow. "You're a journalist. You knew the risks when you got involved."

Victor grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Fair point."

Slade stood, rolling his shoulders. "You'll need hazmat suits. Gas masks. The place we're going isn't exactly safe."

Victor practically lit up with excitement. "Oh hell yeah! I've been waiting for something like this. This is like a full-blown Resident Evil scenario." She elbowed Pete, who still looked half-dead. "C'mon, get moving! We need to find the gear."

Pete groaned but obeyed, trudging off toward the storage areas of the Batcave.

Slade turned to Barbara. "Victor will help you get suited up."

Victor gave a mock salute. "Roger that."

Barbara hesitated, glancing at Slade. "You're not wearing one?"

He smirked slightly. "My helmet has built-in filtration. I'll be fine."

Victor scribbled something in her notebook. "Deathstroke—possibly cybernetic? Enhanced biology? Intriguing..."

Slade narrowed his eyes at her, but she simply grinned and ran off.

Barbara remained by his side, looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher.

"Do you like redheads?" she asked suddenly.

Slade blinked. "What?"

"You seem... different around Victor."

He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. "You're overthinking things."

Barbara frowned slightly but didn't push the topic further.

As Slade lit his cigar again, he exhaled a slow breath, watching as the smoke curled into the air—shifting, twisting into the vague shape of a skull before dispersing.

For now, there were more pressing matters at hand.

Tomorrow, they would walk straight into a trap.

And Slade Wilson planned to make sure they were the ones walking out of it alive.