"Talk." Slade would be lying if he said the sight of the man in front of him trembling didn't fill him with some kind of sick satisfaction. The job of a mercenary was rough, but when he could get a piece of human garbage begging for his life, it made it a little better.

Just to prove his point further, Slave drove the blade of his sword into the dirt in front of him. His mask hid his faint smirk as the man squealed, stumbling backwards on trembling hands as he begged.

Please, please, w-whatever they're paying you I'll double it! Triple it!

Slade had heard it all before.

"I don't want your damn money. What I want is for you to talk," He lowered his voice, looming over him in orange and black armor riddled with scratches, with bullet holes and blood that showed whoever messed with him ended up on the end of his sword. Slade finished his jobs, it was one of the rules in the loose honor code he was bound by. "TALK! Your boss!" The man flinched again, and once again that devil on Slade's shoulder grinned with satisfaction.

Then, of course, there was you.

You. The only goodness Slade had in his life of mercenary contracts and intimidation and torture. The Angel on his shoulder, where his Deathstroke persona was the Devil egging him on.

Slade kept his sword trained on the man, even as he heard the door creak behind him.

"Not now." He spoke over his shoulder. His voice dropped lower, but not in intimidation, more of a fondness that his black and orange mask couldn't hide. He sent his boot into the man's chest, making him hiss with labored breath as he fell backwards. "Don't make me ask you again," Slade hissed to the man.