Paul stumbled through the streets of Gotham, his body screaming from hunger and exhaustion. Each step felt heavier than the last. He mumbled to himself, "Not much left..."
Finally, he reached the military base. Knowing the knife would raise too many questions, he hid it in a well-hidden corner near a dumpster. Taking a deep breath, he approached the guards.
"I'm an army member," he said. "I had a rough time here and lost my ID."
One of the guards raised a brow, skeptical. "Are you on some new kind of drug, or just spitting bullshit? Why would anyone try sneaking into a military base?"
Paul steadied himself. "I'm in the system. You can check my data. I remember everything—serial number, rank, date of birth. This must be some kind of joke. I'm a soldier. My info's there."
The guard sighed and typed into his terminal. "Alright, but if you're lying, you won't see the end of this day."
After a moment, something came up. The guard's face twisted in surprise.
"Well, there is a Paul Jackson with this information... but he's listed as dead. And he's Black."
Paul's heart dropped. "What? No, that can't be. That's not possible."
The guards stood up, now furious. "Taking the identity of a fallen comrade? You sick bastard."
Before Paul could react, they grabbed him and dragged him inside, punching and kicking him. Just as they threw him to the ground, a heavy foot stomped onto his back.
A rotund man in an expensive suit with a cane sneered down at him. Oswald Cobblepot.
"What the hell is this? I didn't order a red carpet," Oswald said with a snarl.
The soldiers quickly apologized. "Sorry, Mr. Cobblepot. Just some lunatic. We'll toss him out."
Another soldier gestured. "Your weapons are this way, sir."
Oswald gave Paul a lingering look, unsettled by something in his eyes. He hesitated before walking away.
Paul was thrown out into the alley. One soldier spat on him. "You're lucky you're still alive. Now get the fuck out of here."
Bruised and humiliated, Paul limped behind a fast food restaurant. He spotted a garbage can and opened it, stomach growling.
"Why is this happening to me?" he muttered. "What have I done?"
As he dug for food, a voice called out from the alley's entrance.
"What a shame. After that show in the alley, I expected more."
Paul spun, instinctively reaching for his knife—only to remember he left it behind. A figure stood at the alley's edge, cloaked in shadows. The stranger tossed something at his feet. Paul's old uniform.
"Should've kept this if you wanted to get in," the man said. "Or are you a masochist? Not here to judge."
Paul stared, shocked. "I threw that away..."
He took a defensive stance. "Who are you?"
"Nobody that matters," the man replied. "And relax. I'm not here to take you to the cops. I think you should be asking another question."
He stepped closer. "Who was that man?"
Paul's mind jumped to the fat man at the base. The figure continued.
"Oswald Cobblepot."
Paul blinked. "Cobblepot... the mobster? The criminal who runs guns and drugs through Gotham?"
"The very same," the stranger confirmed.
Paul lowered his guard, despair creeping in. "I've got nothing. No name, no proof, no allies. Even the military's in bed with him. What can I possibly do?"
The man tossed a blade to the ground. Paul's knife.
He bent down and picked it up slowly, staring in disbelief.
"Why are you following me? I have nothing to offer."
The figure stepped into the light, revealing an orange and black mask.
"But I do," Slade said.
Paul leaned against the brick wall, wiping a bit of sweat and grime from his face as he looked at the figure in front of him.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The man tilted his head slightly. "I'm known by many as Deathstroke," he said with a faint smirk. "But Slade will do the job. And you are?"
"Paul Jackson," he replied.
Slade gave a slight nod. "I suppose you're not rummaging through garbage cans as a hobby."
Paul lowered his head, the weight of his circumstances pressing down on him. But Slade's voice cut through the moment.
"Anger. Fear. Hunger. Remember those feelings. If you want to keep pushing forward, you'll need them. Now follow me I want to see what you're made of."
Paul hesitated, but Slade added, "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be in a morgue."
Paul looked up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "Maybe you should've taken that chance. You don't know what could happen."
Slade chuckled lowly, then turned and started walking. Paul followed him, the two disappearing into the night.
Eventually, they arrived at Slade's hideout—a run-down factory on the edge of Gotham.
Paul gave the place a once-over and said, "I expected more, to be honest. Is it too late to unsign the contract?"
"It's functional," Slade replied dryly. "And I didn't see you complaining while digging through trash or being stepped on. You should be thankful—you're the first to enter this place alive. Let's see if you've got what it takes to leave it that way."
He pushed aside an old crate, revealing a hidden door that led to a basement. Paul followed him down, and his eyes widened. The walls were covered with weapons, old gear, and trophies from past missions.
Paul let out a breath. "Now this feels like home."
Slade glanced at him. "Where did you serve, military boy?"
"Syria," Paul answered simply.
Slade gave a brief, unreadable look but didn't press further. Instead, he pointed to a corner. "There's some military rations in that locker. Under the table. I think you know the drill. I'll be upstairs."
Paul didn't need to be told twice. He devoured the food like it was his last meal, even if it tasted like cardboard soaked in engine grease. Still, it reminded him of something real—something from home, or what was left of it.
Once he finished, he made his way back upstairs, wiping his mouth.
Slade stood waiting, already in a fighting stance.
"Let's test if you're as sharp as your knife, military boy."
Paul didn't hesitate. He dropped into the stance he'd been trained in, eyes focused.
"Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you helped me."
Slade grinned. "Good. Because I'm not asking you to."