Written by Kyle Higgins
Penciled by Joe BennettDeathstroke’s tactical prowess is put to the test when the man who hired him attempts to renege on the contract. Pitted against a salvo of new assassins, including the vicious Road Rage, Slade must take his giant sword to the 405 freeway and proclaim himself the most vicious killer in the city of Angels!
Deathstroke #2: a mystery in the second person. More after the jump.
You get home, having paid money to another human, and you lay Deathstroke #2 out on a flat surface. Or maybe your lap, or a pillow, or you hold it in your hands. You might even roll the cover back when you look at the recto pages, even though that reduces its potential CGC grade. You’re not thinking about that, though. You’re not a speculator, you’re just trying to read a good comic book. You chose Deathstroke, because you have some good memories of him as a bad guy in Teen Titans, or a kind of bad guy in his own series when you were younger, or as a bad guy again in Identity Crisis or something like that.
But anyway. You wake up ten minutes later. Or, at least, you feel like you’re waking up. It’s not so much the shock of transition, as the realization of loss. You look around, and touch your face in confusion. What were you doing? Oh, right: reading Deathstroke. It’s not in your hands, or your lap, or wherever now. It’s not even open. It’s off to one side, down the table or across the bed. You feel confused, but not extremely so. It’s not like you lost hours, and you think you have all of your faculties, so you probably didn’t have a stroke. Still, it’s strange, and you give it a little thought.
You try to backtrack, working your way backwards. What happened in those ten minutes? You rush to the mirror and check for a head wound or a lump. Likewise, you check where you live, but there are no signs of intrusion. You eye that copy of Deathstroke #2 again. Something about… a truck, or a man, or a robot. And Deathstroke fighting it. And there were some other people, and Deathstroke fought them, too. And… and… and nothing. That’s it. You screw up your face a bit into a puzzled frown, rub your eyes, and decide to check out what’s on TV. Whatever happened in those ten minutes you lost doesn’t feel awfully important.
Final Verdict: Nothing good is on TV, Wednesday nights suck
