Two hours later, Slade took a final sip of his Scotch, then set down his glass and rose to check on its condition.
No sign of life.
His lips twisted slightly. So, he could be killed after all. The head he'd cut off lay there, the single eye the dull of the newly dead. The body hadn't regrown the head nor had it come back to life headless. There was no pulse, nothing.
He could wait awhile longer, but he was anxious to get back to his life. To repairing his life.
To finding out who the hell had done this.
As Slade scooped up first the body, then the head, and dumped them in the furnace, his agile mind began to plot and plan.
Whomever dared keep him prisoner for nearly three years would pay. If that had been all that had been done, it was bad enough, but they'd cloned him and the clone had destroyed his life. His relationships with friends and family were ruined, his best friend was dead at its hand, his reputation was in tatters. He wasn't sure he could ever repair any of it.
But, he was going to try.
And the new Batman was the first he had to go to.
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