Family is Family

October 25, 2015:

Rose and Slade clash in the familial manner that is expected of the Wilsons.

The Resolve

Deathstroke's swanky Authority ship

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

The Resolve really is a big ship… headquarters… building… thing. Thing. It's big. Not that most of it is explorable of course, because a goodly portion of it's space has been turned into a death maze of deathy death murder kill, but even so it's pretty roomy. But boring mostly. Training, sleeping, eating, and no room for entertainment, and it's not like one can just step out onto the street and meet new people, because there is no street, in fact there are no doors to the outside at all unless one counts the mysterious golden teleporty gates that appear more or less on command.

This doesn't stop Slade from spending inordinate amounts of time on the Resolve, if anything it's likely a draw for him. The training room sounds like someone is trying to kill it, the ring of metal on metal comes in such rapid staccato rhythm that it sounds almost like a drum roll, though the sounds only come in short bursts followed by sounds of meaty impact and then another drumroll of steel.

Ravager does not mind being on the Resolve, but you will rarely find her there due to others' annoyances at the fact that any resonance of her at all… Vanishes, as if she were gone, like when she had left the other world to be ripped into this one by the Hand of a Mad Black Woman aka Waller. Or so she was told. That or death. But mum is the word and her soul when she comes here, and so she exerts it, abuses it…. That very Resolve…

A thing that has her swing one that ends in missing Slade, but instead with his move she pivots, throwing her shoulder to follow through and when impact can be made she tries to follow up with swords twisted out and fists slammed up so as not to stab him but to be ready to parry if that fails as well. A dight between them is like a game of chess and the headache of planning 12 steps ahead is nosebleed worthy, because it goes many ways with many scenarios, and if her head even /could/ be tapped into the receiver -would- regret it.

Too much… With every meaty slap, exchanged blow and metal upon metal that crashes and slides away.
With a single massive blade he manages to parry and thwart Rose's every attempt at laying a single touch on him, the points of her swords passing by him with nudges of his massive bastard sword, the keen edges of her weapons missing him by fractions of an inch that might as well be a mile for all the good being close will do her. "You're not my Rose." he says, the first words he's spoken since she came into the training room and attacked him. They've been at this for nearly an hour without more then grunts (hers) and stony silence (his) for means of communication, "You lack refinement." he says as he pushes one of her blades low with the edge of his own and then slaps the flat of her second blade with the palm of his hand as if he were swatting the backside of an insolent child, just pushing it out of the way effortlessly. "You have better control of your powers. She has better control of her swords." ah, the lovely Wilson family critique.

Rose is not about to stop or give in, no matter how much he keeps at parrying her or shoving her aside as if she were a mere annoying insect in a fight over a picnic. It was almost demeaning if he did not give her the answer to their problem. But that would be cheating! And a Wilson… Doesn't…

His words now come forth to add insult to injury and that is when she pivots into the push of one blade, swinging it up and around to line the back of her arm while her posture shifts, a sweep of feet and a swift pump of a stinger syringe injects her with adrenaline right into the femoral artery of her inner thigh, dropping the small vessel to the ground and smiling up at him…Only a flash…Precognition.

So this Wilson cheats when pushed. Scratch that. They cheat… And lie.

A rapid reflection of precognition, one that has Rose flattening into a collapsed stance on her back, but doing so in a manner that snaps both legs up to try and shoot her between his own legs in his lazed stance, both swords snapping out from their places along her forearms and triceps, but when she comes to her feet behind him her swords are sweeping at his back in a pinwheeling pivot like a medieval mincing machine. "I never once tried to get you to believe I was anyone else. I didn't like /your/ Rose. Yell me -you- did and I'll show you my shocked face, because if you did you'd have gotten off your ass about it years ago. My father's name was Slade Wilson of Earth 616, I don't expect you to be just like him."

Knowing the future doesn't mean you can change it. Rose, having faced her father before in training, knows that all to well. Seeing Slade is going to hit you doesn't mean that he won't hit you, just means you know you're about to be hit. He moves around her with a grace so perfect that it's infuriating, a large man by any standard he flows like a ballerina, dipping low under her swinging blades, the twin edges once more slicing close but not close enough. He comes up to his feet beneath her swinging arms, his shoulder planting in her middle with a shove. His arm extends from the shoulder so that as she falls away his elbow catches her in the floating ribs, his forearm strikes along her sternum, and his hand, closing into a backfist and snapping upward at the end of the extension runs his knuckles up against her chin, the small backhanded flick landing like a 2 x 4 board.

He doesn't allow her to recover and quick steps after her, never letting her get far enough away to bring her swords back into play. His foot snaps down at her instep and the pommel of his sword snaps upward towards her solar plexus in a stabbing motion even as his forehead snaps down towards her nose. "It doesn't matter if I approve," he says as he snaps a second vicious headbutt towards her face, "she is /MY/ daughter." new universe, new costume, different history, same Slade. No talkie bad about his babies.

But knowing the future even in slight is enough to twist and conform. Rose would not take the blows unless she wanted to and /where/ she wanted to. Keeping in close quarters was bad for business in some scenarios, and when against Deathstroke it is a very bad thing, especially when you poke the bear with barbed words. That which Rose is uncannily good at even with a /koala/ bear, or a teddy bear. So when he seeks to land in precarious places that would leave her breath lost or her ability to remain standing a wavering thing she twists and jumps, as lowering to such a swift battering would be a fools endeavor. The shoulder knocks her hips, her body folding over the fist aimed for floating ribs enough to grip his arm and use it as leverage so when his backfist seeks her face it only has an attachment of a body that snaps her out and back from him.

Landing on feet in that rubbered flip of her body to absorb the blows givesher enough of a moment to bend and back away at the pommel coming for her plexus, attempting to catch it in one hand just as his head jerkes forward to catch her nose. That blow does land as she takes a hold of his weapon and like a pit bull is not letting go, but from the rotating sheathed wrist holsters those pistols shoot into her hand, thrust outward and just as her head throws back from his blow with blood running down her face those pistols are aimed, one for center mass along his sword the other for his head.

Triggers pulled and both going off as her feet slam down and fling her back. "YOURS preferred guns last I watched before she absorbed out." A rise of her arm to use the back of her wrist and wipe the blood from her face starting at her jaw where it dripped off and ending at her busted nose.

For now she paused just enough to reset the misaligned cartilage with unshed tears stinging blue and milky eyes.

"But the last thing I needed was /this shit/, here." With that she lets the pistols pivot back into the wrist sheathes, a swift simultaneous motion to put her swords back across her back. "I have had to accept my losses, like it or not. I think we're good here… /Dad/." Yep, she was more then ready to walk, and she won't let the hurt show, it was swallowed back with a bitter rage.

Deathstroke barely moves, his expression remaining the flat bored look he always carries, and the bullets slip past him, one in the small space between his bicep and his chest, the other just over his ear, close enough to ruffle his hair with it's passing. "Not my Rose, but still the same mistakes, the same short sightedness." he sounds disappointed at something as if he'd been hoping to find something and in the end realized it had never been there to find. The sword, the great Promethean behemoth of a weapon he so effortlessly wields flicks once at the end of his wrist, and it's tip catches the drop of her blood before it can hit the mats, the small crimson splotch making the metal sing softly with a faint hum. Another flick sends it away, slicking off of the blade to hit a target ten yards away. He doesn't even look. Yup. Same old Slade, silently berating her lack of skill with overt displays of his own. He turns his back on her and begins to walk away, towards the gear stored against the wall, where water and armor were placed when he walked in to start his training for the day. "In your world, do you have brothers?" he asks casually.

Rose was used to the open determent and acceptance for when it suited her father. This was no surprise, but at least she ended on some decent terms where she came from and she was not about to backpedal and begin again. There comes a time when even a bastard little bitch needs acceptance or ti simple bottom out her give-a-fuck-o-meter. And tonight it just did. All of it.

Her head does not roll back, she knows better then to swallow her own blood, but she is not about to go near him to get a towel or water. She'd just assume leave this place first. Have her fit and sally forth with that same baggage she has tried to shake since her mother died and she sought a parent out of an idol. She should know by now praying to statues does no one any good.

Turning away and heading for the door to the training room with that stance much akin to a stiff legged wolf upon the challenge she was-about to leave and when hand extends to finalize it he asks a question that has those eyes back upon him and narrow. "Yes." Though that single word is spoken with great care.
Deathstroke nods as he plucks up a bottle of water and tosses it her direction before picking up a second one, one for himself. Which means either he had planned to have 2 for himself, or he knew she was coming tonight, neither would be surprising. "You sword work is shoddy but your weapons are fine, which means in your other world you had made yourself strong allies." topic switch much, "Speaks well of you. You have better control of your powers then my daughter, but less control of your emotions, which honestly is saying something. She gets…" he makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand that suggests she is prone to familiar over reactions. "I imagine your father did not train you well enough, perhaps you left, he died, honestly I don't know, but you found replacements somewhere, suitable if incomplete ones." he glances at her swords and offers the smallest of approving nods, "The ploy with the guns was a nice touch. You telegraphed it, your hips squared up before you drew, but it would work against your average opponent." he drains half the water bottle in a single pull, "Work on that. If you're going to use those names you need to be better and control of your power lends you to reliance on it. Use it to enhance what you have, not limit it. You, like her, see scant seconds into the future and then focus on that." he shoots her a hard look and repeats what he said before, "Shortsighted. See beyond that, metaphorically, not literally. Don't react to it, use it like any other weapon in your arsenal, to better plan an end to the battle, not relying on it to be the end in and of itself."

He sheaths the sword in a scabbard that hangs on the wall and moves over to his armor. "The Kaizen of Gamoraa-not sure you had one of them in your other world but trust me on this, he's a shitheel of the highest order-has somehow managed to get his hands on Grants DNA. He's created an army from the DNA and he's planning on launching it…. somewhere." he turns slowly to stare at Rose, "You were his name so I assume you had a Grant. In this world he's the best I've made, the best I've ever /seen/. He … died. Years ago." he looks away and there's a flicker of real emotion on his face, most people would only register the flicker, Rose knows better. Self loathing. Love. Grief. Hate. RAGE. "The Kaizen and I have history and he's going to use my son, your brother, as a weapon." he pulls his armor, the heavy chest piece with it's clinking scale mail sliding onto his form as if it were alive and could adhere to him. Which it is. And it does. Kinda creepy really but he's used to it. Bracers click into place on his shins, then his forearms, pauldroons on his shoulders, his feet sliding into boots that latch themselves with a soft metallic hiss. He's a large man without the armor, with it on he's… Well he's Deathstroke. "I don't know how your family reacts to that sort of insult, but here, in my world, a Wilson allows no disrespect, no insult, to go unanswered." he lifts his helm and the orange and black deaths head clanks down and his voice takes on a suddenly metallic edge, leeching away it's humanity entirely, "I plan to answer the Kaizen with great vigor. You in?"

"Had." Rose states upon an exhale in regards to Grant, her chin lifts and that mismatched gaze focuses down upon Deathstroke as his armor seemingly /adheres/ to him, an appraisal there somewhere in the murky depths of a settling rage into placidity while the bionic ocular remains unmoved and as dead as machinery can be. Cold.

"I had great allies, and still have one who pursued me here." A wave off as she does not speak of this Fight Club, she will not speak of her other. They get that privvy in kind. "On that world I lost my eye to Grant," Her teeth are setting firmly in those words, but with a deep inhale wrought of his reminder of her emotions she righted the tense draw of shoulders to that of soldier neutrality until deemed to /move/. "He tried to kill a child, her father, me, and you. To stop it in the end it was chaos and I stabbed you both. I was told you were alive after but never saw… Nor heard of Grant." Despite posture and the attempt to keep her tone level there was /something/ there. No regret, she had to. But oh yes.. Self loathing. Love. Grief. Hate. Rage… Rage the bedpartner.

Rose had looked down for a moment, but as her chin rose, her posture seemed guided by a frigid gaze of breaking waters. "There may be some differences but do not for once. EVER. Think that the Wilson name is something that brought laughter. Not there, not here."

Family is family, here or there, dead or alive. "I'm in." Pause. "But I want some of that," A sweeping up down of fingers to his armor, and your schooling of words to be backed by actions that do not break my pretty face. It gets me free drinks."

Deathstroke stares at her with the inhuman face of Deathstroke, the cold metal of the helm that symbolizes more then just the man beneath it. "If all you lost was an eye then you got off easy…" he's quiet for a moment, "Here Joey is the unstable one. He's alive, somewhere, but…" well, he's a Wilson and clearly he doesnt' wish to be found, which means it's unlikely he will be. At least not yet. "Good. I'd hate to have to take the names from you out of shame, it would seem," the helm tilts slightly, "wrong somehow." he moves to walk past her, "The armor is unique, this is all there is." so none for her, or anyone else for that matter. "And if you want your face to remain pretty then be faster. Pulling your punches is for the weak." somehow those words ring oddly familiar, "None of my children are ever weak." somehow it sounds like Rose is swept up in that generalization. "You need to be briefed on the Kaizen, you should go to the war room and pour through the files, learn what there is to learn, everyone will need to be versed on him in this op."

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