Slade Wilson - a mercenary, the Terminator. He had hunted hundreds. He'd killed kings, Presidents, gangsters, villains and, yes, even some of those idealistic fools wearing capes. Five men or five hundred. It doesn't matter. As long as you know what you're doing, you'll survive. And that was what Slade was best at. But this time was different, he was being hunted. The apex predator had suddenly found himself competing over the zenith of the food pyramid.
There was a fundamental difference between Frank Castle, and Slade. Frank was an idealist - he disliked killing heroes, he tried to restrict himself to villains, criminals, scum. However, to Slade, money was money. It didn't matter who it was, anyone who found himself being hunted by The Terminator would soon find himself in the presence of his maker. And yet, Castle had managed to avoid each of his assassination attempts, as Slade had avoided his. They were at a stalemate. The only way either one of them would die is if they were to meet face to face.
Slade had tried to find footage of the Punisher in action - he hated fighting blind. But Castle was
good. And so, they had met in the middle of a shipping yard. Large wooden crates, some of them 10-15 meters high, surrounded them in every direction. They met in the middle, a large 10 meter by 10 meter rectangular clearing. As they faced each other down, Slade's extra sharp senses began to analyze Castle's muscles, waiting for the slightest
twitch. His armor was recent, his guns were oiled. He was the Terminator, and he would not lose.
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