Switzerland, deep in the Alps. In a desolate area covered in white snow, beneath the surface, lies a secret Base made of steel and concrete, capable of withstanding a nuclear strike.
This is one of the lairs of the World's number one mercenary, "The Terminator" Deathstroke — Slade Wilson.
Inside the training room, Slade stood shirtless, revealing a body of scarred but still rock-solid and indestructible muscles. He was meticulously wiping his long blade, forged from Promethium alloy, with a deerskin cloth.
The blade was so sharp that even the air itself seemed to be cleaved by it.
Suddenly—
"!!! WARNING! Zone A Intrusion! Zone B Intrusion! Zone C Intrusion! Top security protocol overwritten by unknown code! System control lost!"
Piercing alarms blared madly throughout the entire Base, and red warning lights flashed frantically, painting Slade's weathered face blood-red.
He snapped his head up, his good eye erupting with a Beast-like glint. His Base's security system was designed by him personally; theoretically, no one should be able to breach the first line of defense without alerting him.
However, when he looked towards the center of the training ground, his pupils suddenly contracted. A tall, black figure had silently appeared there at some unknown point.
The aggressively menacing battle armor seemed like a demon god that had emerged from the deepest nightmares, and the air around him became thick and oppressive due to his presence.
It was Batman, clad in his new Knight armor.
Slade slowly stood up, the shock in his heart replaced by an even stronger fighting spirit. He wasn't surprised that Batman could find this place; after all, he was the World's top detective.
But what surprised him was the other party's state, and… this chilling way of appearing.
"I thought you'd at least be in a wheelchair for half a year, Bruce," Slade's voice was hoarse and low, carrying an undisguised mockery." He sheathed his long blade behind his back, crossed his arms, and scrutinized his arch-enemy.
Bruce ignored his taunt, the blue light in his electronic goggles showing no fluctuation.
He got straight to the point, his voice processed by a voice changer, cold as the Siberian wind:
"I need to hire you, Slade."
Slade was stunned for a moment, then, as if he had heard the funniest joke of the century, he grinned, revealing a mouthful of White teeth: "Ha! Hire me? Batman hiring Deathstroke? Bruce, did your brain break too when your spine was broken?
You want your archenemy to be your security Captain, aren't you afraid I'll stab you in the back?"
"I need you to assemble a team to clear Gotham.
The targets are Bane and all his notable subordinates.
You'll be the overall coordinator; I'll handle the key targets myself." Bruce completely ignored his sarcasm, merely stating a "project requirement."
"Sounds interesting." Slade's lone eye narrowed, flashing with dangerous light, "But, my price… can you afford it?
You know, my appearance fee is calculated by the minute."
Bruce replied calmly, his tone like he was reciting a quote:
"You name the price.
Fifty million U.S. dollars? Eighty million? Or… a hundred million?"
With each number he stated, the smile on Slade's face receded a bit.
These figures were astronomical for any mercenary, enough to buy a small country.
Yet, coming from Batman's mouth, they sounded light, as if discussing the cost of a dinner.
When he heard "a hundred million," even this mercenary, who valued money above all else, couldn't help but hold his breath.
This was no longer hiring; this was literally throwing money at someone, a blatant insult to the professional value he prided himself on!
Just as he was about to erupt, Bruce threw out his real trump card.
"Money is just the deposit."
"After the job is done, Wayne Group's top-tier biotechnology laboratory will utilize our latest gene therapy and nerve regeneration technology…"
Bruce paused, his cold electronic goggles fixed on Slade's lone eye, and said word by word:
"…to heal your son, Jericho Wilson's vocal cords, and let him speak again."
"Clang..."
The valuable deerskin in Slade's hand dropped to the ground.
He was as if struck by lightning, his muscles instantly tensing!
The next second, he lunged at Bruce with superhuman speed, his bloodshot lone eye glaring intensely at the cold faceplate, his voice trembling from extreme excitement:
"You… said… what?!"
To heal his son's throat, he had searched for famous doctors all over the World, tried countless methods, and even sought help from those mysterious magic users, but all ended in failure.
This had long become his greatest obsession and pain.
Bruce met his gaze indifferently, allowing the almost murderous look to penetrate his faceplate.
"I never joke, Slade."
"You may not trust my character, but you must trust Wayne Group's technological prowess and limitless financial resources.
For us, this is just a technically feasible project that requires a huge investment in research and development.
And now, I've decided to launch it."
"Accept, or refuse?
You have three seconds to consider."
The training room fell into a deathly silence.
Slade stared intently at Bruce, his chest heaving violently.
He could feel that the Batman before him had changed.
He was no longer the stubborn man who adhered to ridiculous principles and engaged in knightly duels with him.
The man before him was like the most precise scalpel, mercilessly dissecting his hardest shell, directly plunging into the softest, most vulnerable part of his heart.
This was a condition he could not refuse, no matter what.
After a long while, Slade slowly took a step back, squeezing out a few words through gritted teeth:
"…Deal."
He looked up, his lone eye filled with complex emotions: fanaticism, apprehension, and a hint of… recognition.
"But, Bruce… you've changed."
"You're more like me… than before."