Picking a proper suit for Deathstroke was no easy job. The guy was just too jacked. Being tall was one thing, but those shoulders, that chest, those arms—he was basically at the upper limit of the Human race. Normally, off-the-rack stores don't even stock clothes for people built like this.
But as the saying goes, there's no such thing as money that can't be earned. If a suit only has a fifty-percent profit margin, the sales clerk might not bother to look too hard; but if the profit margin is five hundred percent, they'd find something that fits even if the Slender Ghost himself walked in.
Clearly, this shop's margins were way past that five hundred percent mark. Not only did the salespeople find something that fit, they brought out several options. Deathstroke's idea of what a suit should look like was stuck in the last century, or maybe the one before that. The one he'd taken a shine to would've been perfect for the World's Fair. Shiller picked a light-colored one for him instead, and he was really not happy about it.
"Did you forget how old you are now?" Shiller lowered his voice, suit in hand. "That red plaid one you like? On you it looks like some loser high schooler borrowing his dad's old suit for graduation prom."
"It's not that bad, is it?" Deathstroke looked dubious. He went into the fitting room and changed into the light-colored suit. It was a light blue casual suit with a bit of retro American vibe. Once he put it on, he really did look like an American high schooler from a few decades ago—very laid-back vintage style.
Of course, the style might be vintage, but the price sure wasn't. When Deathstroke saw all those zeroes, his face twisted. As they walked out of the clothing store, he muttered under his breath, "Batman is going to kill me for this."
"You really underestimate him," Shiller shot him a glance and said. "Think about the luxury security System in his office. This outfit is barely worth two of his cameras."
Thinking of it that way, Deathstroke had to admit it made sense. If he didn't blow Batman's money hard while the guy wasn't home, how was that worthy of the way he'd once been stunned by that obscenely expensive security System?
Besides, he was the number-one Mercenary in the world. He charged plenty when he killed people, so it was only reasonable that his gear for disguised infiltration cost a bit more too. Still, no matter how he looked at it, this crappy suit did not feel worth the price tag. If only he could cash it in instead.
"Alright, your next job is to find a way into the banquet and stay close to Dr. Hall. Whatever happens, don't let anyone kill him."
"What about you?"
"I'll also find a way in, but he can't see me. I'll be backing you up from the shadows. The moment the assassin makes a move, I'll go after him."
Deathstroke rubbed his forehead and said, "That's the problem—I have no idea how I'm supposed to get into the banquet."
"How did you get in before?"
"I didn't need to get in before," Deathstroke said. "If the client didn't specifically say otherwise, I'd just draw my sword and start cutting."
"These banquets are full of big shots. You're not worried about payback? Not to mention some of them might end up being your clients someday."
"They've got legs of their own," Deathstroke said. "All I have to do is smash the window and jump in at the height of the party. Everyone starts screaming and running, and I just chase the target."
"And if the client tells you not to make a scene?"
"Then I don't pick the banquet to make a move," Deathstroke said. "It's not like he can stay in a crowd twenty-four seven. I wait till he's alone and do it then."
Deathstroke seemed worried Shiller wouldn't get it, so he added, "I made myself into the spokesperson of raw violence so that when people see me, they don't even think about fighting back—they just run. That's what lets me use such brutal methods on the job. I'm on a completely different path from those Stealth-type killers."
Shiller nodded; of course he understood. A killer like Deathstroke had no need for Stealth, because he'd turned himself into a violent totem everyone feared. He didn't even need to make a move—just seeing his Appearance was enough to terrify regular people into bolting. Fighting back simply wouldn't occur to them.
Like back on the boat. If it had just been some random big guy fare-dodging, people might have spoken up, maybe the driver would've argued with him. But with someone like Deathstroke, all anyone would be thinking about was whether he was a psycho about to pull a Carnage scene, and what they had to do to keep their own lives.
Even trained security personnel, once they saw him in action, wouldn't feel like resisting either. How much would you have to pay someone to make it worth risking their life against a guy like that?
That was exactly the effect Deathstroke wanted. As long as everyone froze up in fear when they saw him, he could charge straight into a crowd without a care. A mob that won't stick together is no different from a flock of sheep—they scatter at the first scare. All he had to do was catch the target sheep and hack away.
This method had plenty of perks: no need to bother with disguises, no need to plan infiltration routes, not even any need to pick a particular time. Show up, kill, and leave. Maximum efficiency. His unmatched job count was a key reason he was ranked the world's number-one Mercenary.
There were only a couple of kinds of jobs that didn't suit this style, or that Deathstroke simply wouldn't take. One was against a trained army. An army is a real violence machine. They might not be scared even if he jumped right into their midst, and even if they were, their duty wouldn't let them run. If they coordinated and fought back together, they'd form a wall of firepower and Deathstroke would have no choice but to retreat. The other kind was when the target sheep itself was too strong. Even if every other sheep ran, the target could still send him flying with a headbutt. Batman, for example. Deathstroke wasn't stupid enough to accept a contract on Batman.
But those two situations scared off other killers as well. So Deathstroke's approach had already become the industry standard for Mercenaries. It was so close to perfect there'd never been any need to change it, and he'd never run into a job that absolutely forced him to ditch the routine. Now, suddenly being told to go in disguised and undercover did give him a bit of a headache.
"Alright, listen." They stopped at the intersection, and Shiller pointed at the private art gallery. "First, hide your guns and weapons. Then walk over there and say you came because of its reputation and you want to experience Midway City's artistic flair. When they let you in, just don't grin like you've already won. That's it."
"What?" Deathstroke was shoved forward by Shiller and didn't understand a thing. Shiller pressed his lips together and said, "Just do what I told you. Go, quick!"
Deathstroke had no choice but to bite the bullet. He walked up to the entrance of the private gallery, where a young girl was standing, apparently in charge of receiving guests. Deathstroke gave her a smile and said, "Hi."
The girl seemed stunned for a moment. Her gaze lingered on Deathstroke's face for a few seconds, then she looked him up and down, and finally her eyes returned to his face, locking with his.
Deathstroke felt a bit awkward, but he still said, "Um… this is my first time in Midway City. They said there's a great gallery here, so I wanted to keep looking around. Do you sell tickets here?"
The girl smiled and said, "This is a private gallery, it's not open to the public. Besides, there's a banquet today, so we're not receiving outside guests for now."
"Oh… okay then. It's just, I'm flying out tomorrow, what a pity… I heard the museums in this city are all great, but I've only been to one…"
The girl was amused by Deathstroke's stammering. She let out a little snort of laughter and covered her mouth with her hand. "All right, boy. You're from the South, right? Let me guess, New Orleans?"
"Uh, how did you know?"
"That accent of yours is so cute, sweetheart. Letting you in isn't impossible. I'm going to your neck of the woods for an exchange program later this year—mind giving me your contact?"
"Uh, no. I mean, I'll write it down for you?"
The girl handed him a slip of paper, blatantly staring at Deathstroke's face, making his skin crawl a little. He scribbled down a random address and phone number and passed it back. The girl picked up a blank invitation, and while writing on it, she asked, "Name?"
"Slade Wilson. My family's in the textile business."
"Natural fiber product artisan. Okay, here, take your invitation and go on in."
Deathstroke took the invite and went inside. It wasn't until he sat down on a sofa in the lounge area that he finally processed what had just happened—what else could it be? This was straight-up seduction, wasn't it?
Deathstroke rolled his eyes hard in his head. Still, he had to admit the trick really worked. Getting in had been ridiculously smooth. Of course, his outfit had done him a huge favor too: it was a designer suit, supposedly a new spring collection, the kind only some spoiled rich boy would wear at a glance. Paired with his face, who doesn't like a handsome idiot with more money than sense?
Deathstroke walked over to the coffee machine. Just as he was about to grab a cup, he saw Shiller coming over for coffee as well. His eyes widened and he lowered his voice: "How did you get in?!"
"Through another door." Shiller pressed the button on the coffee machine. "I'm way more seasoned at this than you are."
Deathstroke gave him a once-over, and yeah, fair enough. He himself was at best playing the dumb rich second-gen; Shiller looked like the real deal, someone who actually worked in art. The light yellow-green suit he was wearing was a color-blocked piece, diagonally divided from the right shoulder to the left waist: solid color on top, and very fine, barely noticeable checks below. The left pocket had a patterned design. The cashmere sweater underneath was also light-colored, with only faint stripes at the collar. Deathstroke didn't know much about fashion, but this outfit looked fresh and bright in color, clean yet elegant, like he'd just walked off a runway.
He hadn't known Shiller for very long, but he was pretty sure this was not Agent Mister's usual style. Agent Schiller was exactly the type who'd wear a uniform all year round if he could. Choosing something this flashy was obviously for disguise.
"You've got some nerve," Deathstroke said. "You wore that to go see Hall, didn't you? You're really not afraid he'll see you?"
"I'll be gone before he shows." Shiller finished filling his cup and said, "I'm just here to remind you to cozy up to him a bit. Don't give anyone else a chance to cut in."
"Relax." After Deathstroke said that, he glanced toward the main hall and added, "I feel like he's almost here, you'd better go."
Before he finished his sentence, Shiller was already gone. Deathstroke picked up his coffee, took a deep breath, and walked toward the hall. By now, the gallery's main hall had already filled with people gathered in small groups, chatting away.
Deathstroke had barely stepped in when people noticed him. The first thing they looked at was his face, and only then did they take in his clothes. Very quickly, someone came over to strike up a conversation.
Deathstroke stuck to the same cover story: only son of a southern textile tycoon, interested in fabric printing and textile art, who had long heard of Dr. Hall's great reputation and had traveled a long way just to attend this banquet.
Deathstroke actually wasn't very good at small talk, but he looked young now. Whenever a topic came up that he didn't know how to respond to, he'd put on a blank, dumb look and give an occasional shy smile. People would just tease him a bit and not hold it against him.
Turns out being younger did have its perks. People will always forgive a well-off, good-looking young man. At this rate, maybe he really could try a different path from brute force—becoming a Stealth-type hitman.
With that thought, the anxiety brought on by being turned young suddenly evaporated. Maybe he didn't have to agonize over juggling the roles of killer and father anymore. With this new Appearance, he could take his wife and kids somewhere else and start over.