Op Debrief

September 20, 2015:

Deathstroke and Alexander speak about the failed operation.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The op did not go as planned. Everyone came home safely, mostly, and the heaviest injuries were sustained by Slade himself, though no one would ever notice despite the blood smearing his footsteps as he left the War Room upon their sudden ocean water soaked return. They got into the heart of the mystery of Gamora's launch site, where apparently great vats of human beings, clones one imagines from the reported uniformity of them, were being loaded into odd containers and almost grown on racks like fruit on a vine. Thousands of them. The video feed of the recording of the op was fairly clear about some things. First off, Gamora's security is, frankly, something with which one should not fuck. Secondly, the clones looked a LOT like Slade. Almost identicle to him, if he were blond, 40 years younger, and more lithe anyway. His reaction to them was quiet, to quiet to pick up, and profound. His return from the op saw him sealing himself up in his quarters without answering any questions leaving the three women behind to see to their own exhausted needs.

A day later he appears to be in no better mood. Sweat drips from his torso as he swings the massive sword around himself in a weaving pattern of flashes and glints. He uses the bastard sword the way another man might use a long sword or a katana, graceful and easy, despite it's size and his only useing a single hand, a hand which he swaps regularly, working both. There are stacks of weights on bars, two broken heavy bags, the splintered remains of a Wing-Chun dummy, and a cut out with a half dozen knive buried to the hilt in it all the way on the far side of the room. Someone's been in here working. Hard. There's a make shift bandage, old blood crusted on it, wrapped around his thigh and another around his forearm, but these he ignores as he works, his breathing controlled hisses through his teeth.

The door hisses open with a whisper leading into the training area. Through it passes one of the young operatives who did not get sent on that particular op. The shock of blonde hair and the pale features identify him as Alexander Aaron, the Olympian. He stands there for a moment, hands deep in his pockets, body slouched a touch as if trying to mask his general emotional manner… and failing. With a set jaw and a vague aura of mispleasure he steps out of the shadow of the doorway.
A few strides carry him into the work room proper, slipping around some of the equipment and past the wounded splintered practice dummy. Sparing no glance for either one he keeps faintly crimson eyes on Deathstroke as he approaches the man and then stops at the edge of the mercenary's training area.
Palpable waves of emotion emanate from him, but to his credit they're not affecting those around him beyond the impact a growly twenty something might have on older folks around them. He lets things progress apace as DS does his thing until eventually he almost grudgingly offers a single word. "So?"

Deathstroke doesn't stop, "No. My training officer always told me I should learn how to, was a useful skill, but I never saw that point." he swings the sword through a particularly clever defensive motion, "That's what tailors are for." Slade makes jokes. See? They're funny or something.

And it is wasted on the young man for the moment, unfortunately. He looks to the side, scrunching up those glowing red eyes as he grimaces distantly, then murmurs. "Did you have a reason for wanting the op to go south?" He shifts his weight to the other foot, hands still in his pockets. Alexander squints sidelong at Deathstroke and asks, "Some sort of object lesson for the chuckleheads that went off the rails?"
Deathstroke stops in a swing, the sword comeing to a lethal stillness despite the odd angle he's holding it. He turns to eye the younger man and reverses the blade, burying it's tip into the metal floor of the Resolve with a single motion, the two metals screaming against one another for a moment. He leaves it there as he eyes Phobos, "No one went off the rails. It wasn't ideal… but it was their first mission, failure was expected. Not approved of, but not unforeseen." he then adds, "And they did nothing outwardly wrong. Gamora was better equipped then could have been expected." his lips twist in a grimace, "Kaizan is no fool. More's the pity."

"So straight up fallibility?" That actually seems to take the young deity back for a moment, as if not expecting such an answer. Alexander looks down, shifts his feet slightly, toe of his boot kicking lightly at a sliver of wood and causing it to skitter across the floor. "If I had been there op might have gone differently."
Perhaps there it is, the source of his negativity of the moment. The thought of exclusion from the operation or for some reason held off from engagement. He looks back at Deathstroke and quirks an eyebrow, gauging the man's reaction.
Deathstroke shakes his head at that, "It would have gone exactly as it did. Your abilities have no effect on technology, we successfully infiltrated the base to the heart of the opperation, I know enough to to intuite Kaizan's next move. You being there would not have stopped us from being detected, it would have however increased the likelihood we would be detected more quickly." his expression stills, "I would have thought your father would have explained me to you by now." he states flatly, one of his brows twitches, "Curious."

"Ehn," Alexander makes a slightly dismissive motion with one hand as it slides out of his pocket, as if brushing away a few winged critters buzzing around. "He tends to speak in generalities when he does, very few specifics save perhaps for other divine beings." That having been said, Alexander steps around the clearly thoroughly used workout area and eyes each piece of equipment as he goes.
"But as leader it is your decision to use personnel as you like." He glances back as he pushes the still standing bit of the shaolin training dummy with a fingertip and causes it to rock back and forth somewhat. "Have you considered the response to this operation?"
Deathstroke reaches out with a hand to wrench the sword from the floor, "I'm going to kill them all." he says flatly. "With great relish." there's something in his voice that hasn't been in there since Alex met him. Sincerity. Real, true, emotion. Slade hates something. Hates hates.

A twitch is seen at the corner of Alex's mouth, amusement given light. He turns and eyes Deathstroke again, at least pleased about that answer. He leans back against a piece of weight equipment and folds his arms as he considers the other man. "That is more like it."
A moment passes then he adds, "How did the others fare in the specific? I haven't checked in with any of them. Morale seems a touch low, however."

Deathstroke's eye is hard. It's been that way since Alex met him, a cold hardness, like steel, like ice. But not it burns hot with rage and hate, and still the man remains in control, his breathing regulated, his work out intense but not detrimental. Perfect. Control. No wonder Ares and him didn't get along, "As expected. Both better in some areas and worse in others. I need to learn more of their abilities, I mistook their limitations…" his lips twist into a firm line, "I expect better in the future."

Arms still folded over his chest, Alexander seems to watch Deathstroke with a calm aplomb as he gauges the mercenary's manner. He waits for the response, listens, then nods at the end of it. A fingertip lifts to scritch at the stubble on the side of his jaw and he then asks in return, "Any particular one of them I should focus on to angle for some measure of… improvement?"

Deathstroke considers that answer, "Lux." he says after a moment, "The other two are an issue for Banner, and one which I'll discuss with him. I need you to push Lux, force her to grow. She is a mutant I believe and from what I understand their powers are like muscles, the more often used, pushed, the more powerful they become. She has potential, I'd see she live up to it." and she'll work on it. Hard. He likes that.
GAME: Player not found. Please check your spelling and try again.

A nod is given, "Alright, will aim my efforts in that direction." And with that having been said, Alexander pushes off of the weight machine and stuffs his hands back into his pockets, walking over towards the door that leads out of the gymnasium. If there's something in parting Deathstroke wishes to utter he will pause for that, but if no other words chase after him then he'll pass through the door and let it close quietly behind him.

Deathstroke says nothing and merely raises the blade before him, the length of Promethium still and level, his muscles aching with the rare strain of exertion. The bullet hole running through it doesn't help any either. Good. He dosen't want help. His eye narrows as the sword begins to move through the motions again, forcing his consentration, his mind focusing on checking his minute mistakes. Usually there are none. There are some today, so small no one else would see them, but he does. He can't shake them because he can't gain that zen focus he almost always has.

The Kaizan has his son.

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