Everything was a mess within reason. Reason enough to reel in after tracking what seemed like hours. He always had a handle on things. Controller but was never controlled. At the brink of dawn that started out this week, the controller was becoming controlled. Fear pushed his hand to become irrational in his decision-making, which included his children in the forefront. Their lives dangled in front of him like a horse chomping at the carrot. Close and so far away, he was unsure. Confidence erasing away as reliable it was to stand on. Legs were knocked from under him to wrestle with the ache of his faults turned up on one hundred. Death always followed where he walked. He was Deathstroke for crying out loud. The terminator. He was the bastard who stood in for the Reaper.

Any one could get it. Either through wit, tools of the trade, or by his bare hands. As the truck slammed shut, he collapsed against it with hands quivering from adrenaline spiking at levels he was used to but not this time. Like a leaf he shook in the wind to having a close call. He lost his son before, in other streams from memory it was done by his own hands. A greater good to make those troubled sacrifices. To keep from suffering, bound by blood he did all that he could, questionable at the most, for the kid's interest was kept in mind. Clicking from the trunk went ignored. Muffled pleas and cries of pain fell on deaf ears while consumed in his own horror.

Movie reels spanned over decades, highlighted to show his fuck ups at the value it was meant to be seen. Danger followed him and settled in his home to dismantle the unit from its core. A marriage, children, and the dissolution of relationships, caused resentment. Actions were the cause of being hated or at worst, unworthy to fill any shoes of a trusted parent. He knew the haunting nightmares of having to face the realities that snuck with him in this world, giving much pause to peel back the layers of a man who was acting under the duress of what would happen if he stayed passive to a foul threat.

This threat had the pleasure of inhabiting his son, one who knew of possession than anything but he stood no chance of breaking free. Not without a little convincing by a good ol' fashion search and shakedown. Slade couldn't relax on the bumper and back door of the onyx Tahoe when he had to get out of dodge before the slightest attention spotlighted the scene. His rough hands never showed mercy of becoming still. He had to share not only a body heightened by a warp of the cause to being in tis world, but one that was ready to fully shutdown on him.

The noise in the back of the truck grew quieter at its point of silence. Pushing off the resting position was a drag when he stood on soles of his feet. He wasn't weak but felt so, as if the one deed to retrieve Joseph took more than enough out of him as the task was an easy one by normal standards. That late evening he wasn't operating under normal standards when the entity that crept its way into Boston had it's way of twirling its finger around loose thread attached to deep despair. Tugging he felt the cord on verge of ripping, ready to let the contents he kept closely sealed, discharge.

His bearings were weakening on par with stepping away from the lack of movement stemming from the trunk. He saw the blood again, filling his eyes as they watered quicker than he could make it to the driver's side. Keyless entry spotted him the lift into the truck before relying on push to start to get the engine to increase it's revving up. Time waited for no one and the longer he sat in park would be the shortest window time available to escape. He needed to continue his quest to do the right thing and keep the kid safe. Safety came at some price of freedom briefly being void. The mirror was a clear shot from reclined seats, viewing the struggle cease after physicality out bid chance of winning.

Media panel was touched anxiously when pads of fingers sought out menu designated to music. Waves of music filled the body of the Tahoe, as he held on for a spark of hope to drown out words that remained in his head. He held what little soul was left, including that of his host before wishing the core was barren. He did not want to feel, not even guilt that tumbled with dread he had little control over as is. One hand committed to the wheel as he shifted in gear to pull away from the deep alley that held minor light. Flooding the area with the headlights, he gassed, departing as fast as he could. Slade turned the music up louder, still nothing. He locked in on the road, underestimated his invalid state.

Air that he breathed in was closing around in a noose like manner; thicker by the moment as he tried to relax into the ride away from the halted madness. Had he shown up later rather than sooner, who knew what could have happened. Others knew what was at stake including loved ones that were not part of the reality adjacent to this shared place. Traffic lights remained in his view, passing them on legal terms. His anxiety worsened and so did the fight trying to remain as calm as he could on the long ride outside of the city. He wanted to remove the kid for his own good, for the anxiety to simmer down but it wouldn't allow him any place to discover liberation from his deepest fear. Hand clutched tightly on the steering as he stiffened on making one good turn onto the highway. Soon he will wake up and feel the reminder that it was a dream, a dream he could believe in without the chokehold applying more pressure to measure his position of worth. It didn't pay being the reaper and a father justified in swooping in before it was too late.