Chapter Text
"Martyrs are alive, mother said.
That means
you're not dead.
If so, how
the river fishes
have mangled your flesh?
I'll be there one day
with a massive seine net:
collecting your pieces,
solving you
my jigsaw puzzles."--Six Short Poems on the Iran-Iraq War| Ali Asadollahi
October 2001, near Kabul, Afghanistan
The youngest of the dead soldiers couldn't be less than nineteen, and it is this, if nothing else, that eases the stir in the Deathstroke's stomach.
He flicks his eyes towards the corpse laying some feet away. Operator Forsythe crouches besides it and tilts its' head towards the left. He whistles long and low, grinning up at the Deathstroke.
"Think one of these savages got a bit too hungry," he snickers. The Deathstroke ignores him, in favor of looking closer at the corpse. Its head is kept attached to its body by the remnants of its neck. Its throat is a sludge of squishy muscle fibers. Thick globs of blood have accumulated underneath its jaw, still just barely hinged to its skull despite the absence of most of its sternocleidomastoid muscles. Not a clean bite, that much is obvious. Less of a turn to cannibalism in a desperate state of hunger and more of a desperate attempt to fight for one's life. The Deathstroke does not look towards the family of dead Afghanis his men have dragged deeper into the field. He knows they did not kill these American soldiers. The Afghanis were all killed quickly. A shot through the frontal lobe leaves no time for the brain to register such ideas as fighting for one's life.
Wintergreen comes to stand besides him. He leans in close.
"His gear is missing," the man says, the lilt of his voice monotonous. "Collateral were all killed by the accounted for rifles. No sign of terries having come by this way." Wintergreen shifts, giving the Deathstroke a quick, subtle squeeze near the elbow that won't be seen by the other men. "He killed them." He says it with solemn finality, for it is final. Deathstroke glances down at the corpse. Its uniform is caked with blood, flesh and dirt, yet the black finish of its metal CIB still stands proud, as though begging to be seen.
Fourth award, the Deathstroke notes absently. What was the timeframe for fragging six of your superiors? The Deathstroke wouldn't have been in a cell for longer than two days. The boy couldn't bank on his family to pull enough strings to sweep the incident under the rug entirely--the Deathstroke wouldn't allow his own image to be marred by something so frivolous as his child throwing a temper tantrum over a few weeks in prison. Fragging wouldn't land him even a full week, but desertion? Had the boy been anything less than the son of Deathstroke the courts would execute him without second thought.
It might even be good for him, the Deathstroke muses. At sixteen, the man was already more accomplished than most of his own superiors. At sixteen and fighting his first war, the boy has already gone and killed his own comrades. Hadn't his mother already schooled him on the matters of war etiquette?
"If you're gonna kill them boy, make it look like friendly fire," she'd said to him. The Deathstroke allows the corner of his lips to lift up behind his mask. A woman after his own heart, time and time again. What was the phrase women of Sparta spoke to their sons? Return with your shield, or on it. He briefly surveys the other corpses in their varying states of carnage. No, the boy will not return on his shield. His mother will place him there herself once she gets word of what he's done.
"Colonel," a voice states to his right, cutting away his thoughts. The Deathstroke turns, Wintergreen drops the hand on his elbow. Operator Edmond Hart approaches, with a small brown picture frame in hand.
"Cupid," the Deathstroke acknowledges with a curt nod. Operator Hart stops three steps before him and holds forward the frame. A family of twelve faces stares back at him. His eyes narrow. There are only seventeen corpses in the field.
Wintergreen taps a face through the flimsy glass frame. "This one's missing," he says. Lightly browned skin, hazel eyes, dark hair cropped to his ears. Skinny, long limbed but rather short in comparison standing next to what must've been his three elder brothers. Not much older than the boy, probably.
Deathstroke hums. "Identified?"
"Amir Fahim. Sixteen. Second youngest, proceeding the girl," Operator Hart gestures half-heartedly to the small girl standing bashfully in front of her brothers. She smiles widely in the photo, tiny fingers entwined with the hands on her thin shoulders. "There's two pairs of tracks heading northeast, further away from the city. They taper off towards the direction of the Kush." Operator Hart takes a slow breath in. "Pair of slippers, pair of heavy bottom boots. The kid was probably picked up by a T-man no doubt. No sign of the blue kite in the house either."
The Deathstroke's jaw twitches. For his sake, the boy better pray to God that Fahim has the kite with him. It was just his luck that the boy somehow could interfere with the Deathstroke's own operations. His stomach simmered hotly in annoyance, knowing damn well the Commander set this up, probably banking on the boy being just as efficient as the Deathstroke.
"Call in clean up to take these young men back to base. Rid of collateral. We're heading up to the Kush as soon as possible," the Deathstroke does not wait for a sound of affirmation. His men are personally trained, and what good would it do him if he wasn't certain they'd follow through on all orders? He turns heel, Wintergreen falling into step close behind. He gives a short thwack to Operator Forsythe's skull as he passes by. "Seer, get your knees off the ground. You hoping to see what your dick looks like down an open neck?"
Operator Forsythe comes to his feet quickly and scowls. "I'd sooner stick my cock into the hole of these savages than any good American man, Colonel."
"I don't doubt it," Operator Beckwith says, clapping his palm over Operator Forsythe's shoulder as he walks up to them. Even from six feet away, the Deathstroke can smell the tell of burnt flesh on his uniform. The others are making their ways towards Operator Hart, who waves the photo frame in their vision. The patches of field they leave behind are a stark, ashen black against otherwise green grasses. "Bet you were hoping to get your dick wet in one of these savages," he laughs. "The little one was all mint too. Can't believe none of these poor young men had a few goes with her before popping a cap in'er forehead."
Wintergreen makes a small noise of disgust. "The eight year old? Come on now, its hardly been two months, you lot can't be that starved just yet."
Operator Beckwith shrugs his free shoulder. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do, Lieutenant."
It takes three days to trek through the Kush. The unit makes stops through every village they come across, asking of Amir Fahim. The number of collateral damage begins to trickle up. The Deathstroke's unit is not made of trigger happy men, but no one will blame them for using a few extra rounds. The mark of a man is knowing when to be moral but choosing dominance anyway.
He's taken on the toll of thirteen collateral before the fourteenth finally cracks. The unit is deeper into the mountains, where there are less houses and more poorly built shacks. People are fleeing and it will do them no good when the bombs begin to drop. The Deathstroke pays this little mind, for he is not paid to care about collateral.
The fourteenth one looks up at him with pleading eyes. Her face burns with shame but she is smart enough to not ask for her abaya back. Operator Beckwith uses the cloth to clean the muzzle of his rifle. The tip of his boot plays idly against the smushed nose of the corpse beneath it. A few minutes ago, it was this woman's husband. The other men eye her thinly dressed form hungrily. The Deathstroke does not grimace under his mask. He hasn't the time for morality.
"...The boy...was-was with a man. He looked to be a soldier..." the woman's voice trembles but she is much more straightforward than her late husband. The Deathstroke frowns. She refers to them differently. Amir Fahim is zoy but the soldier is sary. Perhaps she is confused, the boy is certainly no man.
"Describe the soldier," he says.
"Tall...he-he had light hair. Yellow color. He was big. He looked hurt, we-we tried to help him but he turned us away. They are deeper in the mountain, near the mines."
"What did the boy have with him?"
"The boy? He didn't have anything with him. Just himself. He wore kamees and sandals."
The Deathstroke growls in annoyance. He says zoy and the woman assumes he speaks of Fahim. He asks of the boy not the Afghani with him. He tries again, leveling his voice with a deep rumble.
"What did the soldier have with him?" he asks, slow and deliberate.
The woman squeezes her knees together. Her eyes are wet but no tears fall. "He ha-had guns. He had some knives and...and a book. That is all I can recall. They did not stay long."
Book, the Deathstroke thinks with equal parts relief and ire. Seems the boy has some wits about him after all. He has all he needs. He unholsters the Beretta M9 and shoots the woman once through the forehead. She's dead before a single sound can escape her. Behind him, Operator Beckwith makes a noise of disappointment.
"Shut it, Bandwidth," the Deathstroke snaps. He taps his forefinger against his earpiece. "Located the blue kite. We're heading near the mines. Cupid, Oxford--"
Operator Hart and Wintergreen burst into the shack. Between them is Fahim, shivering restlessly in their grips. His eyes are wide at the sight of the corpse at the Deathstroke's feet. He looks away, mutters I seek forgiveness in God under his breath.
Fahim's face is bruised like the overripened skin of a plum. The Deathstroke lifts his chin. Fahim relents easily to the manhandling, but keeps his eyes resolutely downturned.
"Where is the book?" The Deathstroke asks. Where is the boy? he thinks to himself.
"With the soldier," Fahim says simply. His voice is high, lacking the predisposition of more genetically ideal young men. The boy is unlike him despite being the same age, having developed more growth in the larynx at eleven than most grown men ever would.
The Deathstroke is about to say more, but Fahim does not wait before continuing to speak.
"Sir...please understand, it wasn't his fault."
Operator Hart audibly snorts. "He worries about his precious Talib."
Fahim frowns, "N-no Talib," he states in broken English. "American."
Confusion permeates the men about the room. The Deathstroke feels Wintergreen's gaze upon him.
Fahim continues in Pashto. "Please, I gave him the book because I wanted to help him. He is not at fault...those-those men were hurting him."
The Deathstroke is a professional. He is not paid to care for collateral. He could dismiss Fahim's pleas and instead force the Afghani to take them to where the boy is. There is no need to ask for more, it is not necessary to completing the mission. It would go against the principles of efficiency he has come to pride himself upon.
"Explain to me everything that happened," he says instead. His voice is perfunctory, yet he feels the growing confusion of his men. Wintergreen's gaze burns him.
"They...they came for my family. The Americans. They did not ask for anything, simply ordered us to get up. They killed my father, two uncles and three brothers in the house, and dragged their bodies outside with the rest of us. My father gave me the book. I hid it underneath my tunic. They shot the four elderly next. They..." Fahim's voice cracks. Tears drop onto the dirt floor. "They wanted my sister. They were holding her down, trying to take her clothes off. I wanted to stop them, but was too scared to even try. I was scared to die. Then, one of them got in between my sister and the rest. He insisted that they kill her quickly or let her go. They would not agree and told him to stand down. He disobeyed, and shot my sister through the head. They were angry. They turned against him...and-and they....held him down. Took away his weapons. They, uh, they did things to him."
It was as if the air in the room had turned acrid. The Deathstroke opened his mouth to speak and found that no words would pass through the constriction of his throat. He had the sudden urge to pee.
Wintergreen said, "And then?"
"....And then...He ripped off the neck of the man on top of him. Then he killed the rest. I did nothing, God forgive me. I only tried to help when they were all already dead. I said he must leave here, but he said if he goes home, he'd be killed. So, I took us over here."
An oversimplification, most certainly. The Deathstroke did not care. He lifted a hand, and patted the Afghani boy's head gently. He locked his eyes with Wintergreen. Understanding passed through them. Wintergreen dropped Fahim's shoulder and in the same second, unholstered his pistol, shooting Operator Hart through the face.
"God forgive me, God forgive me, God forgive me..."
The Deathstroke pulled his knife free from the last Operator's head. Between himself and Wintergreen, the unit was dead in less than two minutes. He stares into the unseeing eyes of the corpse before him, its face still frozen in shock. No time to react to the assault, just instantaneous death. The Deathstroke does not care for morality. The mark of a man is trusting your brothers in arms and still choosing to kill them anyway.
Fahim is still begging to God when the two men finally turn to acknowledge him once more. The Deathstroke presses the muzzle of his pistol to the child's head.
"You want to live? Take me to the boy," he sneers. The child only nods profusely, having to be dragged up.
Wintergreen does not follow them. He understands that some things are only meant to be shared between a man and his boy. Besides, the collateral must be disposed of.
Every step deeper into the mines makes dread climb up the notches of the Deathstroke's spine. He does not feel like the infamous Terminator now. There is an uncomfortable sting at the ducts of his eyes. The breaths he takes feel labored and though he does not lack stamina nor endurance, he feels suddenly tired.
Fahim leads him to the opening of the mines. The Deathstroke can see the curled up form of the boy. His uniform is torn in places. His head is bowed and the blond strands of his hair are so caked with blood and dirt, that they've taken on the color of cow dung. Fahim makes to call out to the boy. The Deathstroke clamps a hand over his mouth. With his free hand, he pulls away his own mask.
Fahim's eyes widen. Tears fall horizontally across his face. He understands, then. Good.
The Deathstroke is not a moral man. The man underneath the mask is just as selfish, but he once understood what is was like to be sixteen with the expectations of your father weighing you down. Fahim's father gave him the book, but Fahim's father is ash and cannot save him. The man does not believe in God, nor does he subscribe to any ideas of Heaven. Still, he hopes that there is a place where father and son will meet again.
"Thank you, Amir," the man whispers. The crack of the child's neck as his head twists is loud enough to startle awake the boy in the mines.
The boy looks up, amber and blue eyes red rimmed and fearful.
The man drops the corpse without ceremony. He crosses into the mine with long, rapid strides, gripping onto the boy's shoulders before he can so much as plant the soles of his feet to the ground.
"Grant," Slade Wilson breathes. "Where the fuck is that book?"
31 December, 2001, Crawford, Texas
"A fucking cheeseburger," Slade grumbles, rubbing his wrist against Addy's pulse point. She smirks at him, leaning closer to nip lightly at his jaw. There's a twinge of amusement in her amber eyes that makes a pleasant sensation roll through his stomach.
"You know," Adeline begins in a playful whisper, "I hear that they're calling him 'butter knife' up at the White House."
Slade snorts. "I can believe it." He kisses the crown of her head. "You know, I come home and I'm expecting a dinner a little nicer than fast food. I'm sure Grant would appreciate something fancier too."
Adeline tenses in his arms. She nuzzles her face into the nape of his neck and breathes in deeply. "He's being distant. Its been upsetting Joey," she murmurs. "You should talk to him, your his father."
You should talk to him, Slade thinks hotly. Your his mother. Adeline had said hardly more than six sentences to Grant since they got back. He'd been given a CIB after the court's 'investigation'. Addy had taken one look at the badge and simply said, "First award? At your age, your father was already on his third."
Slade hums. "This type of thing can take a bit to get over. Let him have his space."
"Its upsetting Joey," Adeline says again. She threads her fingers through his. "I don't like seeing our baby so sad."
"Grant is a man, now. He'll get over it soon enough. He's a man, Addy. He's got to deal with it on his own."
Sary, the Afghani woman had called him. Man.
"He fucked Beckwith's son," she says eventually. "Put a few bites near the kid's scent glands. The kid is another Alpha, honey. I understand that Grant wants to feel...control, but I'd prefer if he didn't start laying claims on other families' patriarchs. What if people start thinking he likes to be dominated?"
"I assure you babe, no one is going to think our kid is a bottom bitch," Slade laughs.
Adeline groans. "It's just...he's handsome, like you. He's tall, imposing. He could have any number of women. He could have an Omega for God's sake. I just don't see why he feels the need to sleep with other Alphas."
Slade thrums his fingers gently against Adeline's waist. For a brief moment, he can smell the coal of the Kush mines. He closes his eyes and sees not amber and blue, but hazel.
"A man's got to do what a man's got to do," he says.