Disclaimer: Ah, if only I owned the bat-clan or the justice league. Sigh.
Oh well, don't sue me, all I have is some pocket lint and some drawings.
Summary: Yes, so this story is about love. Lots of it.........m-hm. Well,
there may be some higher-rating shiznit in later chapters, but for the
beginning, we'll keep it relatively clean – meaning not at all! lol, j/k.
Ok, enough of my babbling, on with the ficaroo.
It was a Saturday morning. The sun was shining and I'd had a productive evening. This alone entitled me to a bad mood. I rolled to sit up in my bed with a groan as a sharp pain raced up my side. Ah, yes, the broken ribs. Always a pleasant occupational bonus. I stood up and made my way to the bathroom with a towel in hand, kicking off my pajama pants on my way down the hall. As I shut the door to behind me, I squirmed out of my boxers as best as I could (which was not very graceful, considering my various injuries) and turned on the water.
Waiting for the spray from the shower head to heat up, I turned my attention to the large mirror on the wall facing the shower stall. I looked like shit. Between the swollen, bruised flesh over my cheekbone, the bandaged ribs with some blood seeping through, and the huge gashes on my left arm and right shoulder, I was a walking mass of pain. Not that I hadn't experienced worse, but it would be difficult to explain to my colleagues at the board meeting in two hours. I then looked up and saw that my image was being hidden with steam, so I removed the bandage from my chest, and stepped into the water.
20 minutes later I exited the bathroom cleansed, newly patched up, clean-shaven, and minty-breathed. I went back to my room and picked out a generic suit, just like the one I'd worn the day before, and the day before that. My outfit consisted of black slacks and a black jacket, over a crisp white button down shirt (with a tank and a t-shirt underneath, just in case I bled through my bandaging again) and a red tie. Put it all together with shiny Italian dress shoes and slicked back hair and I was ready to go.
Ten minutes into the board meeting and I was aching for it to end. My alter ego is known for his impatience and flaky personality, so I had some leeway, but even I can't keep up the act forever. I let out what I thought was probably my fifteenth yawn and shifted in my seat yet again, feeling the tingle of sleep pulse over my right foot like hot needles in a blizzard. I shook my foot, nonchalantly trying to get the blood flowing again, achieving nothing more than tiring my leg and kicking another executive. Luckily, he was too busy drooling on his briefcase to notice.
The meeting ended and I headed to my office three floors up, deciding to take the elevator that day. There was no one else in it, since I had my own private elevator, and I could see clearly outside. The elevator and the entire shaft were made from tempered glass, and were located on the side of the building, so it gave a clear view of the city. Convenient for wowing new girlfriends or catching the signal early and being able to make a quick escape. There were no cameras in there and there was a code- activated escape hatch on both the top and bottom.
Once I got up there, I began my real work. The hit man, Executioner (how original), had escaped last week and was still at large. There were 3 victims already and I still hadn't tracked him down, and that pissed me off. I'm generally not the type of person to be easily aggravated, but when it comes to my night work, sometimes I even surprise myself at how quickly I lose my temper.
The victims were Kennedy Rollins, Carter Dawson, and Clinton Merill. They were all in their early twenties, and had been kidnapped about a week before. The body of Clinton, the youngest, turned up the previous night. He was in the morgue and I was planning on going in to investigate that night. The elevator's elegant chime signaling my ascent to the floor my office is on brought me out of my thoughts, and I proceeded down the hallway.
Two hours of typing and research later, my secretary, Angela, walked in holding a stack of papers. This is the part of having a secret identity I hate the most – playing the part. I minimized the window I was documenting the case information in and leaned back in my chair, pretending to be asleep. She set the papers quietly on the edge of my desk, and as she left the room, I heard a murmured "Lazy ass," under her breath. Sometimes, I really, really hate myself. But then, like now, there was no time for wallowing in self-pity – I had a case to solve. And so, sighing, I turned back to my desk, and pulled the window back up.
It was a Saturday morning. The sun was shining and I'd had a productive evening. This alone entitled me to a bad mood. I rolled to sit up in my bed with a groan as a sharp pain raced up my side. Ah, yes, the broken ribs. Always a pleasant occupational bonus. I stood up and made my way to the bathroom with a towel in hand, kicking off my pajama pants on my way down the hall. As I shut the door to behind me, I squirmed out of my boxers as best as I could (which was not very graceful, considering my various injuries) and turned on the water.
Waiting for the spray from the shower head to heat up, I turned my attention to the large mirror on the wall facing the shower stall. I looked like shit. Between the swollen, bruised flesh over my cheekbone, the bandaged ribs with some blood seeping through, and the huge gashes on my left arm and right shoulder, I was a walking mass of pain. Not that I hadn't experienced worse, but it would be difficult to explain to my colleagues at the board meeting in two hours. I then looked up and saw that my image was being hidden with steam, so I removed the bandage from my chest, and stepped into the water.
20 minutes later I exited the bathroom cleansed, newly patched up, clean-shaven, and minty-breathed. I went back to my room and picked out a generic suit, just like the one I'd worn the day before, and the day before that. My outfit consisted of black slacks and a black jacket, over a crisp white button down shirt (with a tank and a t-shirt underneath, just in case I bled through my bandaging again) and a red tie. Put it all together with shiny Italian dress shoes and slicked back hair and I was ready to go.
Ten minutes into the board meeting and I was aching for it to end. My alter ego is known for his impatience and flaky personality, so I had some leeway, but even I can't keep up the act forever. I let out what I thought was probably my fifteenth yawn and shifted in my seat yet again, feeling the tingle of sleep pulse over my right foot like hot needles in a blizzard. I shook my foot, nonchalantly trying to get the blood flowing again, achieving nothing more than tiring my leg and kicking another executive. Luckily, he was too busy drooling on his briefcase to notice.
The meeting ended and I headed to my office three floors up, deciding to take the elevator that day. There was no one else in it, since I had my own private elevator, and I could see clearly outside. The elevator and the entire shaft were made from tempered glass, and were located on the side of the building, so it gave a clear view of the city. Convenient for wowing new girlfriends or catching the signal early and being able to make a quick escape. There were no cameras in there and there was a code- activated escape hatch on both the top and bottom.
Once I got up there, I began my real work. The hit man, Executioner (how original), had escaped last week and was still at large. There were 3 victims already and I still hadn't tracked him down, and that pissed me off. I'm generally not the type of person to be easily aggravated, but when it comes to my night work, sometimes I even surprise myself at how quickly I lose my temper.
The victims were Kennedy Rollins, Carter Dawson, and Clinton Merill. They were all in their early twenties, and had been kidnapped about a week before. The body of Clinton, the youngest, turned up the previous night. He was in the morgue and I was planning on going in to investigate that night. The elevator's elegant chime signaling my ascent to the floor my office is on brought me out of my thoughts, and I proceeded down the hallway.
Two hours of typing and research later, my secretary, Angela, walked in holding a stack of papers. This is the part of having a secret identity I hate the most – playing the part. I minimized the window I was documenting the case information in and leaned back in my chair, pretending to be asleep. She set the papers quietly on the edge of my desk, and as she left the room, I heard a murmured "Lazy ass," under her breath. Sometimes, I really, really hate myself. But then, like now, there was no time for wallowing in self-pity – I had a case to solve. And so, sighing, I turned back to my desk, and pulled the window back up.