2 Slade Death Ficlets, PG13
Title: Never To Be Warm Again
Author: Lara
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 163
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: Revenge is finally cold
Content: Death
Spoilers: Futurish
Disclaimer: Don't own DC; if I did, well, a whole hell of a lot of people wouldn't be dead. Also, Slade would never be so stupidly black and white.
Distribution: My site eventually; all others, please ask.
A/N: Written for 30_deathfics for prompt #21, Cold
They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. He's never believed it. While his quests for vengeance may have taken time to reach fruition, the emotions he felt were always hot. Sometimes bitter, but always burning inside him.
Not this time.
As he pushes Luthor to his knees, puts the gun to the back of his head, he feels nothing but ice in his veins and a heart so cold it barely beats. A small part of him admires the man for not pleading, for remaining as cool as he feels, but he wishes he'd beg. Wishes he'd fight. Wishes he'd do something to bring the heat.
But, wishing won't bring the kid back--nothing will--and his vengeance brings no pleasure or satisfaction.
As he pulls the trigger and his enemy's brains and blood spatter across the concrete, Slade Wilson feels nothing but a cold chill, and knows that without Dick's smile in the world, he'll never feel warm again.
End
Title: Inevitable
Author: Lara
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 228
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: He was a natural at what he did best but what he did best was destroy
Content: Death
Spoilers: Slade's entire existence?
Disclaimer: Don't own DC; if I did, well, a whole hell of a lot of people wouldn't be dead. Also, Slade would never be so stupidly black and white.
Distribution: My site eventually; all others, please ask.
A/N: Written for 30_deathfics for prompt #12, Fate
Maybe it was inevitable he'd become a killer. Growing up on the mean and poor streets of Chicago, he ran with a tough crowd. Big for his age, he was always accepted by those older than himself. By eight he'd had his first cigarette, by nine, his first drink, by twelve, his first girl.
At fifteen he killed his first man.
He did it to protect a woman--a whore with two babies at home and emptiness in her eyes, being threatened with a knife by a burly, thug of a man who smelled like too much whisky and too much desperation. He turned the knife on him, and was surprised at how easily it sank into the fat neck and released a torrent of sticky red blood.
He didn't feel bad about it. He felt almost proud--like a hero, but heroes didn't kill, and Illinois had the death penalty.
Joining the army at sixteen seemed the smart thing to do. The military taught him to kill in ways he'd never imagined.
And it gave him something he never expected--a family.
But, dealers of death aren't supposed to have such things, because he couldn't stop killing, and in killing, he lost them.
For the rest of his life Slade would regret that what he'd been born to be lost him everything that meant anything to him.
End
Author: Lara
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 163
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: Revenge is finally cold
Content: Death
Spoilers: Futurish
Disclaimer: Don't own DC; if I did, well, a whole hell of a lot of people wouldn't be dead. Also, Slade would never be so stupidly black and white.
Distribution: My site eventually; all others, please ask.
A/N: Written for 30_deathfics for prompt #21, Cold
They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. He's never believed it. While his quests for vengeance may have taken time to reach fruition, the emotions he felt were always hot. Sometimes bitter, but always burning inside him.
Not this time.
As he pushes Luthor to his knees, puts the gun to the back of his head, he feels nothing but ice in his veins and a heart so cold it barely beats. A small part of him admires the man for not pleading, for remaining as cool as he feels, but he wishes he'd beg. Wishes he'd fight. Wishes he'd do something to bring the heat.
But, wishing won't bring the kid back--nothing will--and his vengeance brings no pleasure or satisfaction.
As he pulls the trigger and his enemy's brains and blood spatter across the concrete, Slade Wilson feels nothing but a cold chill, and knows that without Dick's smile in the world, he'll never feel warm again.
End
Title: Inevitable
Author: Lara
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 228
Fandom: DC Comics
Summary: He was a natural at what he did best but what he did best was destroy
Content: Death
Spoilers: Slade's entire existence?
Disclaimer: Don't own DC; if I did, well, a whole hell of a lot of people wouldn't be dead. Also, Slade would never be so stupidly black and white.
Distribution: My site eventually; all others, please ask.
A/N: Written for 30_deathfics for prompt #12, Fate
Maybe it was inevitable he'd become a killer. Growing up on the mean and poor streets of Chicago, he ran with a tough crowd. Big for his age, he was always accepted by those older than himself. By eight he'd had his first cigarette, by nine, his first drink, by twelve, his first girl.
At fifteen he killed his first man.
He did it to protect a woman--a whore with two babies at home and emptiness in her eyes, being threatened with a knife by a burly, thug of a man who smelled like too much whisky and too much desperation. He turned the knife on him, and was surprised at how easily it sank into the fat neck and released a torrent of sticky red blood.
He didn't feel bad about it. He felt almost proud--like a hero, but heroes didn't kill, and Illinois had the death penalty.
Joining the army at sixteen seemed the smart thing to do. The military taught him to kill in ways he'd never imagined.
And it gave him something he never expected--a family.
But, dealers of death aren't supposed to have such things, because he couldn't stop killing, and in killing, he lost them.
For the rest of his life Slade would regret that what he'd been born to be lost him everything that meant anything to him.
End