The Freaking Deathstroke!

June 11, 2015:

Two parter in one because one is short. Lunair gets recruited for a thing. By the Deathstroke (not just any one, THE).

New York probably

It's New York!


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

"So how does it work?" asks a deep resonant voice as a man in a suit of full on armor laden down with weapons a plenty plops down in the seat across from Lunair. With a slice of pizza half way to her mouth and a paper cup of soda sweating it's merry self all over the wire rack steel table top it's likely the last place in the world anyone would expect Deathstroke to just… be. The single eye slot stares at her with a soft redish glow as he speaks, hands lazily crossed on his lap as he lounges in the metal wire chair in a manner that says 'comfy' despite the F2000 slung idly across his chest like it was hanging from a tac vest. "The thing with the guns I mean." he clarifies. People around them begin to scream and run away. He seems unaffected.

Lunair is an odd creature, encompassing large amounts of violence and a strangely puppylike, friendly side. Maybe like a puppy with grenades. Headtilt. She's as surprised as anyone else, but she doesn't know much different. She lacks a lot of social context. Deathstroke is like a cat, she thinks. He drops in when he wants to and that's that. That's just what a Deathstroke do. Sort of like another one-eyed person she knows. Sort of. She's not sure, but if someone asked her, that is what Lunair would say.

She was about to nomf the pizza, before She kind of blinks at Deathstroke. There's a thoughtful look. "What do you mean exactly? I create what I need as I need it, usually. I tend to create them loaded. If I have something of an understanding or a desire to create a working thing, then I can most certainly do that. It need not be this time period or universe's technology. Armor and certain objects, too." Pause. "… don't tell anyone about the magnetic keys I can make. If they don't know, I can't get in trouble for it." Nomf. Devious git.

Deathstroke tilts his head to the side, "Make Excalibur." he says as if he were calling her bluff. He continues to ignore the fleeing people all around.

Headtilt. "The sword and its magic properties or the destiny attached to it?" She considers. "I think I could make a copy of it, but not it itself. Still, let's give this a go." Somehow, Lunair is a bit uncertain. There are laws in the cosmos that even she can't break. A weird guy once told her about a forth wall. She's not really sure. But she can at least make a sword with similar properties. "I usually do high tech stuff, not magic," Lunair admits. It is a powerful sword, and decently enhanced. But certain things cannot be replicated. Still, freaking nice sword. It even looks like something a kink of England can tote around. She looks around. "People seem really upset about something."

Is it Deathstroke's weapon? A shrug. Oh well. Munch.

Deathstroke eyes the sword but doesn't touch it, "Taurus .45 1911 with adamantium rounds." he lists next.

"Okie dokey," That's easy enough. Lunair can do that. The gun appears neatly loaded with ammo beside it. It's quite a nice gun, too. Looks sleek, new and shiny. So shiny. Although, the safety is on because no one needs to put out an eye in here.

Deathstroke plucks up the side arm and the mag, he pauses for a moment before pulling a monster combat blade from his vest and uses the weapon's edge to test the bullets, "Interesting." he states evenly, the knife sliding back into it's quick draw sheath with a practiced motion. He sets both weapon and load down on the table in front of him, "Limitations?" he asks, and more adn more he's starting to sound like someone buying a car.

And that fact does quietly amuse Lunair, but she's used to it. She has a very odd sort of power, and is still learning a great deal about her limitations herself. She watches him quietly, curious and alert. She looks thoughtful a moment. "Well. The weapons aren't permanent. That would be too much, but mostly I've found that it's my understanding of things. Or scale. I can't pull a jet out of nowhere and have it launch missiles at someone. I did drop a car on a guy once, but I was really tired after," And caught a cold. "I get kind of sick if I overdo it, but it takes a lot - like if I shift weapons constantly. Ummm…" Chintap with a fingertip.

A shrug. "Besides that sort of stuff, I have to know what it is I am making and understand it a little. But that's no problem. I can read up on things." In some cases, knowledge IS power. It would seem her powers are a bit untested. "Like, I figured out powered armor. That wasn't too bad." One of the great truths of the universe is that sometimes having abjectly terrible social skills really tanks you, and no one knows you're super intelligent. Not even oneself. "I tend not to do nuclear things because that seems to get away from me a bit." In long and short, she has to know what she makes, nothing too overtly huge and she burns out. Thank goodness for summaries.

The escape from the cops is remarkably easy all things considered, after all Luna's all civvied up. It's not a long drive, but it pushes the 30 min deadline set by the crazy fully armed merc that showed up to ruin her lunch, and arriving there one feels that being armed was the best option all along. Skeezy part of town to say the least, and skeezy comes with a helping of very poor graffiti

Lunair also has another trick up her sleeve. She can alter or create clothes, too. She is a lot sneakier than people give her credit for and being able to change one's garb or armor in a heartbeat is a vastly underrated ability. And yes, she will probably shift into riding gear when she's not being watched. Ahem. And she looks around herself, frowning. "Is that the letter b or a penis?" Squint. "… mmn, I am not an art major." Oh well, she lets it go. Skeezy is useful in its own ways.

She stows her helmet, locking the Vespa up and looking around. Right, time to head into the aforementioned place.

The pawn shop in question is what one expects in this part of town, bullet proof glass, barred windows, reinforced barred door, old faded paper signs bleached almost unreadable by the sun and a neon sign that proudly claims this establishment is 'en', as the letters O and P are just to much for it to bother with illuminating. Inside it's much the same, lots of see through lock boxes complete with guns, lots and lots and lots and lots of guns. And random musical instruments.

Ehn is about right. Lunair tries not to think about it too much, as she stops, looks around, opens the door carefully, looks around. She might be youthful but she's generally careful. Hmm. Well, at least she hasn't needed to pull her armor up just yet. Not yet.

"Still a bit to trusting. We'll have to work on that." Deathstroke says from behind a rack of old comics where he, somehow, managed to blend in with the background behind him. Prolly all the guns on him, made him disappear in this room. He flips through a Captain Cosmic idly, "Used to love this guy." he says off handedly before stuffing it back in the spinning rack, "Whatasissy." he then glances at Lunair and crosses hsi arms over his chest, "Here are the rules. If you join this team you do what I say when I say. You will be required to engage in a long training period during which time you will not be allowed contact with anyone outside of the team itself. You are not to divulge any knowledge you gain of this team or it's exsistence to anyone at any time. Assuming you survive the first training session, not a guarentee in the least, you will make the team, if you do not survive you'll become a passenger on a Malaysian airways flight that is mysteriously lost over the ocean and never recovered." which might explain quite a bit, "Each mission completed successfully will see a sizeable deposit made into personal accounts under your name, this money will be tax free and clean. You will continue your life, after the trainning missions, as you see fit until you are called in again. Once per month we will train as a unit, if the team calls you don't have the option to hit ignore or hang up on us. Ever. You join, I own your ass. Period." he pauses, "Now here's the mission statement… There are people in this world with unlimited power, people who's abilities are so far beyond superhuman that the title doesn't do them justice. These people are kept in check by whatever moral code they hold dear, however power corrupts and power on that level eventually leads to them asking the question 'why don't I just make up my own rules?'. Currently there is no answer to that question, and it's because of recent events, such as the Atlantean Invasion, that this team is being formed. We will become the answer to questions like 'who could stop me?'. Most of this job will be hunting the so called villains, though occasionally a hero may step out of line and be reminded of The Rules."

He steps towards her, "Make no mistake, this is not an easy thing, this job will have a high casualty rate. You will make friends. You will watch those friends die in agony and no one but you will remember them or know what they did. This job is not about heros or villains, good or evil, it's about maintaining a certain degree of order. If you join I will break you. I will bleed from you every single last ounce of weakness your possess, I will march you through fire and pain you can't imagine to temper you into an unbreakable weapon… or I'll kill you in the attempt." he adds almost as an after thought.

That is a hazard of youth and of using social skills as a dump stat. Lunair blinks owlishly. Her eyes widen a bit. "Really?" She tilts her head, curiously. She didn't know he was even into comics. Far as she reckons, he spinkicked his way into the world or something. She is watching him curiously, intently - not unlike a feral animal, wary and somewhat frenetic. But still now, uneasy. She nods, hming softly. To show she's listening. That - plane business somehow makes a lot of ense.

She's processing it. Though she tries not to wince at the owned part. Being a lab creation, and constantly referred to as a bit of property, it makes her somewhat uneasy. And she remembers the Atlantean Invasion. She was there. Her silence does not mean inactivity. There's distance and thought. Hmmn. On the other hand… this could be incredibly educational. She furrows her brows. "Okay. Yes. I'm bad at grand speeches," She admits quietly.

Deathstroke shakes his head at her answer, "See that right there?" he asks, poitning at her face, "That was foolish. Much like telling me your powers and weaknesses just because I asked. I gave you a sales pitch and it took you less then thirty seconds to agree. Stupid." he makes a buisness card appear in his gauntleted hand as if by magic and holds it out to her. It's nothing more then a business card with a number on it, "Three days." he says as he offers it to her, "That's how long you have. Think, and I mean think, on this and come up with questions. That's an answering service, leave any question you want, I will return your call with an answer in short order. In three days you leave a message with a simple yes or no, if it's no then we'll likely never meet again and this conversation will have never have happened. If you say yes then I will hurtle you face first into the most lethal situations you've ever not imagined were possible. I will beat you into shape, literally. Assuming of course you survive the initial training test." his tone suggests that he thinks that unlikely.

"Okay," Lunair looks a bit sheepish. She accepts the card. "I - understand." Though, she frowns faintly. This runs counter to so much she's ever done in life, but that too, may be an invaluable lesson. "Thanks." She'll nod, and takes a deep breath. "I will go think," She promises. And Lunair will furrow her brows a bit before backing away. "Have a good day." Toodles noodles would probably be wildly inappropriate, even if incredibly tempting

Deathstroke is heavily armed. In a room filled with guns. Perhaps 'toodles noodles' is not the best option. Once she's gone he turns and walks back behind the counter and into the back room, there a man waits before a bank of monitors, "Cute kid." the man says, a thick Russian accent coating his words, "What was the meet about?" he asks, shooting Deathstroke a wicked smirk. Slade eyes the man, then the cameras, "We agreed you would not watch, that the shop was mine for the day." he says flatly. The Russian shrugs, "What if you steal from me? I must protect myself, da?", "I paid you. We had a deal." "Da, da, but this was not big deal. Was just making su-" the Russian stops talking as Deathstroke pulls the large combat knife from the sheath on his chest, "We had a deal." he says, his tone suddenly dangerous and even. "You saw her face." The Russian pales, "J-just to protect! In case theives! Da?" he says, dropping his bag of chips and pawing about under the desk. "Nyet." Deathstroke answers as the knife slams down atop the pawn shop owner's head, the blade long enough that a full inch of it is visible sticking out under the Russian's chin. There's a savage twisting of the blade that cracks and breakes skull while the blade makes no question about the fatality of the wound itself. He releases it then, leaving the knife in the man's head and turns to go. He pauses at the edge of the door way and sets a small device down on the desk as he passes. He's gone moments later, the sound of the bike fading in the distance as the small LED on the device he place goes from red to green. All of the screens suddenly turn to fuzz and snow, their images erased and then soon after smoke and sparks begin to sputter and flicker from inside every electrical device in the pawn shop. He shouldn't have broken the deal.

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