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Slade has suffered through quite a few humiliations in his life. It’s part of the job; he didn’t just pop out as the expert he is now. He used to make mistakes, used to get his ass handed to him—water off a duck’s back, and all that. Never let them see you sweat. Never give away that they’ve gotten to you.
But being bound and muzzled in front of his rival, being rescued by this piece of shit, has to take the cake.
DuBois doesn’t have his helmet on, and thus Slade can see his raised eyebrows clear as day, the twitch at the corners of his mouth that make it clear he’s just barely restraining a smirk. His rifle is in hand, held loosely aloft so the barrel rests against his shoulder. His posture is relaxed, maybe even bordering on cocky, and he makes no moves to step forward and release Slade from his bindings.
“Wilson,” DuBois greets pleasantly, and Slade takes great pleasure in remembering the last time they met, when Slade bashed the other man’s head against the concrete and left him for dead. (Obviously, it didn’t take, but Slade knew that already, and it’s not like it’s surprising. DuBois had only been in his way, not an actual target, so killing him hadn’t been a priority. And people like them have a tendency to survive.)
Slade can’t respond, the metal contraption over his face keeping him silent. He fights the urge to shift, to strain against the chains keeping him bound, because like hell is he showing an ounce of discomfort in front of fucking Bloodsport. Instead he just glares up at the man, waiting for whatever the next move is. Kill him, free him—it’s not like Slade could stop him either way.
Maybe it’s better that he can't talk. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from saying some rude shit to this piece of shit, and that would probably work against any urge DuBois might have to let him out of here.
Clearly not in any rush, DuBois continues with, “Quite a predicament you’re in, huh? Gotta say, you’ve looked better.”
Slade pictures the crack sound DuBois’ head made against the ground, the way his body jerked aimlessly, the way he could only groan as Slade left him there, blood spilling from a head wound—
“Can’t say I expected to find you here of all people,” DuBois says. His finger taps against the side of his gun, the sound echoing through the bare room. “How’d they get their hands on you, Wilson? You slippin’ in your old age?”
He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that Slade can’t reply, might even be enjoying it, the fucker. What’s he even doing here? Since when does meta-trafficking fall under Bloodsport’s purview? Slade was only involved because a frantic (rich) parent of an abductee hired him to find their kid and bring them home.
It was fucking luck that the traffickers caught him. An electric security measure designed for metas that he didn’t see until it was too late...And then he woke up here, in a cell, a power dampening collar around his throat and a muzzle over his face, chained up to high hell.
And you bet he memorized the faces of each and everyone one of the shitstains who thought they had the right to do this to him. He’s going to burn them all to the ground after he gets out of here, that’s for damn fucking sure.
That is, if DuBois decides against killing him.
Someone else appears in the doorway, and Slade’s eye flicks over to them. Male, late-thirties to early-forties, pistol in hand, military stance, yellow t-shirt. His eyebrows also go up upon seeing Slade, and his gaze flicks briefly between the pair of mercenaries before asking DuBois, “Is that Deathstroke?”
“Yep,” DuBois replies, tone casual but still threaded with satisfaction. Slade hears a crack, a groan, pictures blood on the concrete. The good old days.
“Huh,” Yellow Shirt says, nodding a little like sure, why not. “He gonna murder us if we let him out?”
DuBois and Slade lock gazes. DuBois’ smile grows a little. “Not sure. And you gotta admit—damn good to see him lookin’ like this.”
Slade’s eye narrows. Yellow Shirt seems exasperated. DuBois continues to look far too smug.
“Well, we do have an actual job to do,” Yellow Shirt points out, glancing down the hall. “And I’d rather get back to Harley before she decides to start blowing random shit up. Again.”
Harley?
Oh.
Jesus Christ, it’s Waller’s goddamn Suicide Squad.
DuBois of course sees the moment Slade realizes what’s going on, and gives a sigh, clearly put upon. “I know, right?” he says. “Blackmail is a real bitch.”
Slade doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy for him; if he was moronic enough to get caught and let a fucking bomb be put in his neck, that’s his own fault. Slade sure as hell has never let Waller get one up on him.
Given, depending on how vengeful DuBois is feeling right now, Slade could very well be seeing Waller very soon.
“Rob, come on,” Yellow Shirt says. “Make a fucking decision. It safe or not?”
DuBois rolls his eyes, and then lets the rifle fall down to his side before it suddenly starts collapsing in on itself, vanishing from sight and becoming part of his suit. Which, okay, Slade can admit that tech is pretty cool.
Slowly, DuBois strolls forward, and Slade doesn’t flinch, not breaking the eye contact. If he’s about to be killed, he’s not sniveling. He’ll face it head on.
But instead, DuBois is pulling a device out of his suit and reaching towards Slade’s neck. There’s a click, then a beep, and then the collar falls away.
Slade feels strength rush back into him, feels his injuries slowly begin to knit back together, and he lets out a quiet breath. Then, with one rough pull, the chains creak and snap, falling away from his body.
Yanking the muzzle off is truly Heaven.
“Come on,” DuBois says, turning back towards the door, showing Slade his back like he’s not a threat at all. (Though, going by the way his hand lands on the grip of the pistol on his thigh, he clearly hasn’t completely dismissed Slade’s presence.) “We have shit to do, and I have a feeling you’ll be happy to help us rip this place to shreds.”
As a point of principle, Slade really doesn’t like to be told what to do, but in this case...Well, yeah, DuBois is right. Slade is looking forward to getting his pound of flesh.