I'm not even gonna lie, I'm incredibly excited for this! I have allot of the story down and damn it's gonna be good... Or at least I think so. Please stay tuned, and thank you for all the follows and favorites. Enjoy!
Clipping Ghost-Man securely into place among the railings in the bleachers, I stood, slipping on my black string bag which I'd left in the stadium and walked casually back to the bike. I'd tied down Ghost-Guy for the cops to prevent any vengeful come backs from him, or at least for now; Arkham Asylum wasn't exactly famous for its spectacular prevention of breakouts, after all. That is, if he'd even go to Arkham. I wasn't very sure which city this wasteland was located closest to.
Tossing a vile of florid acid happily, I placed it into one of my belt loops and swung my leg over the newly acquired motorcycle. One to add to Slade's many arrays of collectables. Waving energetically farewell to the groaning soon-to-be-jail-bait, I cascaded back over the desert land, pressing a quick passcode into my arm computer which instantly connected me to Slade.
"That took some time."
Even now, after nearly five years of apprenticeship, I'd still hesitate under that direct yet so unpredictable sound that was Slade's voice. Not that I'd ever show that, though. The best way to fight uncertainty, after all, is with bold pretending-to-be-certain that will hopefully end up getting you somewhere, be it a good place or a bad place. Or killed, in my case.
"What can I say? It was a good show."
The show wasn't actually all that good, I'd just enjoyed hurling Ghost-Man around so much that I'd lost track of time.
"I'm sending the pick up coordinates to you now."
"No need for a pick up this time around, boss; I've got a ride," I said smiling, adding, "and I think you're gonna like this one, Slade!" My voice had a certain sing-song ring to it at the end that I could never get away with in person.
From the short silence that followed, I could tell he was curious, but only gave a soft affirming nod of acknowledgment before he quit the call with a soft hiss of the screen going back to its neutral drawback, and after being left untouched for a couple more seconds, blacked out.
I'd rode until sun rise, which might I mention, was just as invigorating as the past night's stars, but also sort of dreading because once sun came up, heat rose with it, and out of all temperatures, heat was my least favorite.
Slade had trained me extensively in any and all weathers imagined, but that didn't mean I liked it any more than before. I could only endure it better, and when it comes to just about anything of my work-like, enduring is the key element. That, and consistency.
Luckily, the morning was still cool when I'd finally reached the small neighborhoods, green coming back into view, stores, shops, and then finally, the outline of Gotham's towers.
Our base (I didn't feel entirely comfortable calling it 'home') was on the close outskirts of the city, in a big solid box of a building near a harbor with plenty of other box-buildings. It was perfectly camouflaged among the other barely used storage units. To say my home, though, was a large storage unit wouldn't be quite correct. To be better put, I lived under a storage unit. In the ground.
Riding up to storage unit number 205, I rolled slowly into the garage. The storehouse was relatively empty with only a few crates and a ladder on one end that lead to a high, steely balcony across the entire one side of the room. Under this platform was an old fashioned elevator, with the grate fence as its door and a considerable amount of ways to get your limbs or any other bodily possessions slashed off.
I left the bike for Slade's robos and walked into the elevator. I took the rusty crank, pulling then unwinding in a secret rhythm which only a certain handful of people knew. By the time I was done, it began to escalate quickly downward. Through the holes of the grate I could see myself passing the first few levels of Slade's hideaway where manufacturing goods and labs were, though he only had a few. Slade was more of a mercenary than a mad scientist. The many colors of these few factories (where only machines worked) were steamy, orange in an illuminating type of way, and dark.
The elevator clicked on until slowing to a stop upon a seemingly dead exit, but as the grate whined apart, I lifted my left hand to the cold, metallic surface. The shoal glowed a high-tech blue before the 'dead end' opened apart silently to a room which I stepped into.
The elevator was the very last thing you'd see in Slade's hideout that was even remotely considered 'old', by the way. Apart from his collections.
The entire room was a blinding white, from the walls to the floor to the few accessories kept around the the simply barren den. This round room was huge, with a high ceiling and wide encompass, but only contained a small rest area and kitchen.
The kitchen, shielded by an island bar with stools never used, was for Wintergreen, Slade's partner, and contained many appliances of steel and black colors. Even though Slade made sure I knew how to operate each one, I was no cook and only understood the nutritional aspects of food as well as which fruits, plants, meats, and spices were dangerous under certain circumstances. Once in awhile Wintergreen would cook up something good for me, but that was under the radar of Slade who only saw the survival benefits of eating.
The rest room was three, boxed in their position white couches, and a black, clear coffee table sat right in the dot middle of the couch's shape. There was no TV, but I was never a big fan of those anyways, being mostly on the road during my childhood and never having the right connection and/or equipment for it. I did like the few movies I had seen, though, but I'd never ask Slade to get me one.
Meetings with Slade and Wintergreen (especially with them both there at the same time) were rare in here, as it was only used with the influence of Wintergreen's will. I, too, had no need for this room. If I was going to relax, I'd do it in my own quarters, thank you very much! And definitely not within the sight of Slade. Not that he'd punt me the moment he caught me with my eyes closed or whatnot, but I'd never want a man like Slade to see me in any kind of vulnerable state, even if he was my guardian. I also, as previously mentioned, had no skill in cooking, so the value of this place was but nothing to me if I didn't have a meal or a conversation to have with Wintergreen, who honestly could be my lifeline sometimes.
I glanced to the clock on the island counter; it was just reaching 6, the usual time I was up and ready anyways. I'd been up all night, but was still awake enough to carry on with my usual duties like I knew Slade would probably force me to do so anyhow.
I was trained to stay active in all hours of the day, with as little or as much sleep as I could get, and still perform in the same accuracy every time. The furtherest I've gone was six days before Slade brought a stop to it. I honestly don't remember much from that time, but I do remember the heavy ache in my limbs, fingers, and shoulders- the icky taste in my mouth and a mind searing with anger at every word Slade'd say to me.
I walked further in to change into my casual wear (which wasn't at all casual, but was for my routine-life locked miles under the earth). I wouldn't have time for a shower. It was just as I left that I noticed the familiar shape of my guardian sat upon one of the couches, a simple, black journal held in his hands. My eyes snapped to his as the journal slapped shut, concealing its pasty, accessible pages.
His one, unchanging eye looked into me, and I leisurely changed my course to sitting on one of the couches beside Slade.
"Did you get my gift?" I asked, restraining the urge to plop my legs somewhere irregularly.
"Yes, and with all its... contents."
He meant the acid, which might I add, was literally made into the bike. I still couldn't get over how cool that was.
No longer able to restrain the urge, I plopped my legs nonchalant onto the coffee table. His eye flickered to my dirty feet. I smirked knowingly at him, but his gaze was already back on the journal.
"It's being molted down as we speak."
I blinked in surprise at this. Usually Slade didn't give me any information I didn't need, but as I handled the words a little more in my head I began to discern his intent. This was his weird way of informing me that no, you are not going to be riding this motorcycle again.
I refrained from pouting- And it was such a cool bike, too! Maybe it needed a little patching up, sure ('cause, I mean, the spikes had to go, and what's with the cheesy goth theme?), but it ran beauuutifully.
"Really? Wouldn't it be more useful whole than to just boil up into molten and throw into some safe, just to be stolen again?" I asked, leaning forward. "And then they'll make another cool bike and have all the fun while I'm stuck with pick ups-"
"This lethal chemical is unstable," he jeered, one permanently narrow eye looking over to me, "Plus, you've had your fun." He then resumed to his journal, and I could tell he was smirking beneath that cowl.
I looked at him with a 'that's not in the least bit funny' frown and he gave me an unimpressed eye scowl. It was still for a moment in the relaxed atmosphere that often came after a successful mission.
"Is there anything more you'd like to 'gift' me?" he asked icily with the tiny jab at my former sentence and I only grinned as I handed over the vile within my belt.
He grabbed it with his cold, gloved hand and I felt tingles of where his (not even bare!) hand had once touched mine (which, too, wasn't even bare). It was laughable how intimidated I was of him, but that's what Slade had wanted and I suppose that usually if things go according to Slade, they'll go according to my needs as well.
I retreated my hand back to my spot on the couch and watched him examine the chemical. He nodded to himself quietly, gazing at the vile which he rolled in his hands in a suspecting manner.
"Change and get a quick bite to eat. You're late for training," he said, standing from his spot and into the white hallway on the right. I followed soon after, but this time onto the left hallway.
Now, it may have seemed like I'd gotten off easy, but punishment was sure to come later during training. Slade never stood for lateness, and was persistent with his rules. Every spoken and unspoken rule was enforced with intense ferocity. I knew what was expected of me, and no begging or argument (no matter how valid) would ever change that; even if it came out to be for the better, which rarely, if ever, occurs.
When I'd finally reached my room after passing exactly seven identical white doors, I stopped on the eighth and repeated the same process from which I got into the first, circular room. The doors swished open, and I entered into my tiny, well kept room.
In the corner was a twin-sized bed with white sheets, neatly made with just one, firm pillow. Beside the stiff mattress was a small side table, also white, with a lamp atop, which was also white, and a stack of numerous non-fiction books. On the opposite side of all this was a drawer that was, as you might have guessed, white. This held on the first two slots my clothes and uniform, and then in the other two books, maps, markers, a few notepads, and puzzles. Then right in between all this was a regular door with a doorknob (thank God for normalcy, if I had to see another control panel just to open a freaking door I'd have an inner breakdown) which was my bathroom. It only carried necessity items like the toilet, shower (which was very cold, and very, very tiny), a sink, and one of those mirrors that can open up to hold your pills, toothpaste, and whatever. It may be bland, but it was simple and neat. I'd always stayed in closed spaces and cold showers my whole life anyways. At least I didn't have to share it with two people or more like when I lived in a trailer with my parents.
I didn't waste anymore time then I needed to, and stripped from my suit which landed scattered upon my bed. Opening up the drawer I slipped on my usual training attire, a plain white T-shirt and a stretchy black sports-material pair of bottoms with the same shoes that came with my uniform on missions: a black, comfortable boot. Sometimes Slade'd make me take off the shoes and go barefoot, but I always brought them just in case.
This getup was what I'd usually wear if not on a mission. I had a few pairs of civilian clothing just in case, but I'd only donned those, what, four times? I told you consistency was a major element in Slade's coaching.
After dress up, I jogged back over to the main room and hopped onto one of the stools at the bar, reaching over onto the counter for an apple in a black wire basket. I munched on this as I hopped back down and wen't back to the left hallway, where the main training room was. I'd become the master of snacking on the go, and by the time I'd reached the fourth door, all that was left of the apple's cruel juicy fate was its core.
The training room was a decent size, and perhaps one of the most colored rooms of the shelter... Well, at least in a delusional type of way. It was upgraded with some of the greatest technology, and when hit with a special projector could simulate nearly any canvas. When not alit, it was just a simple white room, with a few training equipment and tools.
Slade hadn't shown up yet, but I busied myself with some much needed stretching. My arms were still sore from the hours of motorcycle. I sighed deeply as I heard the chinks of my sockets popping, throwing my arms above my head and pulling at my fingers to span out my palm. I moved my head every which way, pulling my legs to places above my head and when I sat on the floor, laid my entire torso atop them, closing my eyes and feeling the muscles pull beneath my skin.
I was due for a nice stretch; I couldn't risk building up that prohibiting muscle. My specialty wasn't brawn (ha! Not in the least), but actually my acrobatic ability. Muscle could strain the limits, and take the best I could possibly reach in gymnastics to a much lower level easily without that extra range in flexibility. I also relied upon my speed, and that added weight? No good. Luckily I'd stayed as lithe as can be my whole life, taking my mother's genes on the height and size domain, while I adopted my Dad's dark hair. I had both their eyes, though; a nice, cornflower blue.
As I mused over our family reunions and Mom's midget folk next to Dad's belfry of skyscrapers, I finished up on my usual stretches and warmed up my body a bit, doing simple exorcizes.
I wonder what we'd be doing today? There was... somewhat of a routine to my instruction, but it was usually mixed every day. We may start out with a usual, basic workout like hand on hand combat, running on the track next door, or something like that until Slade recognized something I lacked in during these usual routines. That, or he'd do whatever he was in the mood for.
My favorite things to work on were definitely staff (I think it's my soul weapon), on the field exorcizes (involving the projector previously mentioned), and on the field vehicle exorcizes (for obvious reasons).
My least favorite subjects were acrobatic skills (Slade tended to push me my hardest in this area), mental exorcizes (traumatic and lots of headaches- This was also an area where he pushed me to the brink even though that's the whole point I guess but whatever I don't like it), and guns.
Guns would take a longer explanation than my usual sidenote, 'cause see, it was just a weird subject for me. I never really had a problem with guns (never thought about it, really), but when Slade had presented it to me things didn't... feel right. I was naturally talented at the gun, and usually when I'm particularly good at something, Slade likes to assault me so far into the subject that I ultimately begin to hate it like with gymnastics- But that's just it! That's what I'd expected. But Slade would just sit there as I fired off rounds, even having fun doing it, and after the continuous hours of that, with my ears numb to any noise, he'd walk over calmly, clasp my shoulder and smile down at me, pleased with himself... or... was it with me? It was so weird to see him not further explore my capabilities in a weapon, just settle for what I'd learned myself, and trust me with that. There was also the fact that this was a mercenary handing me a gun, and then asking me to shoot it, and guns were famous for their spectacular success of, like, killing people and yeah, just little stuff like that. But in all seriousness, Slade hasn't made me kill yet, or even hint at it... but wouldn't he want me to do it one day? I was his apprentice- An apprentice of an assassin, and I hadn't even touched the subject of killing. But the way Slade'd smile; it was like he knew something. Was this his hint towards me? That he wanted me to kill, and was just leaving it to me to decide that for myself? That sounded far too considerate of him... But if it were the case, would I ever do it? I'd just always assumed Slade would force me into it one day, that it'd somehow be justified, that I'd have help, that I'd have no choice...
Whenever I couldn't understand Slade, is when I'm most afraid of him. So gun practice was one of those times where I'd resort back to a child under the eyes of the predator. It was so stupid- I was finally being praised for something and now I cower in fear of it. It really was quite silly.
But guns aside (Thank God, my heads hurting), the rest of my training stretched to anything you could possibly imagine. The ones I'd mentioned before were just a few recurring ones that stood out the most to me. Some subjects only happned once a year. In fact, my cooking lesson had only been briefed over once. I'd been told 'Don't forget', and I didn't. Every once in awhile he'd spring up those surprise quizzes over subjects covered months ago to make sure I had it memorized, and if I didn't, I was punished and then left to figure out the answers myself until the next day when he'd ask me again, and I'd better have the answers.
A few ones I can think of now just off the top of my head is shields, climbing equipment, climbing in general, equipment disablement and then rebuilding, robotics (Slade's favorite), business, politics, wildlife survival (another favorite of his), bomb tracking, people tracking, Gotham's villains profiles, worldwide profiles, endurance (Oh look! It's another one of Slade's favorites!), thieving, code breaking, hacking (I had a good knack for this one), blind hand to hand combat (can I add this one to my least favorites list as well?), and heaps more. To say the least, I stay busy.
Slade's method was to hit it hard, and then hit it harder than that. Most sessions were never ending, and times when we would end (and I used that term lightly) was never scheduled. We just went until Slade felt he's at a satisfying end. Passing out or vomiting was not an excuse, but I rarely did that anymore.
Then there was the times when Slade'd outright beat me. I'd like to say there's a proper reason for each bashing, and sometimes there was, but most of the time... I'd often thought that it was Slade's way of keeping me on my toes, but why couldn't he just force combat onto me if that were the case? Then there was the part of me that knew; The part that secretly knew that Slade did it to vent his frustrations- that he did it to assert his dominance over me, but that was an almost insecure thing to do. Well, I guess I was just lucky to see that side of him then. That, or very, very unfortunate.
"Remember, Dick: Second priority is to find an opponents weak point. Your first priority is to conceal yours."
Figures that Slade's weakest point is when he's beating the life out of you.
... Hint, hint, a hero will be featuring next chapter...