several months later
There's a new super villain. He calls himself Sirius. He's defeated Kimmie and her sidekick, my brothers, GJ, that dorky ninja school... I could go on and list the rest of the heroes he defeated, but I won't bother. The list is too long. Suffice it too say he got them all. But now he's got a vendetta against villains. He's started to come against us. Several have been killed.
This is the reason I'm mad. I have never resorted to murder. Never. Now, I have no love for the villains, not a shred of compassion anywhere, (yet I don't hate them. Keeping a grudge is too much work, and it's boring after the first hour), but now he's insulted me. Called me weak. Just because I haven't killed.
Killing is easy. Far, far easier than anyone realizes. And once you do it the first time, even if you didn't do it in cold blood, it becomes even easier. You'd know that if you read Agatha Christie.
I'll admit, I've worried whether my penchant and subsequent tolerance for violence would one day lead me to murder, even if if the murder was an accident or in self-defense. But I've never succumbed. I'm stronger than he is, and he will not get away with tearing me down like that.
My eyes gleam a piercing green at anticipation of the fight.
Drakken tries to convince me not to go. But he can't stop me.
He offers to raise my pay. I don't falter.
He promises to give me Iceland, not Greenland, and any other two countries of my choice. I pay no attention.
He says he loves me.
This is enough to stop my stride, but I don't look at him. I don't love him, I don't love anyone. Too many guys have hit on me for me to pay much notice to such statements, but the desperation in his voice pleads with me. How nice it might be, I think, to love rather than to fight, to be comforted rather than hurt, how nice it might be... but I love nothing but the fight.
He sees me start to leave again. He runs and grabs me and spins me to face him, kissing me. How wonderful that emotion might have been... if I had felt anything. I push him away. I see his tears, and I despise them. I never cry. To cry is to display weakness. I leave, impatient, so very impatient for the fight.
I defeat Sirius's patrols, his guards, the henchmen, then the body guards. Then I let myself be captured. The blood is pounding, coursing through my veins with a pent up ferocity. I am held in front of Sirius, he says something, but I merely spit on him.
I want to fight.
They take me to an arena. The floor is dirt, the walls high and strong. I see the spectators, cheering, jeering, hoping for my demise or at least some entertainment. I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction; entertainment they will get. I see a group in the stands, villains, captured, their demise delayed so that they may watch mine. I give them a mock salute, my sarcastic smirk plastered on to my face and I could not remove it if I tried.
First they send henchmen at me. I don't even break a sweat, the green glow nowhere to be seen. Then henchmen with weapons. Minor amusement. They are quickly dragged off to the infirmary. Wild animals. I let myself use my green power, and revel in it's touch. They are quickly tamed. I have minor injuries, a sprained finger, multiple bruises, a few scratches that are red, but do not ooze blood, but I pay them no heed.
They send more and more at me. It seems like days that I have been fighting, but my mind is still rational enough to know that it has only been hours. I feel like I am floating, my head filled with the pounding blood, and adrenaline, and the roar of the cheering. They send still more at me, I should be exhausted, but the fight only energizes me, sending me more energy, more strength, more power. I am bleeding now, but I don't care. I lick the blood off my upper lip, letting myself enjoy the taste of coppery iron and salt. My black hair is tangled, it can only get in my way now. I reach up, and slice it off with my nails, letting the mane that I had so carefully treasured and cultivated fall to the floor. The new ends of my hair brushes the tops of my shoulders.
The crowd seems to think that I am surrendering. Oh no. I am just getting started.
After the next 15 minutes I am panting slightly, but it is a good panting, not a sign of tiredness, weakness, or exhaustion, but a sign that I am actually being challenged. I have to actually try to win these fights now. I love it.
The crowd is silenced. I have defeated all of their best fighters, and everything else they have thrown at me. I will get what I want.
Sirius speaks, his voice magnified by speakers, he demands me to surrender.
I am insolent.
He pauses, his voice is amused, like a parent who is pleased and willing to tolerate a spoiled child. He asks what my terms are; he does not wish to dishonor me by merely torturing and beheading me like the other villains.
I say I want to be killed in combat by him.
My request is granted.
Everyone is silent as Sirius walks into the arena. He is tall; at least seven feet. His face is the darkest brown, almost black. His hair is black, but his eyes are violet, and he has no pupils. He wears Arab styled pants, loose, but gathered at the ankle and waist, and a loose tunic. Both are dark purple, trimmed in gold. It's as if he is a king. He is no king.
I turn my back to him, both a sign of foolish bravery and of defiance. I turn to my former peers in the crowd. I bow to them, like the master that I am, rather than the student I have pretended to be for most of my life. The fight begins.
We both hold back, testing each other. Trying to find a weakness to exploit. He is humoring me, he's seen enough of my fighting by now. Then we begin, punching, kicking, our speed ever increasing. We manage to land a hit or two, but nothing serious enough to throw us out of rhythm. I let my hands glow, and I am not without satisfaction as I draw blood on his arm. See. He is only human.
I am straining now, not quite desperate, but almost. This is a fight I can not confidently guarantee a win.
We have been fighting for nearly 20 minutes. I am breathing heavily, and I know he is too although he tried to hide it. We have both drawn blood, had bones broken, both been thrown to the ground, both stunned the crowd to silence as they feared the imminent doom of one of us, only to be disappointed. Now he is pressing me hard, driving me toward the wall, I am losing.
I spring over his head, vaulting over to the opposite side of the oval to give me some space. I find my plasma, letting in grow in power within me; waiting, waiting. He comes within an arm's length and I release it, a powerful orb. Not enough to shatter the barrier between us and the spectators, but enough to throw him against the opposite wall. I note with satisfaction that his hand has broken from the impact. I call my plasma in, sending it through my veins, through my muscle, charging myself with its power, my own power. I run so fast that there is not even a blur to see me. I punch Sirius in the face, his head clacking sharply against the wall.
Simultaneously he grabs my wrist, bringing me to a sudden halt. My head snaps forwards, from the sudden deacceleration, my forehead hitting the wall. Everything is spinning in front of me, with green spots dancing in my vision. As I try to clear my eyes, he hits me hard on my jaw and my chest. I fall to the ground, knowing a rib or two is broken. As I stand, I notice his hands are glowing an eerie pale purple. He has powers too. Stolen from my now-deceased brothers and modified to fit his means.
We go at it again. Green against purple, white against black. I am laughing wildly with the thrill of the fight. He does not understand. He thinks my mind has gradually snapped from the exertion I have been putting forth non stop for hours now. He does not understand that this is what I live for. For him, the fight is merely the means to reach the goal; he doesn't know that, for me, fighting is the goal.
We have been fighting for another 20 minutes since he revealed his powers. Our battle an hour long, my war has lasted 8 hours and I have not rested or drank. I am bleeding, and dirt mixes with the blood to form a paste that covers my face, my hair, my body. I know multiple bones are broken. Deep purple-blue-black bruises are evident where my jumpsuit has been torn away. I wish Kim Possible had been here, to see how easily I could have snapped her frail little body if I had wanted.
We charge once again, and I feel pain explode in my head. The world is nothing but pain, and as I stagger back I see him collapse to the ground. I smile grimly, I will not fall to the ground. I stand there, waiting for him to get up. The crowd is silent with anticipation, but to me, there is no difference in the silence from the cheering. All I hear is the pain and the beating of my own heart.
Thirty Seconds.
One minute.
He springs at me, hoping I'd be caught off guard. But I'm not.
I'm on the ground. My limbs at angles they were never meant to be at. My vision hazy with blood. He is standing above me, his smile smug with triumph.
"You said you wanted to die."
I look up at him, my voice hoarse, "You weren't fast enough."
He looks down in horror where a red flower is blooming on the remains of his clothes.. There is a reason I file my nails and sharpen the claws on my gloves.
He glares at me, furious that I have beaten him at his own game. He lunges at me, as if to inflict one final punishment.
But he never makes it.
He collapses, face in the dirt. A pool of blood seeps from beneath him.
The stands erupt as the villains suddenly find enough of a spine between them to fight back, some of Sirius' not-so-loyal henchmen helping. No one notices as a blue figure runs on to the arena field.
Drakken lifts my head placing it gently in his lap, tears on his cheeks. "Why?" he asks, "Why?"
He pulls off my gloves, cradling my milky white hands in his gloved ones. "I was bored," I say.
"Don't die," he's begging me, and I remember his outburst earlier.
"Bloody heck, Doctor," I say, "all I've wanted was an equal fight, a challenge." My voice is raspy and harsh, alien even to my own ears. "I got an equal fight, do you think I'll ever get a better one? This is the best time for me to die, I won't be bored anymore." He is still crying. "Did you ever think I'd die of old age in a bed?" I cough up blood. He wipes it away gently, and uses his lab coat to clean up my face, "All I've ever lived for is fighting, and I've died fighting." It is too painful to say anything more.
"You're not dead yet." The fool still holds out hope. I cannot answer him. It doesn't matter; I have nothing to say.
I remember that kiss. How wonderful it might have been, if I had any emotions to feel it with. I wonder what would've happened if I had a normal life. Gotten a normal job. Maybe married. But I'm a freak. Glowing green hands, and my pale white skin that doesn't tan or burn. I could never have a normal life. All I live for is fighting.
His hands are toying with my hair, letting the shortened strands slip through his fingers like water. The fool is so focused on me that he doesn't see or hear Sirius's second in command, a brutish bodyguard that made Schwarzenegger look like a midget, coming near. I try to speak but I can't. All I can do is leap up, despite my broken legs, tackling him, lashing out with no real sense of aim, hearing him scream, watching him fall. I fall too, the man's dark blood coating my face, hands, chest, mingling with my own blood.
I am in excruciating pain, and I feel my brain shutting down. I cough up more blood. More and more. I've lost feeling in my arms and legs. My face can not feel the Doctor's caress. I force myself to speak through the coughing, "Dang it, Doctor, watch out for your back will you? I won't always be there... to fight for you."
My world goes black, the last thing I hear are the villains yelling in success, then Dr. D. picks me up, I don't feel the pain it should have caused, and he cradles me against his chest, then nothing.
I hope he doesn't try to heal me.
All I know is that, no matter what happens, I will never be bored.
EE
Author's Note: This is a bit darker than what I usually write, so please review and tell me what you think. (Please, please, please!!!)