Grant Wilson

A/N: Sorry for not updating everyone, happy American Thanksgiving!

**********************************************

Grant Wilson's pov

That Evening

The Slums of Gotham

I still remember telling Carol not to go down those stairs. The image of her impaled body, dying in my arms was something I could not erase. My girlfriend, Carol Sladky, was the sole casualty of that fight because unprofessional, untrained kids wanted to run around with flying machetes.

Now I sat in the middle of Gotham's cheapest bar. Penguin wannabe-gangsters playing poker or throwing up from a rough party. I was homeless, my landlord having to close the hotel because of the damages and that was the cheapest place I could find. My military penchant was nowhere near enough for anywhere else and Carol's dead.

She didn't have a will, nor was she close to her parents. So what does the system do? Take her assets and belongings for the state.

I told her, over and over, be prepared. However, who could be prepared for a giant zombie and a bloody kid with flaming machetes? I didn't plan this either but if she had made a will and testament-

I didn't want the money, just something to remember her by.

Everything has been stripped from me. My father was never there, but he came to pretty much get my little brother Jericho's throat sliced. Mom took my brother. That unprofessional kid's machete took my girl.

I have no family.

I have no money.

I have no opportunities.

As if on cue, a kid with a blue sock hat rolled up on his head strideled in on the stool next to me. He pointed at the TV, but I knew his game.

"Hey is that you on there?"

I reached my hand back to where my wallet was and batted his arm off. Slimy little pickpocket.

"You're sharp," the boy smiled, "I like you."

"What do you want pig?"

The boy mocked offense, putting a hand to his chest as if hurt, "Me? A pig?"

"Your poking around the mud and roots of Gotham so yeah."

He had a devil's smile, and replied, "I'm just a trained truffle dog my boy."

"Aren't those meant to be consumed?"

"Unimportant. Ey!" He addressed the bartender, "Put this man on my tab and get us a bottle of Jack!"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Buttering you up, I also liked what you had to say to that reporter on TV. My… client did as well."

I glanced behind him as the news was repeatedly talking about what I did. Anger burning in my voice, I said, "This is a republic right? A land ruled by laws? By state and federal law, regardless of intent, if you killed someone you are expected to pay reparations for the damage done to the deceased's family. I know for a fact that in our state that the minimum penalty for involuntary manslaughter is a class C violent felony, with minimum three and a half years of jail, and fines. This cape impaled my girl with a bloody machete, we have him on video with flying chainsaws and guns blazing. One nearly ripped off his teammate's head. And what happens? The cape hides behind the intent when normal people can't. If this was a normal person who did this I wouldn't even need a lawyer to shoot him to pieces. Frankly, the corruption between the Gotham government and the supers is so blatant and deep rooted its embarrassing."

The new anchor then asked, "Fascinating Mr. Grant Wilson. So what do you plan to do?"

"What I can… nothing. I can't do anything but grieve."

Concentrating on boy in front of me I spat,

"I'm not joining your stupid gang. I'm no burglar either."

"Not even if we have a plan to get back at the Titans?"

My insides jumped to attention to this. Normally I would have turned into an irate mess. However, the kid caught me after a few drinks, took care of my ticket and got some Jack. Letting out a long sigh I replied,

"Name's Wilson, Grant Wilson, I'll hear you out on your offer."

"Call me Diesel."

~*~

End of Arc 0

Beginning of Arc 1

The Jackal in the Grass

"You may be able to leap around at the speed of sound -- but you stopped for a second, and then you became a target. Your metabolism will break down the tranquilizer in less than a minute. But that's all I need. Sorry, kid. Wrong place. Wrong time. I'm sending a message. And you're the letter. Tell the Titans -- kids shouldn't wear costumes."

—Deathstroke, Teen Titans (Volume 3) #2