Slade sat looking displeased at the screen of his computer. He was absent-mindedly tossing a knife into the air and catching it. He sat back in the old wooden chair, sighing.

“The money is running out.” He said into the stale air of the warehouse that functioned as his hideout for the time being. He picked up the disposable phone off the table and punched in the only number programed into the phone: Christoph, his contractor.

“Yeah?” The only word that comes from the other side of the line, he knew who was calling, no need for formalities or pleasantries.

“The money is drying up. You haven’t gotten me a job in months.” Straight to the point with the mercenary, like always.

“I know, there hasn’t been much work, ever since the middle east signed their peace treaty all the work dried up, you realize over seventy percent of all jobs came from that area, right?” Explained Christoph.

“Yes, I know.” Came the short response.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Slade? The only jobs are low-paying bodyguard gigs, I know that isn’t your forte.” A little more panicked and strained this time.

“Meet me at our usual spot tomorrow at eight.” Then the phone clicked off.

“Slade?” Silence. Christoph looked at his phone with a furrowed brow before putting it away.

~ 8 P.M. Star City, west district, under a forgotten bridge.

Christoph pulled up the shady bridge, illuminating a hastily made hovel made by some homeless that apparently lived there. He got out of his beautiful, $500,000 car, making sure to lock it and set the alarm. It would do nothing in this neighborhood, but it made him feel better. He pulled his large coat snugly around his shoulders, fighting against the nipping breeze the fall nights come with.

“I hate this place, why can’t we meet at a Starbucks like normal people?” Christoph mumbled to himself as he walked under the bridge, shielding himself from the wind. A homeless man that had been sleeping nearby stirred, disrupting his camouflage of refuse that has previously hidden him from Christoph’s view.

“Come now, you know we aren’t ‘normal’.” Deathstroke’s altered voice came from directly behind Christoph, making him jump.Slade emerged from the shadows that engulfed him only moment before, fully armored with swords and guns ready to be pulled at the slightest hint of danger.

“I hate it when you do that, too.” He grumbled, tugging at the lapels of his coat. He then noticed the ensemble the terminator was sporting. “What’s with the get-up?”

“I need it, for the mission.” Came his voice, masked by the helmet.

“What mission?”

“The mission we are going on, right now. I need you to fly me to Bialya.” He said with the most deadpanned tone.

“Are you serious?”

“Am I ever not serious?”

“You are insane, why would we go to Bialya? I haven’t gotten a contract from them in over three weeks.” Christoph tried to argue, dumbfounded.

“I’ll explain on the way, let’s go.” Slade said, turning and beginning to walk away. When he saw Christoph wasn’t following him after the first couple steps, he turned around, took out his pistol and shot Christoph’s precious car, right in the motor block, tearing through the head gasket.

“Unless you want to walk home, I advise you come along.”

“You are buying me a new one!” Christoph shouted as he jogged to catch up.

“With the money we are about to be making, I could buy you ten.” Deathstroke smirked.

~Over the Atlantic Sea,  10A.M. Four hours from Bialya.

“That is easily the most insane plan I have ever heard… And I think it can work.” Christoph said, shaking his head in the cockpit of the stealth plane. He looked over at Slade, who sat in the co-pilot seat, and raised an eyebrow.

“How are you going to pull it off? What about the gaurds?”

“A night drop in the compound, this plane can slide under radar.” Deathstroke said very matter-of-fact.

“And that’s it? Just drop in, do it, and what? Walk out?” Christoph continued talking, trying to poke holes in the plan that he had just heard.

“I’ll light up this beacon.” The ever-confident mercenary said, pulling a small orb from his belt. “It will glow like a Christmas tree on your radar, just drop the ladder when you are right over me, I will take care of the rest.”

“And if something goes wrong?” Christoph asks.

“Go home, I’ll figure a way out. If something happens I don’t need my contractor going down with me. At least on the outside you might be able to assist me.” Deathstroke commented. Christoph nodded, accepting what he had been told.

“Land outside the city in the dessert, we need to wait for nightfall.”

~11 P.M. Ten miles outside of Al-Qawiya, Bialya's capital city.

“Take us up.” Slade commanded.

The thrusters of the plane ignited, pushing the aircraft into the black night sky. Deathstroke stood at the back of the plane, his armor pristine, his duel pistols fitted with custom-made suppressors, and a single glimmering one-handed sword strapped to his back.

The plane flew silently over the land, and after ten short minutes, came to its destination: Queen Bee’s compound. The back bay door opened and Deathstroke looked down at the roof of the compound two hundred feet below.

“If you don’t get the beacon by daylight, run.” Then, he jumped.

The sound of the wind was deafening as he fell, the air pushing all his armor up, along with his assortment of weapons. The ground was quickly rushing up to meet him. Slade reached up to his chest and pulled the cord, a triangle shaped parachute deployed and dramatically slowed his fall speed, allowing him to disconnect the chute and roll onto the roof instead of smashing into it.

Still crouched down, he looked around, seeing no sentries on this particular part of the roof. He pressed his right temple and his field of vision went green: night vision. The now-blinding flashlights of the guards around the compound made their positions painfully obvious to Slade.

Still crouched, he walked to another part of the roof, kneeling down he recalled the map of the compound he had memorized. “This should be the room.” He said to himself. He unsheathed his sword and plunged it into the building material, slicing it apart with little resistance. He sawed with the razor-sharp blade, forming a hole in the roof big enough for him to slide through.

Before the chunk of roof could fall to the room below, he pried it up with his sword, grabbed the chunk and pulled it up and to the side of the roof, out of the way. He slowly lowered his head into the room, scoping it out.

One half-asleep guard at the door, and his target asleep in bed, Queen Bee. If the guard was half as competent as he should have been he would have seen the shining blade coming through the ceiling. He pulled his head back up and positioned himself so he could drop down in one fluid motion.

He let his legs go in first, held up by his arms on either side of the hole before letting himself drop. His boots hit with a thunk of metal on hard floor, marble perhaps. The guard was roused, his assault rifle moving back into his arms from his lap. Although he was far too slow for Slade, before the guard could see what was happening Slade's dagger was through his throat, Deathstroke's hand covering his mouth to silence his gasps for breath.

Slade spun around, ready to fight his target but was met with her still sleeping form. He smirked to himself, crouching down and sheathing his dagger in its holster strapped to his ankle. He approached the bed, the woman silently laying there. It would be so easy. He took out the sedative from a pouch on his waistband. He brought it to the woman's lips and pressed it past her teeth. He then brought his fingers to her throat and gently massaged her jugular until he saw the large capsule be swallowed.

He waited a few minute for the sedative to kick in before pulling the beacon from his belt and clicked in a small indentation atop the orb, lighting up small lights around the equator. It then began to pulse and let out a quiet chirping sound every few seconds. He pulled the sheets from the body of the dictator and slung her limp form over his shoulder. He then pulled the last piece of equipment he had brought with him on this mission, a small banner with a spiked end that he rammed into the empty mattress. A small Qurac banner hung from the pole.

Moments later the sound of the plane's engines could be heard overhead. A collapsible metal ladder fell through the hole Slade had cut in the roof. Christoph sure was a good pilot for a pencil pushing contractor.  Slade then climbed up the ladder into the plane, pulled the ladder up, and closed the trap door. He quickly set Queen Bee down and tied her hands and feet up with some rope from the back of the plane, complete with duct tape over her mouth.

Slade strolled into the cockpit, Christoph waiting nervously. “Let's go.” With that, the plane sailed into the night.