The Spiralling
Chapter 4: Homebound
Before I go out completely, I could see her standing up and walking away. My consciousness flickered, and seconds passed within a millisecond, and I saw her putting on the equipments and gear she discarded earlier. Another flicker and she was jumping off the roof the way Batman would to spread his wings and glide away. There was no way I could stay conscious after that- my brain, like a computer, was in need of a reboot after the trauma it went through.
An indeterminable amount of time passed before I woke up- my vision was a blur even after so much off time. Looking up at the sky, I realised that it was still the same maroon. The only difference was that raindrops were streaking down from the dark heavens. It was starting to rain. At first, I was numb to everything around me, but after enough raindrops had hit me, my mind jumpstarted itself, and it was then that I knew I had to get out before the police arrive. Getting detained for a crime I did not commit was not part of the agenda, even if there was no chance I would be accused of the stiffs. They might pull off my mask as they would always need identities for paperwork, or at least that was what dad told me. It would be a mighty waste of time as well- they could keep me in a cell for days if they so desired.
Remembering that I had a watch in my utility belt, I took it out and had a quick peek of the time. It was hard to make out the digital numbers at first as I was seeing doubles, but eventually I made the time out to be 12:10am- I had been out for a few minutes at the most. I was severely weakened, beaten to a pulp by some kid who had just hit puberty. I had to summon all of my strength just to get up, and another 100% of my strength and will to put on my mask again- wouldn't want my secret identity in the newspapers the next day. I had to collect my nightsticks after that- at least I won't need to gather up the flakes of papers from my taser. I had taught myself how to remove them so that the police could not trace them back to me.
'Who the hell was that girl?' I thought as I limped my way down the flight of stairs. There was no answer following that question- the demon girl hadn't even introduced herself, which was supposed to be part of the superhero and supervillain convention.
'For now,' I thought as I struggled down step by step using the stairwell- I couldn't afford to run into the police who would surely be using the elevators, 'I'll just call her... The Demoness...' Her name was based on her biblically sinful tendency to drink blood and hurt or kill with pleasure. Cheesy, but it was the best I had out of my vivid imaginations, albeit one that was impaired by all sorts of discomfort and pain assaulting my body then. It would be a while before I reach home, even if I were to travel by taxi.
Meanwhile...
"Grandmaster? It is time..." A rather young adult reminded a man who was way past his prime- he was kneeling on the floor, leaning against his claymore, both strong hands on its hilt, praying. It was obvious as there was a Catholic cross on the wall he was facing.
"Grandmaster?" The young man repeated himself as the 50 year old did not respond, but instead continued to whisper to himself and Jesus. It was only a while later that the 'Grandmaster' opened his eyes and stood up, sheathing the claymore as he did so. Turning around, he regarded his young student- scanned him from head to toe.
The 'Grandmaster' was an imposing man, fully muscled from years upon years of rigorous training, practice and work. Although his face bore the scars of past battles, and his crow's feet and partially white hair betrays his age, he commanded great respect.
"You will do well not to interrupt me in my prayers again, apprentice." The Grandmaster warned the younger one.
"I'm just trying to do my best to help you, Grandmaster, for taking me in." The young man in simple wool shirt and long pants apologised as his eyes darted around the room and his teacher.
"I understand your zeal, but there must always be a certain restraint in everything we pursue, lest we lead ourselves to our own doom through over-excitation. Learn this, and your potential as a student could only expand." The Grandmaster, out of care and habit, lectured his apprentice, who was caught between listening and absorbing everything the Grandmaster said and being ignorant as he was tired of being told what to do every second of the day.
"Do you have everything you need, Grandmaster?" The apprentice asked, his eyes questioning the details of his teacher's chests of clothes and essentials, his bags of equipment meant for medieval warfare and the old man's bearings. He was wearing a thick cloak with an overhanging hood, over steel-studded leather and underneath, dull brown shirt and pants. He had leather boots for footwear and a claymore on his belt for defense.
"Yes, more than what I require; it is nearly always preferable to be over-prepared than under." The Grandmaster replied eloquently, casually before calling for his servants to carry his baggage to the entrance of his school.
"Are you sure, Grandmaster?" The young man said, the meaning of his words obviously deeper than its face value. His eyes were pleading, concentrated on his elder, wanting something.
"I know what you mean, but I will manage on my own." He had to disappoint his young apprentice as he was a teacher, and his interest will remain to be those training under his wing, "Your place is here, for now. You will grow here, and you are ill-prepared for the outside world."
"But sir, I-" The young man tried to argue his case, but was interjected.
"I will have none of this! You will stay!" With that, the Grandmaster left his room as the last of his antique chests and bags were transported out.
"You will need someone who knows New York, sir!" Undeterred, the young man went on to push his luck. The Grandmaster did not even look back, he just kept walking along the wooden corridors of his school's quarters.
"It does not matter what knowledge I have of the city." The older man replied, his voice returning to a more calm and serene level, but remained strong and authoritative, "All a man needs is his virtues and purpose and I have both aplenty."
As the two went on to verbally spar, a scene made possible only by the Grandmaster's tolerance and his student's insistence, the two walked through a great hall where the younger initiates were learning how to handle their own two-handed swords using wooden ones, lead by one of the lesser teachers. Everyone was dressed simple as the school was remote, and materials were taken straight from nature. It was only the weapons and armour that seemed impressive, artefacts that came right out of a fantasy book, or the long-forgotten past.
Eventually, the teacher reached the main entrance, and proceeded to follow his entourage of servants out into the snowy abyss, somewhere in remote Canada. Out in the fields, where an old road lay, a thin thread connecting the school to the outside world, was an SUV. The chauffeur was leaning against his car, waiting. The young man continued to badger his teacher despite being shot down twice for every statement he makes. Eventually, the younger one was ordered back into the school.
Two Masters were waiting by the SUV- they were there to have a final talk with the Grandmaster, and to see him off. The elderly swordsman was after all, important to the functions and survival of the medieval arts school. Upon seeing his associates, the Grandmaster waved for his apprentice to get inside his school after he caught a glance of him hiding in the shadows.
"A good night to you, Grandmaster. So there is no way to convince you otherwise?" One of the Master, a tall and sturdy 30 plus year old woman in monk-like cloak, asked, her face displaying as much emotions as the wintry night. Yet, the Grandmaster could easily glance behind the face.
"Without a past, I am but an empty shell. I need to know what has happened to my family and home of twenty years ago." The Grandmaster reasoned as he opened the front passenger seat door of the car. The chauffeur began making his way to the driver's side- his eyes met those of the other Sword Master, a man who seems reserved, more so than the other two teachers around the SUV.
"The students had given you ideas, did they?" The reserved Sword Master, a pale and scrawny looking man, questioned the Grandmaster fearlessly- despite looking less impressive than his peers, he seemed imposing all the same.
"As Masters, we teach our apprentice, but as Masters, we let ourselves be taught by our apprentice..." With some words of wisdom dispensed, the Grandmaster ducked as he got into the vehicle.
"How will the school run without you?" Before the Grandmaster could close the door and order the chauffeur to drive off, the Swordsmistress, concerned, asked.
"I'm sure the two of you could manage in my stead. Should I cease to mail any letters or chose not to return, you will succeed me as Grandmistress."
Dave's house...
By the time I returned home, the house was already quite deserted. I couldn't hear anything, not even pin drops and footsteps. There was no light underneath my door, where there would usually be carpets of whiteness creeping into my room. I considered investigating, but then I remembered; My father was working night shift. The punishment I received in the fight must have downgraded my mind from Pentium 4 to 2.
I had free reign over the house until breakfast. For the first time in an hour, ever since the Demoness forcibly stripped my face of its protection, something that could easily have been any superhero's nightmare, I had my mask removed, and the sight wasn't a bed of roses, though it still had something to do with the colour Red. Just when I thought the outside was stained badly enough with blood, the inside proved me wrong- it was soaking wet.
I had to check myself for injuries. I started stripping myself, after locking the door to my bedroom as a precaution of course. Upon removing my gloves, I realised that my fingers were badly bruised and shaking like a neurotic case- It was due to Demoness' kick when she did a backflip to avoid my batons.
Upon slipping off my scuba suit after letting fall my utility belt and weapons, I removed the singlet underneath- surprising it wasn't maroon with dried blood like my mask. What was on my birthday suit, however, was more than just maroon. My entire stomach region was blue-and-black, the result of Demoness' use of her deadly iron fan (I finally found a better term for her pretty little Asian souvenir). It was tender to the touch, and after seeing the severity of it, to movement. I hadn't felt as shitty as this ever since I was nearly executed with Big Daddy by Frank D'Amico's men- it may even break the record if pain could be measured.
Despite wanting to just fall asleep and never wake up, there was still work to be done. One thing superhero pulp fiction got right was a superhero's work was never done. I had to clean up my mess- my uniform needs to be cleaned before being hidden away. My wounds would need attention or I might die in my sleep from all the blood I had lost. So, grudgingly, as I swore vengeance against Demoness for the extra work I had to put in because of her effective fighting ability that would put The Punisher to shame, I went ahead to get started patching up the ugly mess on my head...