Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 456: Smacking My Teammates

The fishmen froze, even lowering their weapons a bit.

The alien ship was thick with water vapor—everyone looked greasy, especially the scaly aliens, dripping wet.

"Rua?" one fishman echoed, testing the waters.

Garth roared back—quit stalling, fight already!

"Rua!!!!!"

The aliens seemed to catch on. They dropped their weapons, whispering among themselves.

"Are these Earthlings surrendering?"

"Probably. Didn't you hear him? He's begging to eat shit."

"Gross. Earth creatures give up so easy—no dignity, ugh."

"Yeah, no clue how the sea gods got fooled back then."

"You dare talk about the gods? Adding you to today's execution list."

"Shut it. First, we test these Earth things—see if they mean it."

"Right, prep the feces."

"I've, uh... got some here."

While the fishmen muttered, Garth's crew was stumped. In the tight corridor, the enemy didn't seem ready to fight—or move aside.

Garth flicked his long hair, smug as hell.

See? Just two yells in their tongue, and he'd spooked them. Mastering a foreign language—how clutch was that?

Who'd call him brainless now? Mimicking their war cry? God-tier tactic!

"They've got no fight left. One more shout, and they'll clear out."

Garth bragged to Donna, dead sure the fishmen were done resisting.

Donna sensed something off but couldn't pin it. Sword and shield ready, she watched the fishmen pull back—like they were grossed out.

Did they hate human smells? She'd showered! So she eyed Beast Boy.

Beast Boy was a green-furred bear now—hot, sweaty vibes. If there was a stench humans missed, it'd be him.

"Huh? Why're you staring?" Beast Boy's animal instincts kicked in—Donna's probing look, all judgy.

They'd been teammates since Teen Titans days. Now full Titans, passing the old name to new kids—why act like strangers?

Donna smirked, looking away.

"Rua!!!!!"

Garth was done waiting. He'd force a path—whatever was on this ship, the leader or intel, he'd haul it back.

Triumphant, he'd toss a trussed-up enemy boss at Batman's feet and roast him good.

Back as Aqualad, Batman treated him like trash—24/7 thief-watch vibes.

Atlanteans were already distant from humans, and as a prince of Idyllist—a vassal state—it was worse.

Meeting Batman with Arthur, he felt those masked eyes bore into him, cold as death, like he was a gutted fish.

Truth is, Batman wasn't singling him out.

Batman was like that with everyone—newbies got the "Bat-glare" test. Could they handle fear?

To him, only those who beat fear qualified as heroes. Scared off by his stare? Go live quiet, skip the cape.

Monitoring? Standard League protocol.

Every hero—main roster, B-team, C-team—Batman watched. Routine.

But kid-Garth took it personal, burying that fear deep. He passed the test, joined Teen Titans...

Barely. Held the pee in, that's all.

Growing up, Garth hit a rebel phase—bucked Arthur, chafed at Batman.

"You tell me what to do? Hell no!"

Sure, he rocked long hair, Aquaman beard, grizzled look.

But inside, he was still that tagalong kid—acting out, hoping Arthur'd baby him, take him swimming or hit the arcade.

Arthur figured Garth was grown—two bearded muscleheads splashing around? Creepy.

Garth had his own name now—Tempest, not Aqualad. No more sidekick—stand solo.

To keep him out of Aquaman's shadow, Arthur kept distance.

Hall run-ins? Coworker chit-chat, then Arthur'd drink alone.

He didn't get it—Garth, tailing him since ten, saw him as big bro. That cold reality? Nope.

So Garth bailed—quit Teen Titans for college.

Now they'd beg him back, right?

Nah.

Arthur saw no issue—college was dope. Learn some culture—Arthur'd suffered without it.

Garth'd been on land, mingling with humans, nearing twenty—school time.

So Arthur treated Barry to dinner, asked him to speed-drop Garth at college.

Luggage piled high, UV blazing—zip him there, spare the kid some pain.

Barry ate Arthur's homemade fish sticks—fishy, scales still on, pure ocean taste.

Teammate effort counted, though. Kind Barry shrugged—D.C. to L.A.? 0.001 seconds.

Speed Force—too fast for goodbyes.

One sec, Garth's in his room, waiting for Arthur's plea—next, Barry's got him in a dorm, bed made, supplies set.

Sweet Barry even left fish—ease the food switch.

Since then, Garth sulked, staying away—until now.

Seeing the fishmen dawdle, unsure, he figured one more push'd break them.

College paid off—he'd read human smarts, like that Three Kingdoms guy roaring on a bridge, scaring off an army.

Today, Tempest Garth could too.

"Rua!!!!!"

He bellowed again.

The fishmen flinched, eyes wide with disbelief.

He's that eager for excrement? Earthlings are nuts!

No clue what Earth folks were like, but for them, shitting took brewing time!

One lobster-looking dude stepped up, though—squeezed out a long one, sighing relief.

They backed off, leaving a black "rope" on the floor.

They gestured—pointed at Garth's mouth, then the pile.

Happy now? Quit rushing—never seen someone so keen for it. Eat up hot, prove your loyalty.

Even Garth, dense as he was, clocked the screw-up. That shape, the steaming wisps...

These aliens wanted him to eat shit!

Donna and Raven facepalmed—embarrassing, Earth's rep trashed—all Garth's fault, mimicking alien gibberish!

Why not just swing first?

Steel turned away—couldn't watch.

Beast Boy was down—turned marmot, rolling, pounding the floor, cackling.

This was his Garth—years later, still zero brains.

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Word was, when Arthur and Mera first hooked up, they'd sneak to a quiet reef at night, making out.

Stalker Garth, wires crossed, figured Mera was a siren—sucking Arthur's soul mouth-to-mouth.

Arthur's eyes shut, half-dead looking—hands fumbling Mera's back? Struggling!

Garth, "genius," recalled leverage. Grabbed a shipwreck mast, pried a huge rock loose to crush Mera, save Arthur.

Nope—Mera'd hard-water-shielded herself, keeping Arthur from copping too much.

Arthur? Unprotected—rock flattened him, out cold.

Prepped, Arthur was tough. Kissing? One part hard, rest soft—no armor for date night.

Seeing Arthur down, Garth thought Mera stole his soul—time to kill her, reclaim it.

Mera couldn't explain to a kid what kissing and groping were—plus, berserk Garth wouldn't listen.

So they water-fought underwater for hours—until Arthur woke under the cold rock.

Sidekick gigs? Arthur cribbed that from Batman—he admired him, always borrowing tricks.

Batman's crew—Bat-family—sharp, capable. Arthur envied it, wanted his own.

Poseidonia had no fits, so he tapped a loyal ally—Idyllist's prince. Pure loyalty—sided with Arthur's mom back when.

But Arthur's brash, charge-in style—could he raise a Nightwing?

Nope—Garth got molded into a berserker. Combat chops solid—ripped sea monsters barehanded.

Brains? Far from Arthur's hopes—Garth's oopsies outdid Arthur's.

Now, he'd indirectly clocked his own team. Enemy hadn't moved—Beast Boy was already out.

Lowest laugh threshold, plus old Garth gaffes flooding back—he was dying laughing.