MIRROR IMAGE

As Slade Wilson stepped toward the stairwell door leading downward, a sudden bang shattered the night. The door burst open violently, swinging with a force that echoed across the rain-soaked rooftop. A shadowed figure emerged from the darkness, moving with an air of absolute authority.

Slade's first instinct was that another mercenary had arrived—perhaps someone who had once donned the name Deathstroke before.

But as the wind howled through Gotham's towering skyline, twisting the sheets of rain like a jagged curtain, the neon glow of the Wayne Enterprises logo illuminated both Slade and the approaching figure. It was then that he noticed something was off.

The person standing before him was identical to him in almost every way.

They wore the same tactical armor—black and yellow plating designed for mobility and durability. Every piece of equipment strapped to their suit was an exact replica of his own. The weapons, the placement of the gear, even the scabbard on their back—it was all the same. The only noticeable difference was that this version was slightly shorter, standing roughly one meter seventy.

The atmosphere shifted, thick with tension.

Instinct took over. Slade reached behind him, his hand curling around the compact metal staff sheathed along his back. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he twisted and pressed the release mechanism. The retracted staff expanded outward with a snap, extending to full length in an instant. He gripped it firmly, sliding into a combat stance—a familiar position born from years of muscle memory.

This was his weapon, his beloved tool of combat. The ends of the staff were equipped with powerful electrical charges, capable of sending an opponent into paralysis with a single well-placed strike. It also contained hidden anesthetic darts, useful for live captures—something his employers often preferred.

Then, something eerie happened.

The other figure mirrored his every move, down to the exact angle of his stance.

Slade froze for a second. If he hadn't watched the person step through the doorway, he would have sworn he was looking into a mirror. The synchronization was almost unnatural—not just in stance but in the speed at which they had prepared their weapon. Every motion was executed in perfect parallel.

For a long, silent moment, they simply stared at each other, both reading the situation.

Then, in unison, they both spoke:

"Who are you?"

Their voices, distorted by the modulated vocal filters in their masks, layered over each other like an eerie echo.

Then, again, at the exact same time:

"I am Deathstroke."

Neither of them flinched. The tension escalated as the realization set in—this was no mere impersonator. The other believed themselves to be Slade Wilson just as much as he did.

Rain hammered against their armor, but neither moved. Neither blinked. They simply observed, waiting for the inevitable.

A confrontation was unavoidable.

The imposter's movements were too calculated, too precise to be an amateur playing dress-up. This was someone who understood the way Slade Wilson fought—his instincts, his technique, his strategies. That alone made them dangerous.

Slade's mind worked at incredible speed. Thanks to his enhanced cognition—a gift of his past military experiments—he could process information nearly nine times faster than an average human. Within a fraction of a second, he cycled through possibilities:

Was this an advanced clone, created using his DNA?

A time-displaced version of himself?

A hallucination brought on by a new fear toxin from Scarecrow?

Or worse… was he the fake?

But that last thought was dismissed immediately. He felt real. His reflexes, his body, the raw familiarity of his own existence—none of it suggested fabrication. Which meant…

Whoever this was, they were standing on equal ground.

And in Gotham, there was only one way to settle a deadlock.

Without hesitation, both fighters lunged.

CLANG!

Metal struck metal in midair, the force of their staffs colliding sending sparks flying between them. The sheer power behind the impact forced them apart, each of them skidding back across the slick rooftop. Water splashed beneath their boots as they repositioned, staffs raised defensively.

Slade exhaled sharply beneath his mask. That first exchange had told him everything—this opponent was his equal in both strength and skill.

The other Deathstroke did not pursue, instead settling into the same cautious stance. Like him, they were analyzing, calculating—waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Then, another realization hit him.

The helmet's right-side vision was slightly impaired due to the mask's design. This meant if the imposter was not accustomed to wearing it, they would have difficulty tracking movement from the right side.

A potential weakness.

Slade's mind locked onto the strategy immediately. He needed to exploit the blind spot. His best chance was to aim for the opponent's right foot—force them off balance and create an opening.

He moved first.

His staff cut through the rain-soaked air in a perfect arc.

But—so did the imposter's.

Both of them had the exact same thought.

CRACK!

The staffs clashed again, rebounding from one another with identical force. The symmetry between them was uncanny. Slade had anticipated the strike, but so had the other Deathstroke. It was like fighting a perfect reflection of himself.

They broke apart once more, each landing in a crouched stance—staffs poised like scorpion tails behind them, primed to unleash a strike.

Slade's mind raced. Damn it. This isn't going to end quickly. If this imposter truly matched his every move, this fight could drag on indefinitely. And that was a problem.

Fights in Gotham never went unnoticed.

If they didn't resolve this soon, someone—be it Batman, the GCPD, or one of Gotham's many villains—would intervene.

A different approach was needed.

"Wait!" Slade barked.

At the exact same time, the imposter spoke:

"Wait!"

Both of them froze.

Slade felt an odd sensation—something like an echo inside his own mind. It was unsettling. It wasn't just their actions that were mirroring each other; it was their thought processes as well.

"Put down the weapon, let's talk!" they both said simultaneously.

Slade clenched his jaw beneath the mask. This was getting ridiculous.

"You put it down first!" X2.

"Let's put them down together!" X2.

The absurdity of the situation was almost enough to make him laugh.

Realizing that neither of them was going to gain the upper hand this way, Slade sighed and reached for the clasp on his helmet.

The imposter did the same.

With a soft click, both helmets unlocked and were pulled away, revealing the faces beneath.

Slade's single eye widened.

The imposter—his mirror—was not a man.

She was a woman.

Short blonde hair, sharp features, and a cold, calculating expression. A black eye patch covered her right eye, just like his own. But she was younger—mid to late twenties at most.

She exhaled, studying him with an equally scrutinizing gaze.

"You're a man?" she muttered, almost incredulous.

Slade arched a brow. "You're surprised? Lady, I've been the same gender my whole damn life."

She narrowed her eye. "A strong man is rare. The only one I know of is—never mind." She shook her head and took a step back. "Name's Cindy Wilson. But I think you already figured that out."

Slade processed the name. Wilson.

A version of himself from another reality.

And judging by the way she carried herself, by the way she spoke…

He wasn't the only one with questions.