The second after her foot made contact with Deathstroke’s nose, Monae knew that she’d slipped up. It was a clean hit, all things considered. He had been braced for it though, delivering a split second master class of muscle control and timing. She couldn’t deny it was damn impressive. If he hadn’t done that, she could have knocked him clear off his feet. But that was part of the problem. 

Between the pain and the rage, the full weight of an experienced predator locked onto her. Something else came with that ice cold single stare. 

Surprise.

The list of living souls who could boast that they made Deathstroke bleed was likely very short and impressive. Big name capes, nasty Underground personas, people who even she would hesitate to tackle without a plan and a paycheck.

Monae Queen had not been on that list before. Or anyone’s list, for that matter. She’d just come out of nowhere and added herself to it, in front of at least twenty half-drunk witnesses. As far as hiding information went, 1 was the optimal number of witnesses. You could bribe or threaten or erase one person. Anything upwards of 4 was tenuous. But a crowd? This was permanent. Nothing was going to make it go away.

Time seemed to stretch out as she understood the weight of her actions. The relative anonymity of her name had been erased for good. That was the major purpose of this deep cover alias in the first place. To go in an unknown, to get the sort of information that couldn’t be accessed anywhere besides people’s lips. Being a nobody was worth it to get what she’d been working for. It was bad, but not completely ruined. All she had to do was lose.

So she let her guard down just enough. Struggled too little when Deathstroke struck out, didn’t fight enough when he struck a nasty blow to her and sent her sailing. She let gravity and training win out, landing in a low crouch and calculating how to feint injury. Maybe if she let him beat her around a little, she could worm out of things with nothing vital broken.

“RIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGG OOOOOOOOOOOOUT!” Jake’s call rose above the sound of the crowd. 

Or maybe she’d be saved by the bell, so to speak. Monae heard the crowd swell in disappointment or elation, money changing hands, conversations and rumors spark. But Deathstroke was still staring at her, and she couldn’t look away. 

She dipped into a dancer’s curtsy, her weight borne on the injured leg that was just starting to buzz with pain. Her head bowed, one performer’s respect to another. And she put on a smile, because no audience ever wanted to see behind the curtain. She watched him take the money, speak something to the ground. Reach up and set his nose, and stalk off.

Hopefully it would be enough.

“Whew!” She stood, not faking the slight wince of pain as she walked back to the crowd. “Damn, that was brutal. I think I’m done. I’ll see you lovely folks at the bar.”

The evening wasn’t done, though. Monae didn’t have to get her own drinks for the rest of the night. Like bees in a hive, people showed at her table as the night wore on. They came bearing drinks and food. Congratulations, condolences, social smiles and job offers. It wasn’t quite the way she’d meant to get things started, but any spy knew that plans were just guidelines and the world would keep turning. Mistakes could still be profitable if you knew how to use what you had.

She didn’t leave until well past midnight, laden with future work.    

-

In the morning, a small wrapped basket was delivered outside of Slade Wilson’s door. Fresh, chocolate coated fruit of all kinds, straight from the school cafeteria. Along with it was a printed notecard. “Thanks for the match. Best loss I’ve ever had - MQ”