Chapter Text
Rather stupidly, Slade pushes the big, red button.
Nothing about the button says it will be good. But it's been a slow night, with the worst kind of work: corporate secrets. Lex Luthor's top secret, well-polished button is the most interesting thing he's seen all night.
He pops the glass case, secluded in some laboratory filled with other, more boring things, and the whole place just about reeks of beta . That non-scent that fills the back of his throat, the absence of something important, disinfected away.
He pushes the button. For a second, nothing happens. The console it's attached to lights up like a Christmas tree, and Slade gets the feeling he's about to be wrapped up like a present and delivered to Lex's doorstep with a bow.
And then things go a little sideways. Or he goes sideways. Hard to tell, when an ice-pick gets shoved into his cornea and the contents of Slade's stomach begin climbing back up his throat.
When he vomits, Slade has mere seconds to shove his helmet up. It lands with a wet splat. Slade groans. Screws his eye shut and tries to forget there was ever a thing such as light — artificial or otherwise. His head pounds.
For the longest moment, everything buzzes with pain. If he had to guess, he'd say every cell in his body just got vaporised, dumped in acid, and fed to a dog. And then just as quickly, it stops.
The world rights itself. Things become calm. Slade can breathe, without the threat of chunks. Cool air washes over the heated skin of his mouth, a pleasant sensation to go with the sudden, sharp scent of garbage.
He adjusts his eyepatch, just in case he's seeing things. Because there is definitely garbage. He's pretty sure he didn't just throw up half a box of Chinese take-out, carton and all, or the fuzzy, green milkshake that's spilled over his knee.
"The fuck." Slade growls. Shakes his hand free of undetermined sludge, gloves sticking to black refuse sacks. A dumpster. A snow covered dumpster.
The big, shiny button threw him into a dumpster.
When he gets back to Luthor's lab, he's going to piss on that button.
Climbing from said dumpster takes some dexterity, Slade glad that there's nobody about, just an abandoned apartment block and a stray cat or two fighting at the end of the alley. They both clear off when his boots hit the floor, Slade squinting against the lamplight. Ice coats the cobblestones, the air cold against his flushed skin.
It hadn't been snowing when he'd headed in, but a lot can happen in three quarters of an hour, he supposes. Yep. That's it.
The dumpster sits mockingly against a red-brick wall, stinking of vomit and trash. Fitting, he supposes, that he ended up here and not a five-star hotel bed. Typical.
He takes a couple minutes to double-check everything. His weapons and armor seem intact, and nothing's broken. His insides still feel a little shaken, but he supposes that's to be expected when he's teleported. Or whatever. The flashdrive on his belt is as it was left, though if it still works is another question.
Could have been Lex's new security, for all he knows. No one can resist a red button. Dumps them outside the building, far fucking away.
In Gotham, if he had to guess by the wrought iron streetlight staring him down and the graffiti littering the dumpster. Red Hood territory.
Slade dusts off one last time, double checks he didn't forget anything in the trash and then heads for the mouth of the alley in a slow jog. The side-street he's found himself at is quiet, the moon high in the sky and the distant skyscrapers are darkened, not a light on.
Late, then. Late even in Gotham, where the lights are always fucking on, and people never seem to go home.
He picks a direction and walks.
Gotham is, for the most part, quiet. The faint sounds of GCPD getting circles run around them in cheap squad cars, a few windows cranked open with the television turned loud, but not many people. He makes it all the way to a four-way intersection before he crosses anyone, and the only thing he notes is beta.
He keeps his distance, and debates climbing the roofs for a better view. Would save him the slow, drunken backing up the poor guy does, turning into a sprint. Everything still aches unpleasantly, though, and so he keeps to the streets, one eye out for the unfortunate presence of Batman.
That's kind of the last thing he needs. Explaining that he stupidly pushed the big, red button wasn't how he wanted to spend his Tuesday night.
By the time he's passed six betas, Slade begins to realise something is wrong.
Six. And that wouldn't be strange, if he could also catch the scent of an Alpha, thick and heavy at the back of his throat. The scent of an Omega, saccharine sweet on his tongue. The streets should be reeking of either, especially the more residential he gets.
But there's nothing.
Only that non-scent. Alcohol and greasy take-out stick out like a sore thumb on drunken citizens, so his nose sure isn't broken. But the chemical taste of a designation is missing. He doesn't like it.
That, more than anything, forces him up a fire escape. The whole thing rattles as he climbs up, but he feels better with crisp wind on his face, and the ability to pretend that the streets still smell as they should. It is… worrying, to say the least.
Nothing proven, yet, though. And he shoves every question from his mind in favour of heading for the docks, and the salty taste of the water in the air. For the familiar scent of a safehouse that should be there, and he'll bite Lex on his forehead if it isn't—
It is. He is very glad it is. The same run-down, darkened loft, and the route in is much the same. He comes in through the east window and reaches, automatically, for the alarm system. His glove hits plain, flat wall, and Slade feels something unpleasant curl in his gut.
No security means he's either been cleared out entirely, or he's picked the wrong window. It has been a while since he's stopped by Gotham. Curious, he squints out of the window, snow beginning to fall heavier now. It hits the water and disappears, melting into the same view he's had for years at this hideout.
Nothing about this is good. Slade steels himself and heads further into the room, flicking lights on as he goes. He's the Goddamn terminator, no amount of Freaky Friday is going to unsettle him.
The building looks the same. Same walls and chipped plaster. Same dusty windows, blocking out most of the floodlights. But the rest is… gone.
Stripped bare. The only thing left is half a bag of clothes, a bed, and a dusty laptop. Last he was here, it was fully stocked. Even the fucking fridge is gone. What the fuck is he supposed to do with no fridge?
The lights work, which is a blessing, he supposes. Probably still some heating he can crank up. But that's not the point , the point is that he's going to wring Luthor's neck when he gets his hands on him. Slade drops his gear and shakes the dusting of snow from his shoulders, finally popping the mask off for good.
Outside, things are quiet, the world beginning to dampen under a layer of snow. It should be late November. Time to find that out.
The laptop boots up with a whine, obviously old, a little clunky in his hands. He sets it on his lap once he's gingerly sat on the bed, and gets to work, pleased when he finds the internet still looks the same at least. That's about where everything stops being normal.
For one, it's December. December first, to be exact. A month has passed. Same year, which is barely comforting right then, Slade flicking his gaze to the window, and the orange hue of streetlights in the snow.
He is in Gotham. Lex Luthor still exists. Metropolis looks as it should on the few images he flicks through. Information is similar, and simultaneously unsettling.
Not one mention of a designation. Not one single Alpha or Omega thrown in for context, tucked in beside an age or hometown. When he looks, there's nothing.
He stays hunched over the laptop for nearly an hour before he dregs up the courage to search for himself. Slade Wilson should be nobody, turning up a handful of old military articles, perhaps. Deathstroke, though, brings up a whole lot more.
Still active. That's a relief, and Slade breathes the tiniest bit easier. Lasts as long as it takes for Slade to find a picture, and then everything feels that much worse, his headache beginning to return.
The suit is fucking stupid, for one. Skin tight and accentuating everything, no armour to speak of. From the grainy picture, it looks more like spandex. The sword on his back is chunkier than usual, a gold hilt that sticks above his head proudly, and a holster on his thigh seems to be the only weapons he carries.
It's not him. That much is obvious. Dimly, he realises, he's not where he should be.
In no universe of his would he willingly choose to have a bright orange shoulder, that's for damn sure.
Whoever this was, they were either stupid, new to the work, or both. Slade frowns, and keeps going anyway. Nearly morning, in fact, when he finally sets the laptop down and tries to slow the churning in his stomach.
Dread creeps up slowly. Has taken its sweet time in worming under his skin but now it's here to stay. Each new article and snippet of information has really nailed that in.
This isn't home. And frankly, unless this world's Luthor has a button hidden in his R&D, he's not quite sure how to get back. Slade rises, just for something to do, and walks the edges of the loft, treading mud into the stripped concrete floors. The whole place smells of nothing.
Dust and the stale taste of air, and that's it. The safehouse has long been abandoned, for some reason or other. He hates it in a visceral, unexpected way — the absence of everything he's so used to.
Scent should be soaked into the fucking walls. It's wrong, and Slade's instincts rear up at that, for once. Normally tightly held, they drag him back to the bed, tip him onto his side, and push until Slade's slid his helmet back on, a guard against the unfamiliar surroundings.
Quiet and alone, he can pretend the only scent should be his helmet. Breathes in deep through his mouth, exhales through his nose, and eventually, falls asleep.