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The wind was blowing hard in the desert. There was no figure in sight, save one. A solitary man. He continued along his way as the wind persisted. A tumbleweed barreled into him and he stumbled. Scowling and snarling, he slashed it in half with a swipe of his claws. You're gettin' old, Logan, he thought. Probably time to find shelter. Logan took the last swig of his beer and discarded the bottle. Then he stopped. He sniffed the air. Someone was nearby.


Slade Wilson was smirking behind the mask, but to call that smirking was a stretch. He had very little to be happy about. He was mildly disappointed, however. Was this what he had become? A lonely assassin, shooting men in the wilderness? People had used to shake and tremble when they saw him. They used to scream and beg for mercy. But his past victims already knew what Deathstroke could do. Slade shook away his nostalgia. He aimed his scope at his target. A man named Logan. He frowned slightly. The man was looking straight at him. Had he sensed him? Slowly but surely, the man called Logan began to approach his perch in the rocks. Slade knew he had to act. He aimed for the head. At the right eye.


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