There is no honor in this.
The thought goes through his head several times a day as he sinks deeper and deeper into the mire created by Luthor and his band of supervillains. The so-called 'Society' which was nothing more than a group of killers and thieves and would-be world conquerors.
And one nigh-immortal assassin who once believed in something more than his checkbook.
As Slade Wilson wipes blood off the razor sharp blade of his sword and listens to the gurgles of the dying man at his feet, he once again wonders what the hell he's doing. This man--an astrophysicist--had been brilliant, working on breakthroughs using Kryptonian, Thanagarian, even Oan technology. Working for the betterment of mankind and that dream of space.
And for twenty thousand dollars Deathstroke put his sword through him.
It hadn't been a hunt or a challenge or even as deserved death.
This man shouldn't be dead.
He shouldn't have killed him.
There is no honor in his death.
There is no honor in any of this.
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