#c slade

[banewhobrokethebat]

iambecomedeathstroke replied to your post:Those who are taking advantage of my legacy: I...

[mask] Have a few names you need scratched out? I could make a /killing/ off of this.

There are many involved in several operations. All of who knew the danger of their work.

[pm] I am capable of dispatching them myself.

However. There is the issue of my being conspicuous.

Name your terms.

[banewhobrokethebat]

Interlude || Slade & Bane

The cold cut into him. In his mind's eye, there was the image of a long needle injecting some blue fluid into his bones. The cold went right through his muscles and congealed and expanded in his core. It could not be called an ache, but the word was close. Occasionally, a shiver got the better of him. Only in private, and only for a moment at a time. Shivering was for the frail and thin of blood. In the cold, it was never hard to remember the sticky heat of too many bodies inside Peña Duro. In the cold, being warm was more like a dream than a memory. Bane scowled. His hand trailed to his wrist and the button gave under his push. The venom pumped, but gave no warmth. The moon was not yet high enough in the sky. The weather tested his patience, wearing it down, and his eagerness had driven him to finish this task, perhaps before it was time. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled the mask down over his face and smoothed it down in the back and front. The warehouse was stenciled with a company name that had faded into white and red streaks. The windows were riddled with holes. In the gravel of the lumber yard, puddles of stagnant water had frozen over. He crunched over the gravel. There was no reason to hide the sound of his footsteps. Stealth was unnecessary when escape was impossible. It was not the warehouse he cared about. No. It was the small office next to it. Yellow light shone through dingy windows. It was a merely the illusion of unimportance. An illusion that was strained, if not shattered, by the near pristine Cadillac parked beside the tiny building. Under his mask, his eyes narrowed and he paused. The man's voice was clear. There was a pleading quality with it. The high pitched whimper of someone trying to make a deal. There was no audible response. Then he was on the phone. No longer being in motion was only a reminder of the cold. He started moving again, this time with more caution, until he was just outside the door of the office. Through the door, there was the high pitched pleading of the man, with the new addition of the canned digital voice coming from the phone. What was being said over the line was not discernible, not with the wind howling, and therefore was unimportant. The man in the office had strained the patience of more than one dangerous person. That was all that could be gleaned. Bane shouldered open the door. The office chair hit the back wall when the man stood up at the desk and drew a handgun. There was that single moment of tension. The quick moment of silence that comes when a handgun is drawn, when lethal force is introduced into the situation. He kicked out. The wooden top of the desk slammed into the man's knees with a sickly crack and he dropped to the floor. Bane stepped over the papers that had been strewn across the small room. "You know why I am here. Men of greed do not know when they have taken what is not theirs." A radio in the corner of the office squawked something. The man, on the floor and cradling his knees, he too, squawked something. "Answer it." Another indiscernible cry. "Answer it. I will not repeat myself again." The man shoved himself to a nearly upright position and made for the radio. And then, a noise that was neither Bane, nor the interloper, nor the radio.