( Sometimes admonishment over text isn't enough. So he dials the number Riddler is currently messaging him from and doesn't ask or warn before doing it. )
No, I'm here to discuss how a genius like yourself can be such a friggin' moron. ( He doesn't treat all his clients like this. Just, like, some of them. ) You stole from Sionis without a plan and just 'expected' things to work out in your favor? You need backup because you dug yourself into a hole you can't crawl out of.
I'll take care of it, you're paying for it. A jester's fee.
Of course I had a plan! I simply made a miscalculation when it came to the expected magnitude of his retaliation!
[He'd figured it wouldn't be a big deal. That Roman Sionis of all people would take a reasonable approach to the theft and the riddle left behind. Dumbest genius ever may be the most accurate description of him.]
I could resolve it given time. [He has no idea how but if he managed to survive long enough he'd surely come up with a plan...] But I felt a more expedient approach was needed.
You know I can pay whatever overblown fee you decide to charge.
A bad plan is worse than no plan at all, Nygma. Miscalculation is another way of saying you don't know what the hell you're doing. No one's going to let you steal from them and get off scot-free.
( If he's lucky, Riddler's next time reaching out to Deathstroke won't be paired with a lecture. )
Do I know that, or will you try to steal my fine services from me, too? Try it, and understand that the expected magnitude of my retaliation will be proportional to murder. No, wait. More like just actual murder.
[He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help.
Now is not the time to snidely ask if Deathstroke wants him to start calling him 'daddy' to go with the lecture.]
Why, thank you for that ever so elegant and enlightening threat. I never would have guessed that Deathstroke the Terminator would kill me if I failed to pay up. How did I ever-
[He needs the help. Deep breath.]
I'm not stupid. I wouldn't try and cheat you. Now, I'm taking that to mean you'll do it.
What other languages are you fluent in? English and sarcasm your go-tos? Doesn't hurt to change it up. Try French.
( Nygma might need the help, but Slade doesn't really need the job. He'd like it. It would give him something to do with his Monday evening, picking of Mask's men. But he's not as desperate as Riddler clearly is. He can afford to be an asshole.
Which isn't to say he's not an ass all the time, even when he can't afford to be. )
Already said I would. Collect payment after the job's done, you know how this works. ( Does he, though? How often does Riddler hire assassins? )
I would wager I am fluent in far more languages than you.
[Sarcasm is just a particular favourite. Although language seems to desert him almost entirely when it comes to the 'safety deposit'.]
You- What? You expect me to-
[The sheer level of affront is almost physical as Edward snarls into the phone. ...He needs the help. He can't afford to tell Wilson to fuck off.... Next time - if there is ever a next time - he's hiring Deadshot instead. Or he'll just turn himself into Batman. That won't cost him a dime and he can watch the vigilante fight to keep him alive. If it weren't for getting sent back to Arkham he'd consider it now.]
...If it's assurances you want, I'll pay half up-front. Just tell me how much and what account.
[He needs this taken care of quickly but he can spare the time to siphon off the funds while they're still out there hunting him if it means avoiding that.]
( He's not going to say that he's already working on it. He's not going to say that he's sent word ahead to his tech guy, who found him a generalized location. He's not going to say he's on route to making Nygma's life a little easier.
Too easy. )
Ich habe dir meinen Preis gesagt. Ich werde mich nicht wiederholen. *
( Translated from German: Told you my price. Not going to repeat myself. )
[Translated from Mandarin: ...I will pay you half as much again.]
Mahma kan sier altalab alkhasi bika.
[Translated from Arabic: Whatever your asking price.]
Up front, no arguments, no quibbling.
Iustus stillabunt eam.
[Translated from Latin: Just drop it.
Death might well be the more appealing option here. Even though he knows Mask's killers are getting closer and his own defences are presently... depleted. Courtesy of first the Bat and then Black Mask's initial, anticipated retaliation.
( Talking on the phone was a great idea. Going hands free makes things like scaling buildings racking targets in his sights much, much easier. Why does anyone bother to text?
It might be gunfire that Nygma is hearing in the background. Could just be the television. It's a good thing Slade can multitask. )
How cultured of you.
Really that -pow- hard for you to -pow- take responsibility?
( Pot, kettle. )
You heard my price. Last chance before I walk away from this. Mask's men have your location; they'll storm at half-past. Waiting for Sionis' call, but Mask loves to make a show of things. Might even be offering a bonus to whoever brings back a trophy as reward.
That dumbass cane you're always carrying around? Sure would look great mounted on Mask's wall. Right above the shrunken heads.
[It's about his ego. And his issues. Not that Deathstroke is going to care about either one of those.
He has to literally bite down the next words that want to come out of his mouth, teeth digging into his glove so something snide or insulting doesn't slip out and make the decision for him. It's even harder to restrain himself when background sounds filter through the call.
...Those sound like gunshots? Is Slade already working on some other job? While he's stuck there, wondering if Mask has told his people to take their time with him? Worse, if he's changed his mind and wants Edward brought in alive so he can finish the job himself?]
You've already determined that much, why waste the effort by walking away now?
[It sounds weak even to his ears. Finding that out would be the work of minutes even for someone less skilled than him.]
I can-
[Is there anything else he can even offer?
The grinding of his teeth is practically audible down the line as he struggles with that image of his cane - his own, personal, handmade technological marvel - hanging on Mask's wall. He's seen what Black Mask does to people. It makes Batman's beatings look kind.]
I- [The words catch in his throat, choking him with furious shame.] I'm- ... An idiot.
( Slade's degree of assholery depends on the day, really.
He's done the 'jerk' thing before. He's done the 'compassion' thing before. Neither one really suited him to a T; he's grown to prefer a place somewhere in the middle. Like today. He'd planned to give money to a homeless man earlier but took a different way home, meaning he's overdue his daily good deed.
That's the reason he's sticking to when he asks himself why he doesn't draw this out further. Riddler of all people has it coming. Slade could ask him to repeat himself a few times, pretend the line went dead before he heard the good part and record the confession to use as blackmail. But Slade is a man of his word, so he's going to let Nygma off easy. )
Was that so hard? ( That's going to be a yes, if the strain in Ed's inflection is anything to go off of.
Follow this with a photo sent to Ed's phone. A row of dead bodies, like sitting ducks, with the most distinctive part about them being their cheap, dark masks. Sionis always paid for quantity over quality when it came to his goons; twelve pillars of dumb muscle without a brain cell between them. Easy to find, and most of them wouldn't know a Savage Model 110 from a Smith & Wesson M&P 15.)
...I came out of retirement for this, you know. I'd given up killing. I was going clean, Nygma. Earned myself a two-week chip.
( Not that he sounds too disappointed. The thrill of the hunt, it's what gives him life.
Besides, he was bound to slip up sooner or later. This happy little accident just happened to come in a time when someone else needed help. It doesn't count. All smokers who quit cigarettes get at least one cheat day; this isn't any different. Except instead of cigarettes, it's corpses.
Doesn't matter, though. He's going back to square one. )
Return what you stole. Bake him a cake with an apology note stuffed inside. I don't care.
[Slade gets a wordless, furious sound in response to the question. It's as good as a yes as Edward pictures the traps he can build to make Deathstroke pay for the humiliation.
The picture only slightly mollifies him, the relief of knowing he's not about to have his incomparable brain matter spread over the floor tempered by the realisation that there's no way they were killed that quickly. Slade had already been doing the job and he'd still-
The miserable old bastard. How dare he?]
Clean? You? Please. It wouldn't have lasted.
[Somehow he can't believe Deathstroke is ever going to entirely give up killing. One doesn't get that sort of reputation as a mercenary without enjoying it. And he clearly hadn't needed that much persuasion - he's not even mentioned actual payment. If he were less furious Edward might actually wonder if Slade doesn't find him tolerable.]
Thank you for the advice, daddy.
[Not quite payback for what Slade did to him but he's feeling petulant. Hanging up, Edward is going to take that advice on board and try and fix the situation so he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life watching his back. More than usual.]
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Slade. I assume you want to discuss your fee?
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I'll take care of it, you're paying for it. A jester's fee.
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[He'd figured it wouldn't be a big deal. That Roman Sionis of all people would take a reasonable approach to the theft and the riddle left behind. Dumbest genius ever may be the most accurate description of him.]
I could resolve it given time. [He has no idea how but if he managed to survive long enough he'd surely come up with a plan...] But I felt a more expedient approach was needed.
You know I can pay whatever overblown fee you decide to charge.
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( If he's lucky, Riddler's next time reaching out to Deathstroke won't be paired with a lecture. )
Do I know that, or will you try to steal my fine services from me, too? Try it, and understand that the expected magnitude of my retaliation will be proportional to murder. No, wait. More like just actual murder.
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[He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help. He needs the help.
Now is not the time to snidely ask if Deathstroke wants him to start calling him 'daddy' to go with the lecture.]
Why, thank you for that ever so elegant and enlightening threat. I never would have guessed that Deathstroke the Terminator would kill me if I failed to pay up. How did I ever-
[He needs the help. Deep breath.]
I'm not stupid. I wouldn't try and cheat you. Now, I'm taking that to mean you'll do it.
oh my god -
( Nygma might need the help, but Slade doesn't really need the job. He'd like it. It would give him something to do with his Monday evening, picking of Mask's men. But he's not as desperate as Riddler clearly is. He can afford to be an asshole.
Which isn't to say he's not an ass all the time, even when he can't afford to be. )
Already said I would. Collect payment after the job's done, you know how this works. ( Does he, though? How often does Riddler hire assassins? )
Gonna need a safety deposit in this case, though.
Say you're an idiot. Out loud.
Then I'll head out.
that sounds like a 'do it' to me
[Sarcasm is just a particular favourite. Although language seems to desert him almost entirely when it comes to the 'safety deposit'.]
You- What? You expect me to-
[The sheer level of affront is almost physical as Edward snarls into the phone. ...He needs the help. He can't afford to tell Wilson to fuck off.... Next time - if there is ever a next time - he's hiring Deadshot instead. Or he'll just turn himself into Batman. That won't cost him a dime and he can watch the vigilante fight to keep him alive. If it weren't for getting sent back to Arkham he'd consider it now.]
...If it's assurances you want, I'll pay half up-front. Just tell me how much and what account.
[He needs this taken care of quickly but he can spare the time to siphon off the funds while they're still out there hunting him if it means avoiding that.]
that's definitely a 'do it'
Too easy. )
Ich habe dir meinen Preis gesagt. Ich werde mich nicht wiederholen. *
( Translated from German: Told you my price. Not going to repeat myself. )
ไธใคใฎๅ่ชใฏๆฏๆใในใๅฐใใชไพกๆ ผใงใ *
( Translated from Japanese: Three words are a small price to pay. )
La mort est รฉgalement une option. รa ne me dรฉrange pas. *
( Translated from French: Death is also an option. I don't mind. )
Time's a wasting.
( It's a wager Slade will take. )
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[Translated from Mandarin: ...I will pay you half as much again.]
Mahma kan sier altalab alkhasi bika.
[Translated from Arabic: Whatever your asking price.]
Up front, no arguments, no quibbling.
Iustus stillabunt eam.
[Translated from Latin: Just drop it.
Death might well be the more appealing option here. Even though he knows Mask's killers are getting closer and his own defences are presently... depleted. Courtesy of first the Bat and then Black Mask's initial, anticipated retaliation.
But still. It's a steep price.]
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It might be gunfire that Nygma is hearing in the background. Could just be the television. It's a good thing Slade can multitask. )
How cultured of you.
Really that -pow- hard for you to -pow- take responsibility?
( Pot, kettle. )
You heard my price. Last chance before I walk away from this. Mask's men have your location; they'll storm at half-past. Waiting for Sionis' call, but Mask loves to make a show of things. Might even be offering a bonus to whoever brings back a trophy as reward.
That dumbass cane you're always carrying around? Sure would look great mounted on Mask's wall. Right above the shrunken heads.
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[It's about his ego. And his issues. Not that Deathstroke is going to care about either one of those.
He has to literally bite down the next words that want to come out of his mouth, teeth digging into his glove so something snide or insulting doesn't slip out and make the decision for him. It's even harder to restrain himself when background sounds filter through the call.
...Those sound like gunshots? Is Slade already working on some other job? While he's stuck there, wondering if Mask has told his people to take their time with him? Worse, if he's changed his mind and wants Edward brought in alive so he can finish the job himself?]
You've already determined that much, why waste the effort by walking away now?
[It sounds weak even to his ears. Finding that out would be the work of minutes even for someone less skilled than him.]
I can-
[Is there anything else he can even offer?
The grinding of his teeth is practically audible down the line as he struggles with that image of his cane - his own, personal, handmade technological marvel - hanging on Mask's wall. He's seen what Black Mask does to people. It makes Batman's beatings look kind.]
I- [The words catch in his throat, choking him with furious shame.] I'm- ... An idiot.
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He's done the 'jerk' thing before. He's done the 'compassion' thing before. Neither one really suited him to a T; he's grown to prefer a place somewhere in the middle. Like today. He'd planned to give money to a homeless man earlier but took a different way home, meaning he's overdue his daily good deed.
That's the reason he's sticking to when he asks himself why he doesn't draw this out further. Riddler of all people has it coming. Slade could ask him to repeat himself a few times, pretend the line went dead before he heard the good part and record the confession to use as blackmail. But Slade is a man of his word, so he's going to let Nygma off easy. )
Was that so hard? ( That's going to be a yes, if the strain in Ed's inflection is anything to go off of.
Follow this with a photo sent to Ed's phone. A row of dead bodies, like sitting ducks, with the most distinctive part about them being their cheap, dark masks. Sionis always paid for quantity over quality when it came to his goons; twelve pillars of dumb muscle without a brain cell between them. Easy to find, and most of them wouldn't know a Savage Model 110 from a Smith & Wesson M&P 15.)
...I came out of retirement for this, you know. I'd given up killing. I was going clean, Nygma. Earned myself a two-week chip.
( Not that he sounds too disappointed. The thrill of the hunt, it's what gives him life.
Besides, he was bound to slip up sooner or later. This happy little accident just happened to come in a time when someone else needed help. It doesn't count. All smokers who quit cigarettes get at least one cheat day; this isn't any different. Except instead of cigarettes, it's corpses.
Doesn't matter, though. He's going back to square one. )
Return what you stole. Bake him a cake with an apology note stuffed inside. I don't care.
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The picture only slightly mollifies him, the relief of knowing he's not about to have his incomparable brain matter spread over the floor tempered by the realisation that there's no way they were killed that quickly. Slade had already been doing the job and he'd still-
The miserable old bastard. How dare he?]
Clean? You? Please. It wouldn't have lasted.
[Somehow he can't believe Deathstroke is ever going to entirely give up killing. One doesn't get that sort of reputation as a mercenary without enjoying it. And he clearly hadn't needed that much persuasion - he's not even mentioned actual payment. If he were less furious Edward might actually wonder if Slade doesn't find him tolerable.]
Thank you for the advice, daddy.
[Not quite payback for what Slade did to him but he's feeling petulant. Hanging up, Edward is going to take that advice on board and try and fix the situation so he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life watching his back. More than usual.]