Stroke of Bad Luck

May 15, 2018:

A sushi parlor that's a front for the Yakuza catches fire, and Deathstroke is there! But for what purpose…

Gotham City - Japantown


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: The Cure - Burn

Fade In…


Khim Nuaj Dauq was a smart kid. No, really. He was a straight A student with little effort, he showed real promise in the real of engineering, electronics just seemed to speak to him. His parents were gone and he was the third eldest in the family, but his older sisters were so busy working jobs to afford to keep their 6 siblings fed that they never seemed to notice his growing skill.

How fortunate for the family then that the local Thiang Tien Triade had a more open racial recruitment policy then most of it's brother organizations. Hmong not generally being popular among the Chinese. Khim's ability with electronics led him to a life of crime. But then it's Gotham so realistically, where else was he going to end up? None of his siblings asked where the money came from, none wanted to know.

Khim didn't carry a gun, he didn't thug out with chains and bling and sideways ball caps. He didn't grow disrespectful and loud, try to show off. If anything he dressed well, but subtely so, and tended to withdraw from people, spending more and more time at the local 'gentlemans' club where the Triade did it's business. Where their skilled laborers, the truely skilled that is, were kept safe from 'bad influneces'.

Khim was a smart kid. Khim was a safecracker. Khim was a good older brother. Khim was seventeen years old. Khim IS currently laying in a pool of black and crimson blood.

His corpse rests amid the smoldering ruin of the front of a quiet little sushi parlor that was at one time the silent front for a Yakuza stash spot, a stop over for it's cash reserves on its way to a launderer. Now it's a rageing inferno, the flames eating supernaturally at the sky, broken glass and smoke choking the dark street. He lays, sightless eyes staring up into the night sky expressionlessly, one hand clutched to his cell, a number half punched in, a tear streak having cut a clean path through the soot caking his cheeks. Sightless eyes that stare up into the expressionless split orange/black mask of the worlds deadliest assassin.

Slade stands, power lance in hand, in front of an inferno, his gaze locked on the dead kid at his feet for a long moment before he slowly turns his eye upwards at the flicking flames. "Well," he says to no one, "fuck." his tone oddly troubled.


The light draws a batling to the flames of the ragin inferno. Spoiler knew what the business might have been. There was still some information needed to confirm it, information she hadn't quite gotten. Seeing it up in flames and a very familiar orange and black mask standing out front draws her attention.

Spoiler brings her hover bike down and around so Slade is between her and the flames, so he couldn't kick her into it… easily.

"I didn't think you were into arson," she calls out. Perhaps ill-advisedly given their history, but… when has Stephanie Brown been known to do that which was advised?


Batwoman was patrolling the area, as she was working on tracking some organized thefts of Kane Industries shipments. Suspecting the involvement of the Yakuza, that lead her to be in the area when she saw the flames. Leaping off the building that she was perched on, she spreads her cape wide, the fabric growing rigid and becoming a glider.

Descending quickly towards the flames, she frowns as she sees Deathstroke standing over the dead kid… angling a bit to stay overhead and circle while Spoiler talks to him, so she can figure out what his angle is before going into action.


Deathstroke doesn't bother turning around to look at Stephanie, his mask still turned towards the flames, "I'm not." he says flatly, "Imprecise, inaccurate. It's unprofessional." he turns to face her now, the staff in his hand slideing with a soft metalic hiss until he's gripping it roughly in the middle, "Don't you have a pick pocket to harass?" he asks as he turns to begin walking away from the building and the dead teen, having appanrelty dismissed the lot of it already.


"Unprofessional and yet here you are," Spoiler fires back. She watches him, watches his hand slide along the staff, watches him turn toward her. She flies her hoverbike backwards in time to his advance in her direction.

"Spoilers: Fresh out of pick pockets," she adds, head tilting faintly.

"Care to tell me why? Why are you out here? You're missing marshmellows."


And that is when Batwoman lands in a crouch nearby, cape furling out behind her as it loses its rigidity. "I'm guessing you were going after something here, and some amateurs beat you to the punch, Deathstroke?" She fixes her gaze on the mercenary, noting Spoiler as well but not saying anything to her just yet as her attention is locked on Deathstroke… for good reason!


Deathstroke just sighs and shakes his head, "What is it about this town? I mean, seriously, I funded a couple of studies and it's facinating how /few/ bat species are actually natural to this part of the country, much less this city alone. How it is in a town where bats exsist, but are honestly rare, that people wearing bat themed get ups keep spawning faster then the pests themselves?" he asks, looking from one woman to the next as if expecting an answer, "I mean, it's Gotham. Seventeen Bat-People, not a single Rat-Man to be seen, and yet…." he points with the staff, "There's two right there." beady little eyes glinting in the firelight, their bodies hidden in the shadows of a nearby dumpster.

"Mathmatically it's just so … odd. That's all I'm saying." and the staff snapps down into it's shorter version with a sudden snikting sound. "Given you /are/ bat afiliated people, you'd think you'd know better then to ask me questions." he adds belatedly.


"I'm the blonde one, remember?" Spoiler quips, still reversing a bit to keep a healthy distance from Slade.


Batwoman chuckles softly, "I wasn't expecting an answer, so much as a confirmation that this isn't your doing, Deathstroke." She narrows her eyes, "After all, arson isn't exactly your style, not nearly precise enough. But if you're rather just to the part where we start trading punches, that's doable, but I figured you'd prefer a conversation since that will waste less time for both of us." Her voice isn't as growly as the Batman, but she definitely has a no-nonsense tone about her.


Deathstroke chuckles at that, "You're not that stupid." he says simply as he begins to walk away from the pair of them, "Signals in and out of this part of the block are jammed, which means you can't call for help, and the pair of you aren't dumb enough to make a play for me by yourselves." he jerks a thumb Spoilers direction, "She certainly isn't, blonde or not." he shakes his head as he nears a custom bike parked out of the way of the street, well hidden but still easily accessible behind an alleyway wall obstruction.


Spoiler watches Slade walking away, knowing that every word is true. She could see the jamming signal alert in her HUD. She knew there wasn't a chance in hell she'd win in a fight with Slade unless Batman himself had her back and even then Steph wouldn't put money on that fight. She turns her face to address Batwoman.

"Spoiler Alert: He's not wrong." And with a soft rev, Stephanie pulls her bike up in a nearly vertical climb into the sky above and then gone.


[Stephanie Brown teleports to the Quiet Room.]


Batwoman glances after Deathstroke, knowing the comms were jammed, and well… she's confident in what she can do, but she's not going to pick a fight when there's no point to it. Instead, as Deathstroke leaves, she moves over towards the kid that he was standing over, examining him for clues as to what exactly did happen here. At least as much as she can get before the police arrive and she has to make herself scarce.


The engine of the bike purrs to life, surprisingly quiet but with an high end output that makes the 'custom' part more clear with every passing second. Drifting out on quietly, Deathstroke pauses in the middle of the street, eyeing Batwoman where she kneels, then shakes his head, "The kid's not the key to it." he says, "Innocent bystander. Also, wasn't a firebug, not enough collateral damage." he doesn't give her any answers to her obvious questions about the blaze, but for whatever enygmatic reason he offers her the rare gift of letting her know where /not/ to look. Crutial intel when one's crime scene is rapidly consuming itself. "Oddly controlled, right?" he asks, dropping the bike's clutch down a gear so that the rubber squeaks once before catapulting itself and it's rider out into the Gotham night, completely without the benefits of lights.

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