From the moment he had brought up the girls to the moment they finally touched down back at whatever black-ops site they were being stationed at, he slept. That last trick he pulled off was something he only thought he had the potential to pull off yet never really tried to put into practice. In his line of work, why would he ever want to resort to such an over the top and messy form of attack? It was much more suited for a combat scenario which required an incredible amount of circumstances to actually pull off. Seemed that Felicity's luck was starting to rub off on him, somehow.
Normally he would've shot some offhanded remark to the men who jabbed him with the butt of their guns to urge him awake and out of the carrier, but for once he just wasn't feeling it. There was something in the back of his mind that just wouldn't go away, it kept clouding his thoughts and blocking his concentration. A complete disruption to the cool nonchalance attitude he was trying to cultivate around the people he was apparently supposed to work with the for the foreseeable future.
No, instead he just walked in silence as they guided everyone to their respective commune showering areas. When he shrugged off his stained shirt, he heard a clatter as his blade fell out of a hidden sleeve. The force of the fall had caused it to snap partially open, and it was there he noticed that he hadn't actually completely wiped it off from his earlier assault. Black flakes had lifted off and speckled the ground underneath, the silver edge of the razor instead now stained the black of dried blood. With the knowledge of personal experience, he knew that it was going to be pain cleaning it out completely by this point.
Dave stared for longer then he cared to admit, until he finally shrugged off the rest of his clothes and left it in an undignified heap. The only thing he took with him were his sunglasses, and the elastic band he occasionally used to tie his hair back.
Numbing cold water washed over his body, entirely unmarred from his complete lack of direct confrontation with actual heroes or competent bodyguards. Judging by the way their first mission had went, it wouldn't be long until he'd finally have his flesh marred with something more permanent then a scratch. Maybe that was long overdo. A reminder of just how easily he could be killed in turn.
His hands gripped the wall, red rivets that flowed across his arms visible even through his waterlogged locks. It was hard to breath, for some reason he couldn't control his lungs. Looking down was his mistake, he saw a deep gash on his abdomen. The shock was as immense as the pain, his eyes widened as he witnessed everything leaking out. His hands flew to his chest in a vain effort to keep it all inside, staining his hands silver.
Yet with a blink, it was over. His hands padded his bare chest, finding no wounds, no injury. Everything was still in place.
He collapsed against the wall of his shower, and sat there for another ten minutes.
When the water was finally shut off, as they had evidently grown tired of simply waiting on everyone to finish on his own, he discovered that he was in fact the last one to dress up in the muted clothing provided. There wasn't even an attempt to look around for the items he had left behind, simply zipping up and joining the doubtlessly impatient group gathering just outside the showers, and followed along once their guide got moving.
'Target located, nonviolent tendency. Enemy team encountered at extraction point, 7 count. 1 fatal wound delivered, counteracted. Enemy team fled. Target immobilized, extraction proceeds without incident.'
Giving out mission reports like this wasn't a foreign concept to the ex-assassin. There were several contractors who insisted on summaries of the work he pulled off, it was from those he quickly learned that you tended to get paid more when you were actually being professional instead of writing out an essay long ramble about the hours spent waiting for an opportune moment to strike. Terse, straightforward, no bullshit logs were what they really wanted. If these people really expected him to write out his every thought, then they'd be better off contracting a telepath.
He pricked his finger with the sharp point of his pencil, reading to press a silver stained fingerprint right below the short paragraph of dialog. A sign of both his trust and own confidence that none of the people he worked for would try to rat him out. Something he realized only now, must've been the very reason his brother was able to lay that trap for him in the first place. Someone got a hold of one of his reports, and pulled his DNA out of it. Fucking hell. How could he have been so stupid?
Dave's expression darkened, and he clenched the pricked finger against his palm to help clot the wound. Not this time. Nobody was going to receive his mark again, especially not an organization that lied straight to their faces about the circumstances of their own mission.