It Begins

October 23, 2015:

A man is hiring Deathstroke to deal with some nanodoodads and a guy/kid named Everett.

Some place?

Deathstroke is being hired here. Presumably lots of security.


NPCs: Everett Dude Hiring Deathstroke



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Deathstroke's deathshead helm merely stares at the unmoving, cold and inhuman. The single eye barely visible behind the red lens doesn't make the face softer. He doesn't answer, instead he waits, his silence growing expectant. This man is wasting his time and he doesn't handle wasted time well.

An almost awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment as Deathstroke doesn't reply, and the other man watches him with a disappointed expression, his shoulders sagging slightly not unlike a young boy whose mother had denied his request for her to buy him a new toy at the store. He was about to pour some drinks, but suddenly decides against it, putting the bottle back down on the counter.

Sighing again, he sits down on one of the barstools in the kitchen. "Alright, alright. I get it. You don't like how sloppy I seem to be. But I assure you, it's not like that." he shrugs. "It's just that—well," he shrugs. "I figured, if you are planning on killing me or otherwise harming me, you'd get it done, regardless of how many precautions I might try to take. I'm not stupid, I know what kind of man you are, that being a man who doesn't fail at things. After all, why else would I even be here, talking to you? So there's really no point in wasting my time and resources on things that ultimately won't do a damn thing."

Again, he shrugs, "Anyway, straight back to business, I suppose." He looks down and opens up the briefcase, pulling out a black folder. "I won't bore you with too many details, but I work for a company contracted by the military to work on cybernetic applications. Weapons, implants, drones, what have you. Three months ago, the owner hired his own son on as an engineer…it's crazy, but he's some kind of tech prodigy." He slides the folder across the counter toward Slade. It contains information about the kid in question: Everett Tyson-Thayer, just turned sixteen years old and indeed a genius. Already finished college and a number of graduate degrees in various engineering and physical science fields. Didn't know what else to do, because no one wanted to hire someone that young despite his brilliance, so he went to work for his father's company.

"Sweet kid, really, and incredibly smart…" he pauses and sighs again, as if suddenly having some reservations regarding what he's about to do.

Deathstroke quirks a brow behind his mask as his HUD scans the pages and transmits them straight back to Peabody for technical analysis. He makes a 'go on' gesture with his hand as he skims over the files contents.

"Anyway," The man exhales loudly, shrugging his shoulders as if to brush off his reservations about this. "See, not longer after he started working at the lab, Ev comes to us, that is myself and his father, with a bunch of schematics for self-manufacturing nanoscale robotics. All kinds of applications—weaponry, construction, even wound healing…" He shakes his head. "I know, it's crazy but this kid is a -genius-. Anyway, we dismissed the idea…you know what they say. 'Absolute power corrupts absolutely'. -No one- should be allowed to possess that kind of power. Too risky. We told him to destroy it all. He seemed to take it okay, but later he starts acting strange, staying crazy late hours at the lab, going missing at night, and even having gaps in his memories."

He starts to look especially disturbed, now. "It didn't sit right with me, so I decided to do a little digging around our servers on my own, and I discovered thatwell, Everett -did- destroy the files, but not before he sent them off to an undisclosed external site. Iwarned his parents. But neither of them wanted to believe me. I tried the other staff, even the police, but no one believes it! I mean, I guess I don't blame them, he's always been such a sweet kid, no one -wants- to believe he'd lose it like that…."

"I really hate to tell you this, but I need you, Deathstroke, to track Everett down and find out where he's hiding the research, by whatever means necessary. And then I need you to destroy it all." He pauses, staring at the floor for a moment. "You just name your price."

Deathstroke eyes the man for a long moment and tags a few key mentions in the file for Peabody's parusal as he listens to the tale. Multitasking is one of his things. He also puts in an appointment for the Calculator to begin running the kid in question to ground, and just for giggles he puts his name on a 'villains' APB for the kid, letting it be known to those in the world that Slade is looking for him. Slade's rep is pristine among a certain kind of people, he always pays top dollar for good work. It'll get taken care of, "Find the research, destroy it." he says flatly, his voice is oddly distorted by the mask, metalic and hollow, "Two point five." he says simply. Not because it would cost that much, but if he's going to take a job this far below his skill set someone's going to pay himf or the hassle, and they'll be paying premium.

Yeah, maybe this was overkill. Deathstroke for some teenager? Clearly this man was despearte to -make sure- this did -not- fail in any way.

The man nods at the number stated, punching something into his phone before looking back up. "Done, it's yours." He starts packing up, closing the briefcase and putting his coat back on. "Thank you."

But before he leaves he turns back for a brief moment. "Oh, and…one more thing. Make sure this technology -won't- be resurfacing…and if that means—" he shrugs. "You know, just use your own discretion."

Deathstroke's jaw buldges slightly under the mask. Everyone knows his rules. No kids. His mind pulls up the relivent information, recalling the kids age, 16, and he relaxes. 16 is the age he enlisted, it's his personal 'age of adulthood' and so this contract doesn't break the rules. Still. "You made it by a hair." he says softly, his voice carrying easily over the distance. Before the man can turn around to answer, Deathstroke is gone, all the armor and armament moving with a silence one wouldn't think possible. He leaves the GPS and bomb on the car, just in case, and pings a request to Peabody to triple check the clients story. He'll do almost any job, but he won't abide a liar in the contract. There is a code, chose to work outside it at your own risk… Plus he's just a wee bit paranoid.

There's no surprise at Deathstroke's silent exit. The car leaves the driveway moments later, GPS and bomb still attached to it. Any checks will certainly corroborate the man's story…in fact, if he were to check with some of his -own- people, it would be even further confirmed. And perhaps, he will find that this job won't be quite as easy as he'd imagined. Let's hope the client is willing to up the price.

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