SHADOWS OF GOTHAM

"It seems someone else had the same idea as us."

Slade Wilson pressed down on the pedals of his unicycle, the rough terrain making every movement precarious. He held his dual pistols at the ready, fingers resting on the triggers. Beside him, Cindy mirrored his actions, her posture equally tense. In the unpredictable chaos of Gotham, a shotgun was too cumbersome at close range—versatility was king.

"At least we can cross Harley off the list. She and Ivy drink like alley cats with a bottomless bowl of whiskey. No way they made it here before us," Cindy remarked as she adjusted her grip and slid her helmet back on. The Deathstroke mask was her mark, a grim reminder to those who crossed her path. If these people were going to die tonight, she wanted them to know exactly who was responsible.

"It doesn't really matter who got here first," Slade replied, his voice calm despite the rising tension. "Whoever they are, they're in our way. The ones who used to keep Gotham in check are gone. No bats in the sky, no shadows in the alleys. It's open season."

After their encounter with the rogue circus, Slade had stopped resisting the truth—he wasn't just borrowing Deathstroke's body. He was Deathstroke. His past self felt like an old tenant in a house long since abandoned. Slade Wilson, the man he used to be, was a whisper in the wind, a ghost of decisions long past. This body was his now, and with it, he would carve a new legend.

Cindy didn't fully understand the internal shift happening beside her, but she could feel it. Something fundamental about Slade had changed. It was like watching a man step out of a dream and accept the world around him for the first time.

She was curious but knew better than to ask. Instead, she holstered one of her pistols, keeping the other ready. Whatever had shifted inside him, it didn't change the mission.

The two soon arrived at their destination—a small park leading up to Gotham Central Police Station. The storm had turned the ground into a sea of mud, and the lawn was submerged under rainwater. In the darkness, the station loomed ahead, its fortress-like architecture defying the years.

Gotham Central had stood since the city's founding. Though renovations had altered its shape over time, the core design remained—thick walls, narrow windows, and defensive towers. The roof had guard rails and a reinforced structure, hinting at a history of rooftop chases and last stands. The Bat-Signal still sat atop its platform, though whether it would ever light the sky again was another question entirely. The massive GCPD sign above the entrance had weathered time, its solemn lettering barely illuminated by the flickering streetlights.

In the parking lot, a swarm of black vans blocked the entrance, lined up in a jagged formation like a fleet of warships in a storm. Bodies of fallen officers lay sprawled across the pavement, rain washing their blood down the steps in crimson rivulets. Near the entrance, figures in dark suits prowled with submachine guns, scanning the area like restless wolves.

"Black suits, black felt hats, silk scarves, and those Thompson submachine guns…" Slade observed. "Their boss must be a Godfather fan. Or should I say Godmother in this world?"

Cindy crouched beside him, half-hidden by the rain-drenched bushes. "Gotham's gangs have dressed like this since forever," she muttered. "Hard to tell who they are just by their wardrobe."

She glanced toward the sky. The storm was a gift—it dulled sound, obscured vision, and created natural cover. "Good conditions for an ambush. If we move now, we'll have the advantage."

Slade nodded. "Their target is probably Gordon. We create a distraction, force them to split their focus. If they pin him down first, we'll have problems."

Without waiting for further discussion, he bolted from cover.

Cindy barely had time to react before Slade was in motion, raising his pistols mid-sprint and opening fire. His mind worked in calculations faster than thought—distance, wind speed, impact trajectory. It wasn't just Deadshot who had an unnatural precision. Deathstroke had it too, but his mind didn't just aim—it predicted.

A hundred meters was just outside a pistol's effective range, but that didn't matter. Slade was in perfect sync with his new self. Each shot found its mark with deadly certainty.

The first wave of black suits collapsed before they even registered what was happening.

The storm howled, rain hammering against the pavement, masking his rapid approach. He darted across the road, vaulted over a barricade, and reached the vans in seconds. With a fluid motion, he grabbed the edge of one vehicle and hauled himself onto the roof.

The gangsters finally reacted, unleashing a barrage of bullets. Sparks danced across Slade's armor as the shots struck, but he never stopped moving. He fired between bursts, every shot cutting through the night with surgical precision.

Within moments, silence fell.

Cindy landed beside him on the van roof, glancing at the bodies below with a smirk. "Tsk, tsk. You couldn't wait for me?"

Slade shrugged. "They seemed eager for a fight."

"You call this a fight? Looks more like a clearance sale." Cindy hopped down, kicking a spent shell casing aside. "No one's paying us for this mission. We're covering our own ammo. Next time, use a knife."

"Does everything need to be so precise?" Slade responded, scooping up a discarded submachine gun and checking the drum. "Besides, they were kind enough to bring extra .45 rounds. I spent thirty bullets to clear the field and just reloaded for free. Sounds like a fair trade to me."

To anyone listening, it sounded less like a discussion about a gunfight and more like two shoppers comparing bargains at a department store.

They moved toward the station's entrance, stepping over bodies. But Slade suddenly halted, his gaze locking onto one of the fallen gangsters.

One of them was still breathing.

Though every shot he fired had aimed for the heart, this one had beaten the odds. There was a rare condition—dextrocardia, where the heart was on the right side instead of the left. He had finally encountered one of those one-in-a-thousand cases.

Slade knelt beside her, his scarlet mask gleaming under the streetlights. With a swift motion, he kicked her gun away. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate.

The woman's body convulsed. Blood bubbled at the corner of her lips, but she laughed—a hoarse, rattling sound. "The boss… won't let you go, Deathstroke."

Under his mask, Slade raised an eyebrow. Mind's slipping, he thought. Every other witness here was dead. Who would tell her boss what happened?

Unless…

He stood, dusting rain off his armor.

"Good," he murmured. "I want her to know."