Death was no imbalance. Coming and going touching anyone in its path. It skipped him numerous times but laid the hands upon others. The bite of its mark only lasting in the psyche of survivors. Reminded that there was once life beside them and then it cease to exist. In the past life Slade felt it once. Nearly twice and on occasions through wormholes of lifetimes more than he needed to. Requiring to act logically through get back. To share the pain that drove him deeper into the synapses of fury masked behind armor. The moral standing wavered, tipping closer to evil than one would consider it to be. It bested him time and time again even through the opening of bringing back a child once lost to the life he laid out in the open, there was never any going back. No resurgence of do-gooder when the route taken was graced in stone still formed from manipulation and duties of one gain.

His gain meant more than most. More than a body. More than the bargaining chip of a soul. Righteousness set a tone and one where a judging glare hung down on all of those who did not follow. Did not see it his way nor saw it any other way that the area solid on being hell-bent of being bad. He lived in the grey nine times out of ten. Moved through the rules that were rigid for some but pliable to him if a way was given. The passiveness in these memories were part of a perfect storm behest the squawking of part of his conscience. It broken up with the first punch. Landing right in his jaw and stunning any sense running on optimal precision.

Reflection of himself shrouded around the child that became a man, a man who's neck was slit and ruined the communication of speech that many a time was lost in translation. A rumble between father and son was well deserved. Being knocked around as a folly, a glitch that needed fixing, an error to the lives of his heir that should be corrected, was the brunt of being done with. If it weren't for his dealings as a self-employed operative or running on and by his own rules, the ruthlessness of enhancements now struggling to take care a meta-child roughly laying into him. First line of defense would scream to retaliate and put the kid in his place. Accelerating thoughts told him to do it. To break him as he broke every one of his children. To bow at his feet or test them to the point of questioning their allegiance to his cause.

Worthiness and being acceptance matched what he expected of them. He gave them a choice. Presented it to be smartly discovered but his long withered conscience said to give them a way out. To be better than he had ever been and when he done so in unorthodox ways, that intention of better had been questioned. Another reminder of his wrongs flashed during fight and his flight did nothing because it was what he deserved.

He was nothing without the armor. Not as striking when it malfunctioned by nothing said disadvantage when his left eye's vision was going to meet the same ending of that as his right eye. Impaired by a nasty gunshot wound, he missed his calling as a rectified saint. It wasn't humbling but a crude awakening of what his actions caused. A wife that had enough. Fed up with his moves under her nose which caused the close call of death to their child, was retaliation for still existing perfect in all of his stature. Slade was never perfect but did things to perfection. He was a master of his own undoing and reminded so while lying fetal until the shakes of the world eased around him. He could be dead and not realize it. Unaware if the ground opened up swallowing him, as the former angel waited to consume his wretched soul whole.

Opening his eyes meant nothing when darkness flickered at each blank. Making impairment as real as ever. He continued to think about the moves of nesting his wrongs right in a box like the rest of them or ticketing next in line for complaints to be cashed in. Full to the brink he had to address them before repeating carried on in the new life built. His body contort fitting the outline on the ground. Being found dead was preferred than coiled up not knowing the right way up and off of his ass.

Defeat came easily and easily wasn't the next way out while finding the distinction of earth and the hell that had been created. In his hands he led himself to the place of being inconsolable or forgiven. Justifiable thoughts brought out the worst in him and seeing through a lens now conceded with losing it all. The end of the world didn't compare, it never would. Ending his ability to take a disadvantage and turn into an advantage of study was close near. His hearing substituted the impairment and also boosted it rather intensely. Arm hiding his head to block out the heavy breathing of a stray dog watching over him. The streets amplifying by passing traffic. The light flickering on par with a second hand tick. Electricity burning in power and having to witness the loudness of all ringing of his ears.

He would take possession over it or his drums blown out before healing set in. Slade had to rise sooner than latter. Taking his claim to the pavement before being found or at worst, found when torn by the one surviving tactic he could rely on.

The whispering of cold threats were the tether that kept him alert. Phased in and out of consciousness went on for a time or so. His lasting memory was unfounded trying to circle back to how one step led him to a bear trap. The drippings of an IV kept his attention while the vision of it all had been far too lasting. In remembrance, the time had been fleeting. Being told of transgressions that disappointed the very faction who collectively met together to decide his fate. That fate came at a cost of maiming a member. Removing hand from arm as if it were nothing while that person, who's name he cared not to remember, was stopped. He couldn't remember and even in a sober moment while being pumped full of fluids to alter his being, the face was blink.

This reminder was one of the week. Where the day came and went as an obstacle was met along with the prize that painted at the end. Right for the taken. Right for himself as it was owed. Settled debts that never were. Hands of games he never played was his. An obscene amount of win was in his favor and most of it by the end of days brought him to reminiscing of all of that gain was worse luck than earned. Where he accumulated the enemy's disapproval in waves, Slade left a position to escape it. A terminated view of it all clouding his need to manage more damage and sunk deeper through the wormhole that being stuck in his head, in the sights of an unlikely vision endure.

Careless was the hand he was dealt leading to the next inconceivable ways of escaping it. The day had to wind down and if it didn't, remaining lodged in a dream within a dream within a hallucination, within a powerless road paved, drew out the questionable sanity one could ever fathom. Locked in and being reminded that every corner it was never safe. He was never safe or far removed from invincibility to be dropped down the few pegs which remained. Easier were the days of believing so sooner than later the costs out grew the wins and when it did, he had a price to pay. The family of the past and the family that was growing in this particular timeline, would pay some how.

He understood it then while the phantom cold whisper cornered him to face this once again. It was the last winning detail of acceptance to the person he morphed directly into. The man that had been made of flaws to be turned into wins. The staged set itself for losses as many until the pouring reach to overcome steeped high. When it did, when the noise of it all faded away, he by some chance, would walk out a better victor than before. In motion, through the temporary phase that wore out its welcome, his mythos set to the soundtrack of the present, faded until there was nothing more than clarity rather than the confusing state of fuss that robbed him of a full day.