My body goes limp, and then-
"DIE!" he spins viciously out of the dark, hands flaming.
I react instantly, twirling my trusty lead pipe, "You first, HYA!"
-flames shoot thru my bones. I constrict on the torn, ratty couch. Littered with cigarette burns. Not that I smoke, but it's last owner must have. The thought gets my mind off the battle-pain and my muscles again relax on the soft cushions.
I let out a breath, closing my eyes-
Vic- or Cyborg, I guess- charges like a train into the mammoth-sized brawler that was moving towards me and my 'dancing partner' who is still trying his damnest to do me in with punches of fire.
The sound of Cyborg and the mammoth colliding rattles the whole inside of the mall.
-which I instantly open.
"Uh... So Damn Screwed." I mumble for the millionth time since the beginning of my- I guess now our- crusade. I never mean it, but its still become a sarcastic mantra of the grim kind.
Despite the internal rips and bruises that writhe in protests I lift myself off the comphy, comphy couch and walk, at a forced normal pace, to the kitchen (if we can even call it that).
My bare feet make calmingly familiar padding noises as I move across the grimy tile floor and open the fridge door, sticking my head into the chilled space. I spy several cans of soda, a gallon of spoiled soy milk, and a mound of blue mold that I could almost swear was moving.
Shutting the door I move to the cabinets, I push past the herbal tea grounds and grip the container I'm looking for. I bring it down and set it on the counter, I grab two pieces of bread and dip my knife into the jar of peanut butter… and mysteriously come up with a sticky, yellow substance.
I glance down and the label stares up at me.
Mustard.
"Dammit, Kory."
I stick the mustard in the fridge where it should be and on my second attempt successfully put together a peanut butter sandwich.
I plop back down on the couch and bite into the gourmet meal. Chewing the nearly-adhesive paste a strange thought crosses my mind. I've had less trouble making multi-stage flash bombs.
Reaching for the remote I sit back and turn it on. Or rather almost do, before I pause. Staring in the reflective black surface I see myself.
The torn jeans, the fat shoes, the black T-shirt and its blue bird emblazoned on the chest.
My black hair is shaggy and tossed, my blue eyes are sharp.
Around a busted lip I smile and think.
Goddamn, it's good to be Nightwing.
I turn on our old TV set and flip thru the channels mindlessly.
Around me, the crusty paint peels off the walls from the rankness of five teens living under one (leaking)roof without supervision, and the censors hum with life, the occasional spark leaking thru the older, home-made systems. A few such sparks fall to the carpet and bounce around my feet. I've got to tell Vic to fix that, I really rather not the place burn down.
I stop my channel surfing on station four, for a repeat of the news. But where I expected a repeat, I got a breaking story… already old news to me.
Anne Cook stares from behind her newsdesk with a slight smile, "This just in, it appears that at just a few hours ago, during the dead of night a fight ensued between robbers and the infamous 'Teen Titans' gang. This was confirmed by the captured criminals and supported by the police, due to the M.O. being identical to the Titans. The robbers were tied up and hung from rafters, railings and street lights, waiting for the police while graffiti symbols known to be the Titans' were found on the scene. The most recognizable being the 'T' inscribed in a circle, and the nearly legendary 'Nightwing' bird, having been present since long before the Titans were ever seen.
"As always," she continues, "Much controversy surrounds the Titans and their actions. The police stand by their longstanding position that the Teen Titans are vigilantes, and dangerous ones at that. They claim if they are ever apprehended they will be subject to the full force of the law. The Mayor and a few other local and state politicians have more extreme stance, claiming the rogue group are terrorists rooting out competition in the underground, preparing for an attack on the city. But there are certain others, mostly citizens of the impoverished areas of the City, such as the South End where this took place, who think of the Titans not as vigilantes and certainly not as terrorist, but as heroes willing and able to protect the people in ways the police won't or can't.
Smiling a more fake smile into the camera, Anne finishes, "Vigilantes, terrorists or heroes, the Titans are certainly active, and have boosted police arrests to more than twice the past record. For Channel Four, Early Morning News, I'm Anne Cook. Good night."
