Tick Tock

January 08, 2016:

Deathstroke has a private meet with Amanda Waller

Characters

NPCs: Amanda Waller

Mentions: Jemma Simmons

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

"It's all clear ma'am." one of the men in his all black governmental issue suit says as he tucks the collapsable SMG back in under his jacket beneath his arm. "Would you like us to place a guard outside your home?" he sounds sincere enough when he says it, but Waller can tell he's tired of her 'paranoid hijinks'. She makes a mental note to have him reassigned the following morning, "No Eric, I'll be fine. See you in the morning." and she turns to walk through the door into her Georgetown home.

Just large enough to be clearly prosperous but not so large as to be obvious about it, it looks like every other home in the neighborhood, one of the most secure neighborhoods on the planet. Housing dozens of congressmen, senators, aides, lobyists, and the random wealthy detritus that government collects at the seat of it's power, the guard presence on the street far out numbers the residents on any given day. Her extra one wouldn't have helped all that much.

The inside of the home is much like the outside, clean, inconspicuous, decorated from the inside of some magazine or another made to look homey without actually being a place where people spend to much time. The air is slightly stale, a little to chilly, like the inside of a hotel room that no one's lived in for a time, it smells faintly of cleaner and inactivity.

Waller hangs up her coat and scarf, her keys slide into a wooden bowl by the door and she grunts as her shoes come off. Sighing she pads her way down the hall to the kitchen, dumping her bag filled with her computer and tablets and debris on the island as she heads for the wine cabinet with purposeful steps. She needs a drink.

Just as her hand reaches the bottle neck of a bourdeux she's been waiting to open for months, armored fingers curl around her throat and her bulk is effortlessly lifted from the floor and sent hurtling across the room. She hits a wall with a thud and feels some of her dry wall crack under the impact, buckeling oddly around a stud in the wall behind. The air rushes from her lungs in a WOOSH and she flails, reaching out for the china cabinet next to where she impacted, her fingers trying to brush over the release catch on the hidden laser cannon she keeps in a false panel on it's side. Her hand is slapped away in an irritable fashion a fraction of a second before the armored fingers snap out in a vicious backhand that hits her right across the cheek with perfect precision. It's hard enough she sees the world spin and her vision swim but not hard enough to knock her out.

She tastes pennies in her mouth and makes a second attempt for the furniture but it's all wobbly and refuses to hold still for her, wavering in and out of focus. It gets further away as she's hauled bodily to her feet and then off of them completely, her weight supported by nothing but the $2,500 tailored jacket she wears as she climbs higher and higher into the air until she's staring into the polished metal of a mask that's entirely to familiar for her taste and there's a new taste to join the pennies on her tongue. Fear.

"We burned it out." Deathstroke says from behind the mask, his voice carrying a hollow metalic edge to it that makes it somehow less human and more at the same time. The bi-colored deathshead is more intimidating then she remembered. Her teeth catch the edge of her tongue and the sharp pain brings clarity, a trick he actually taught her, helping her focus on the moment and collect her thoughts. Regain control. "We burned a lot of things, Wilson." she says, trying to angry and feeling somewhat accomplished when she manages to only reach 'wry' without a tremble. "Be more specific."

She feels ridiculous, hanging there, feet swinging, and she reaches up to swat at his armored hand like a mother might with a petulent child, "And put me down, if you were going to ki-" the shake that comes is hard enough to make her teeth clack together audibly, "We." he leans in closer, "Scortched." closer, "The." he's close enough she can't see anything except the mask, even in her peripherals, "Earth." This isn't business. His calm is damaged, his control is hair thin and the fear she'd mastered suddenly comes back full force. Slade is an exceptionally reasonable man, she should know, he trained her, help mould her into the force of nature she is today, except when he's not. And when he's not war crimes tend to occur. A slight tremor runs through her limbs and she reaches up, her fingers curling into the thumbs that grip her coat and turning them outward in a single sharp gesture, she combines this with a flat palm that strikes outward, aimed for his chin, which she knows he'll dodge, but it should buy her the room…

She drops to her feet, executing the hold break well but not as flawlessly as she might have when she was a hundred pounds lighter and ten years younger, "I told you!" she all but shouts, "we did a lot of that! What are you talking about?" he stands there, staring at her, his arms slowly lowering to his sides now that she's forced him to release her, "Alex." the word whispers through the air like a bell toll and she freezes.

Oh shit.
He knows.

The freeze was all the confirmation he needs and she knows it. She dives for the cabinet but even as she starts to move she knows it's futile. His foot lashes out catching the cabinet square in the side and sending the entire thing crashing to the side, the hidden panel broken in half exposing the weapon beyond. She tries to alter her dive but she might as well have been trying to leap to the moon. She's yanked backwards and tossed against the fridge and pinned there with a forearm across her throat, by the time her vision clear she can't quite focus on the point of the knife that's hovering just between her eyelashes, close enough that if she blinks she's pretty sure her eyelids will feel cold steel between them.

"You kept it?" the question is accusatory. No point in lying now, "Of course we kept it!" she answers, trying not to breath to heavily or blink just in case that knife is closer then she fears, "It's the government, we don't throw anything away!" she can feel the minute flex of muscle in his fingers and her breath catches, "It killed Alex. It killed Samson. Do you remember what it did to the scientists? To the Team? To /us/?" he's quiet, cold, loud and screaming would have been better. "Do you remember when it tore him in half Amanda?" the words are soft now and she's not sure he's even breathing.

Seconds tick by, long ones, the kind where a persons life hangs on the very fine thread that spans the gap between rage and self control. They become a full minute before the knife is slowly pulled back from her eye and his weight no longer pins her to the fridge, allowing her to slowly sink down to her knees on the floor, gasping for breath and shaking. "Damn you Slade." she chokes out, swallowing a sob before it can rise up, "You think I didn't try to shut it all down? They wouldn't let that happen, so if I can't kill it, I controlled it. I buried all of it so deep no one could find that shit, it wasn't like much survived."

Deathstroke stares down at her, "Someone activated that tech in my home two days ago." he says softly, "You're going to find out who, how, where, everything. You're going to tell me everything about it, give me all the names." he doesn't have to tell her what will happen if she doesn't, she's known him for more then fifteen years, she's well aware of what happens to people who mess with the very few people Deathstroke cares fore. "Where do I find you?" she says idly, reaching up to rub her throat, "You call Peabody, you have his number." he pauses, "It came after him too Amanda. In my home it attacked Wintergreen's son. Do not fuck with me on this. Not even a little."

She pushes herself up to her feet and lets out a small bark of laughter, "You don't have t-" but he's not there anymore, vanishing silently in the time it took her to stand. Her kitchen is wrecked, holes in the walls… she skips the wine and pulls out a bottle of bourbon older then most of her agents. She pulls a tablet out from her bag as she slides into a seat at the island. She ignores the way her hand shakes and hits a button summoning up a live video feed.

"Ms. Waller?" the image of a young man appears on this screen, his eyes scanning over her quickly and his alarm visibly growing, "Get me everything you can on Project Tick-Tock, you'll have to dig into the archives." pause, a half glass slug of the burning stuff and she hisses, "And find me Jemma Simmons and her pet from Sigma, it's about goddamned time we all sat down and had a 'chat'."

Outside already disappearing into the distance in the tricked out sports car he's made into his own version of the more well known Batmobile, Deathstroke speaks into the air, "Did you get that?" he asks, an electronically altered voice comes back, a bit to carefully neutral, <Yes sir. Jemma Simmons.> there's a pause, <You know she'll find the bug.> "Of course, but not until she calms down. Now find me this Simmons woman before Waller's people do." and he closes down the connection with a flick of his finger, he needs a few moments to think, to calm down.

That was to close, /he/ was to close. A lesser man's hands would be shaking with emotion, but his control is still great enough to maintain his body language. His finger flicks and he reconnects the comms, "Put a close watch on Fairchild's daughter." he orders Peabody, "She can't get near this." <Understood boss.> He needs to get a handle on this, on his own rage, before he makes another mistake. "Alex." he whispers softly in memory, and his vision narrows down to focus on the road as his foot stomps down and the V12 roars to a fever pitch.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License