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The sun goes down, and the creeps come out. So it is all over Manhattan, but even more it seems, at times, in Harlem. It's a fairly quiet night, the sounds of the city in the background noise an everpresent din. A scream breaks the relative quiet, as a trio of men corner an elderly couple on their way home; backing the pair into an alley. One pulls a gun as they approach, the other two a knife each. "Your wallet, that necklace," one orders menacingly, while the couple start to panic.
Not more than thirty seconds pass before a man in black jumps down from the fire escape above before the attackers; a metal stick strikes the gun from the man's hand, and a sharp kick to the chest knocks him back a few feet. "Run!" he shouts to the elderly couple, just before the pair with knives lunge at him. "Been lookin' forward to this all day," Night Thrasher mutters under his breath, and moves to defend himself.
Mercenary work can the thrilling, but often is also boring. Preparation and investigation are all important, particularly when one operates in a city full with numerous super-powered vigilantes. It is what he was doing tonight.
Deathstroke should have moved to Kenya for the winter. Africa has plenty of work for him. But those silly ninjas from the Hand have threatened his territory and his life, so he stays just to show them his contempt. He did send his daughter away, though. Tricked her, really. By lying and manipulation he shows he cares.
But the winter is boring. Which is why instead of continuing his surveillance he turns his binoculars down, to the commotion in the alleyway. A vigilante? Martial arts against two thugs with knives. He slides close, quiet even in full armor. To have a better look.
Night Thrasher doesn't have powers; he's not a mutant, he doesn't have any magic. Just determination and will. And a good deal of anger waiting for a direction. The two men with knives lunge at him, and he blocks the blades with a pair of strikes from the metal sticks in his hands; he ducks low and slams a closed fist into the stomach of one man before spinning around to deliver a kick to the face of the other. One stumbles back, the other falls to the ground after a spray of blood from his mouth. Meanwhile the man who had the gun scrambles to recover his weapon while the man in black leather is focused on the others. He gives the men a moment to collect themselves, their intended victims having fled the scene as fast as their legs could carry them. "You could just go home," Thrasher says from behind his mask, though he hopes they won't just take him up on the offer. Thankfully, they won't. The men get back to their feet, knives gripped tightly again while one bleeds from the kick to the face and the other growls from the fist to the gut. His watcher above goes unnoticed for now; Thrasher has other immediate concerns than an audience.
Skill and rage would draw Slade's attention far better than flashy superpowers and the usual heroic banter. Fighting sticks are also unusual enough.
So he jumps down.
THUD. He is not quiet when he lands behind the thugs, a three point landing. He is a heavy man in heavy armor and just made a jump that would have broken bones of most human beings. "Gentlemen," he greets, standing up; his voice a grave bass behind his helmet. "Please, don't let my presence interrupt your battle."
The sudden crash of the armored figure's landing draws Night Thrasher's attention, as well as the armed criminals. "If you're here just to watch, I don't need an audience," he says calmly. The man scrambling for his gun seems to have found it, as click of the hammer being cocked echoes quietly through the alleyway. "Fuckin' city's gettin' overrun with so-called heroes with masks," he mutters frantically, taking aim at Night Thrasher. "Gonna be one less now," he says, and his finger starts to squeeze the trigger; one of those metal escrima sticks is thrown just in time to throw off his aim. The bullet grazes his shoulder, tearing the leather padded armor and striking the brick behind him. The other men jump to attack again, and are met with a quick strike to the side of the head for one, and a kick to the knee, which is accompanied by an audible crack as the joint breaks, and then a scream of pain from the victim. "Should have run," Thrasher growls as he follows it up with another heavy kick to the prone man's face, knocking him out. One down, two to go. One still armed with a gun, but the other has at least lost the knife, for now.
"Then you shouldn't fight in the street," replies the armored man, unapologetic. He stands there and folks his arms across his armored chest. "Good, but get some real armor," he comments when the bullet draws blood.
He glances down. "You… left him alive," he comments, disapproval in his tone. Another 'super-hero' it seems. They usually disappoint.
There's still one with a gun, though the other conscious attacker is unarmed for now. "Not gonna kill people I don't have to," Thrasher replies to the armored man through gritted teeth, before he delivers another roundhouse kick to the head of the unarmed man, despite all of his best efforts to avoid getting knocked out; the man falls to the ground as well, after slamming into the brick wall of the alley. There's another click from the gun, though by now the man's nerves are getting the better of him, and his aim is shoddy. The trigger pulled, the bullet misses, and Thrasher throws the other stick, striking the man square in the forehead. Ouch. There's some blood, and the man goes down like the others, dropping the gun on the ground. "Armor's fine," he says gruffly, moving to pick up the two escrima sticks before he approaches the onlooker. "I don't exactly get to pick the arena, you know. Street thugs. Street. Gonna happen where it happens." He smirks from behind the helmet, and glances at his shoulder. "It's just a scratch. Who the fuck are you?" Thrasher doesn't take off his helmet either though, but he's not looking for another fight just now.
"Have to?" Deathstroke's helmet hides his expression of disapproval. "You attacked them, you didn't 'have to'. Once you engaged them there are no rules, boy. These are not the Olympic Games."
He sighs, looking away. "You brought sticks to a gunfight. And you know how to use them, but," he points to the gunman. "He barely knew the right end of his revolver and injured you. You handicapped yourself and it will be your death."
Who he is? For a few seconds he considers just ignoring the question. But since he bothered to come to watch, he feels he owes an answer. "Deathstroke. Mercenary. Today just a spectator. Tomorrow, or in ten years, we might be enemies and you will die. Not because you are incompetent, but because you are not taking seriously what was a fight to the death. They would have killed you."
"Deathstroke. That's a hell of a name," Thrasher says with a bit of a sardonic laugh behind the mask. He glances down to the unconscious men. "Three against one, one with a gun, two with knives." He points around at each. "Broken leg. Concussion. Concussion. Old couple made it out without a scratch. I've got a minor scrape on my shoulder. If we're keeping score, I still come out on top. The asshole with the gun couldn't have hit me any better than he did, to be honest. Not just leather under here," he says, tapping his chest. Yeah, he could definitely use some more protection, but it's hard to get lightweight bulletproof gear on a student budget. "And yeah, maybe I didn't 'have to'. But if I didn't, maybe they kill the old man and his wife. Were you going to stop them if I didn't?"
Deathstroke shakes his head. "Not my job," he glances back to Dwayne. "Or yours. Join the police. Join the FBI, if you want it to be your job." He gestures to the downed men. "You picked the fight for yourself, not for the old couple. You wanted… what? Retribution? The thrill of a fight?"
Both are valid reasons in his book. But going half-assed is what he disapproves.
"Get some firearms. Master them," he suggests. "You can *choose* not to kill if you are good enough. But these guys? They will be mugging old couples in three months. You fixed nothing here."
Night Thrasher gives a shrug. "Cops don't do shit about helping people around here," he says, the bitterness evident in his voice. "More than a few hero-types in this city, not many of them are all that worried about what happens to innocent people in this part of town either." He sheathes the escrima sticks again, and crosses his arms in front of him. "Least, I haven't seen any. As for why, I have my reasons. Not really obliged to share 'em though." It feels good to do something proactive. And he really does want to help, but at the end of the day it's an outlet. Hit some criminals or break holes in walls, or worse. "And maybe they'll be at it again in a week. Maybe they won't. Broken leg and a steel bar to the head might make them rethink their life. Might not. That couple will make it home to make dinner for their grandkids though. That's enough for me, for now." He pauses, and gives a look over Deathstroke's armor. "Nice gear. Seems a bit heavy though, hard to move in."
"I see. A cynical," the mercenary smirks behind his mask. "By all means, have your amusements. Waste your time with street thugs. It will get you far, I am sure." He turns out to leave, "heavy for you, not for me. Good night," he jumps up, nearly fifteen feet, reaching the firescape easily, then climbs up with impossible agility. Either he is superhuman or the armor is enhancing him. In seconds he is gone.