Author notes: Here's the second chapter. Most of this was written between classes. XD Horay for college and classes at random hours!
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, except for Adam Craven. And I also own a 6-foot-tall Superman plush I won at Six Flags. He pwns you all.
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Path
How can we still succeed, taking what we don't need?
Telling lies, alibis, selling all the hate that we breed
Supersize our tragedy! (You can't define me or justify greed!)
Bought in the land of the free! (Land! Free!)
And we're all to blame
We've gone too far, from pride to shame
We're trying so hard
We're dying in vain
We're hopelessly blissful and blind
It's all we are
We want it all with no sacrifice
-- Sum 41, 'We're All To Blame'
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Somehow, he should have expected the nearly identical surprise on the five faces around him. Somehow, it was still surprising.
"Copperhead? The snake guy? Seriously?" The speedster known as Flash was the first to form proper coherency. At least, what was proper for the Flash.
"Copperhead is far too large a risk to stay in the Watchtower." Batman spoke with the conviction of knowledge and of battles lived. "He should recover elsewhere."
"Risk? He's blind and deaf. What kind of risk is that?" Flash nearly laughed.
"And when he's able to move around again? When he has the perfect opportunity, not to mention location, to strike us?" Wonder Woman looked between her allies, her friends. "I agree with Batman. Too much of a risk."
"He's blind and deaf!" Came the repeated exclamation from Flash.
"He's heavily injured, possibly gravely; he isn't even off of life support, yet." The near godly tone of Superman's voice cut through the air. "We should not send him out of the Watchtower yet. True, there is a risk that he stays, but there's a risk if he left; a risk that he could die. I won't accept that."
"The fact remains that he's too heavily injured to be moved." Green Lantern's voice came almost suddenly. "The least we should do is wait until he can be moved."
The last surviving Martian said nothing for several long moments. When the words came, however, they were soft, nearly saddened in quality. "Copperheads' mind has been nearly shattered by his experience. If he recovers properly from his wounds, if he would regain his sight and hearing, there is very little chance he would have the mind to attack us."
Decision was surprising; four against two. They would not yet force their enemy to leave.
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"What do you want from me?"
In later retrospect, he would realize that it had taken far too long to ask the simplest of questions. The clock declared that it had been over an hour after he had woken from his forced unconscious state, and nearly three quarters of an hour after the pain had begun.
At first, the only response was another lash from the small, leather whip. It tore through his costume, revealing pale, bleeding flesh underneath; the sight did not bother him. He had seen blood before.
There was expectation for another lash to fall. When it did not, and the man responsible for the current situation was beyond his range of vision, he took the moment to attempt thought.
Why was this happening? True, he had stolen from a great many people over the past years, and he didn't put it past any of his victims to try and take revenge for wealth lost, but he would have thought that he would, at the least, be told what the vengeance was being extracted for. As it stood, he had no idea what he may have done to this particular man in the past.
Suddenly, his head was held immobile, two large hands at the sides of his skull. If he had been able, he would have jumped in alarm; instead, he merely held his breath in panic. After a long two seconds, and an almost gentle chuckle from the man behind him, the headpiece to his costume was slowly slid off.
Breath came again, but the panic remained. There was an attempt to remove his shirt with the same gentleness, but the restraints prevented completion; a blade, likely a knife, cut apart the synthetic fabric.
Hands reached for the rim of his pants, and he practically yelped as panic met with fear. "What are you doing?!"
The man paused, staring with dark, gleeful eyes at his own. He said nothing, merely used the same blade to remove the last shred of clothing, hand reaching for the whip before it was even completed.
He prayed that it wasn't what it appeared to be.
In later retrospect, he would be immensely glad that it wasn't.
The whip came down again, evoking a startled cry. He stared in shock, breath escaping in rasping halts. "Why are you doing this?" Came the almost softly spoken query.
An answer never came.
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Footsteps echoed along the surprisingly empty corridor, leaving their owner in sullen thoughts. It was all the better, she supposed; she didn't want to answer any queries at the moment.
Nearly every female member of the League respected and admired the princess of Themyscera, the immortal who chose the name Wonder Woman. She was strong in body, strong in mind, fought for everything that truth and justice represents, and had saved the world from peril countless times. At least, that was the general consensus.
It was the reason she didn't want to answer any questions now; she had very little idea how she would react to the simplest of queries; what was she doing here?
What was she doing in the medical wing, intent on visiting an enemy? She hardly knew, herself; simply put, she hadn't seen Copperhead in this condition before.
Wonder Woman supposed she wanted to know why the others insisted he stay. His injuries were severe, true, but she was certain he could recover in a more secure place.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and all thoughts faded in nothing short of shock.
Injures, including potential life threatening wounds, occurred in the League on a regular basis; it was why the med wing was constructed in the first place. Yet, despite the countless injuries suffered, despite the time after time she had seen a pained hero undergo medical treatment, she had never before seen a man covered in so much gauze.
Several tentative steps were taken into the room; the only witnesses to her presence were two meek nurses. With a sudden resolve, strength returned to her stride; Wonder Woman was at Copperheads' side within seconds.
It was unclear weather he was unconscious or not; medical tape was wrapped firmly around where his eyes once were, and silence reigned.
Deaf and blind; she could hardly imagine what he must have suffered through.
After a long few seconds, sound exploded; the heart monitor became an erratic string of beeps, and it gave cause for the immortal to pause in alarm.
However, the monitor was quickly forgotten; a new sound, wholly more frightening, released itself from the now clearly unconscious metahuman.
At first, it was merely whimpers; after a short second, it erupted into screams.
A nurse was at his side nearly instantly, syringe in one hand; the body began to quiet as soon as medication was injected.
For several long moments, Diana was only able to stand there, shock and surprise displayed clearly across her features. "How.." She tried to ask, had to attempt again. "How often has this been happening?"
The second nurse sighed, shaking her head, bright eyes now mournful. "Every couple of hours. Poor guy has nothing to take his mind off of what was done to him."
Silence reigned for a long moment; Diana could only stare at a face locked in pain. Nearly subconsciously, her hand laid itself along the suffering man's forehead.
Suddenly, she understood.
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Had he been able to see, Copperhead was certain his vision would have been blurry. Still, it would have been better than the abyss he was in, now; blurry vision is better than no vision at all.
Memory and nightmares continued to plague him; he was certain he would soon go mad. At least, if he wasn't mad already.
Sudden, unexpected touch from the world he had both lost and never truly known; a soft, gentle, touch at his forehead, above the wraps covering his missing eyes. Someone had actually visited him.
It was as much of a shock as anything else that had happened; he was certain that the League had only rescued him out of necessity; leaving an enemy to die a painful death wouldn't have been good for publicity, he was sure. Yet, someone was here. A woman, if his sense of smell was still intact.
He turned his head in the direction he thought she was in, and tried to do what would be so simple for anyone else, what had once been so simple before and yet so seldom done; he tried to thank her. He wasn't sure what came out, unable to hear his own voice.
The small action cost him his remaining energy; medication suddenly took effect, and a dreamless, thankful oblivion loomed.
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The rasping half breath that escaped had sounded so much like a 'thank you'; it gave cause for Diana to literally pause in surprise.
She hadn't expected the metahuman to notice she was there; she had expected the praise even less. For a short moment, stunned surprise reigned, before an entirely new and unexpected emotion flare along the princess's mind.
Pity; not the pity she normally bestowed upon enemies, touched with anger and sometimes hate, but pity reserved for the innocents harmed in the countless battles the world had born witness. She hoped, suddenly, that recovery would come swift and memory would be healed.
Diana hoped that Copperhead would live.
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It had only been four hours and twenty seven minutes since he had first opened his eyes, but it had felt like an eternity. Thoughts passed, whenever he could find a brief relapse between the pain, if he had died and been sent to Hell.
Four hours, twenty eight minutes and thirty seven seconds; vision blurred from pain, time robbed by his own tears. Had he been asked the night before, he would have proudly proclaimed that he hadn't shed a tear since childhood.
The Man was still there, and brief wonder passed, momentarily suspecting He was the Devil. He was pacing back and forth, now, hated voice seeming so kind and so vicious all at once.
"Oh, little one, what should we do now?"
Decision came not to answer; the last time he had tried, he had been branded with a heated pipe.
At four hours, thirty two minutes and nine seconds, vision cleared enough to stare at the clock. Whimpers passed from his own throat, unable to be repressed; hate, directed at himself, for his own weakness.
Sudden contact tore a gasp; a hand, His hand, was on his tail. There was too much fear to look at what could be happening, and, yet, too much fear not to look. After several gasping seconds, he looked down.
The dark shade of His eyes stared back, a wicked grin splayed across His face. He had waited for His victim to witness, and, once that knowledge became clear, a heavy pit formed within his gut.
The Man slowly lifted what looked like a butcher knife into the air, and, at once, he knew that this would be very, very bad. It proved to be more than correct, as the first strike fell.
A scream wrenched itself from a throat abused by previous cries; he swung his tail as much as possible, a last, desperate attempt at fight or flight. It was useless, he knew, but animal instinct was nearly impossible to cease; especially when such agony presented itself.
The blade came down countless times after, unending screams filling the chamber, time robbed again as vision blurred.
At four hours, forty eight minutes, feeling from most of his tail was simply lost.
For what felt to be a long time, he simply lied there and cried, sobbing wrecks that he didn't try to suppress. Despite being unable to see what was left of his prized limb, he could physically feel the blood as it seeped from the gaping wound.
"Little one.." The Man's voice would have caused him to jump, had he been able. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"
At five hours, three minutes and one second, Copperhead prayed for death.
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"Did he hurt you? Did he hurt you!?" The volatile anger so clearly displayed along his brothers' face did not surprise Dove; however, it still sent a shock down his spine.
For the moment, he was unable to answer the query; Dove shook his head. He knew he appeared pale and shaken, knew that Hawk was worried, knew the worry was not misplaced.
His brother was barely inches away, staring down at him with a mixture of concern, hate, and, barely there, fear.
"Are you sure? What happened?" The question should have been simple to answer, should have been easy to respond to. However, Dove found that 'simple' was beyond his mind to comprehend.
The younger brother nearly broke apart instantly, needing assistance to the nearest chair; alarm and fear were now easily witnessed along Hawk's features. "Hank, it was horrible.." The pair were suddenly thankful to be alone. "There was so much screaming, so much blood.. I could hear that poor man begging and crying, and that.. That.." He paused, unable to find the proper word to describe his kidnapper and almost murderer. "He laughed! He laughed at what was happening and did all he could to make it worse!"
The fact that Dove so nearly met the same fate did not need to be spoken; blue cloth shivered as their bearer tried to contain his still existent fear, as red tensed as Hawk's anger released itself in heavy, yet even breaths.
"Dan, I want you to stay in the WatchTower 'til we catch this guy."
Somehow, it was only then that Dove recalled that the kidnapper had not been apprehended; the shivers only increased.
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Realize we've spent our lives living in a culture of fear
Stand to salute; say thanks to the man of the year
How did we all come to this? (You can't define me or justify greed!)
This greed that we just can't resist (Resist)
And now we're all to blame
We've gone too far, from pride to shame
We're hopelessly blissful and blind
When all we need
Is something true to believe
-- Sum 41, 'We're All To Blame'
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There ya go, chappy two. :3 I'm so mean to poor Copperhead. I dunno why. XD
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