Post by Grant on Dec 26, 2012 18:01:50 GMT -5
By Grant's count he had already been a "hero" for all of 20 minutes and he'd hated 19 minutes and 55 seconds of it. The minute that idiot he was lugging around like a sack of potatoes had awoken she'd started to attempt to scream and shout, he'd had to sedate her for fear- more like passing concern- that if he gagged her she'd asphyxiate on the bit, tape, or whatever he deigned useful to shove into her maw in an attempt to silence the piercing caterwauling the banshee let out. He let out his own low growl and gravelly "Quit squirming!" honestly how did they deal with this? It was all he could do to not purposely take a sharp bank or turn while making his way through the concrete labyrinth that was the cityscape, knocking her out cold and giving him ever needed peace.
"And stop kicking me there! You don't need feet to live b@#$%!" Finally he had found himself within the parameters of what might constitute a safe distance from the cult now devastated by assassin and caped karateka. He had in fact intended to double back after leashing the girl to a telephone pole like a misbehaving dog, and when he'd gotten close enough to one a stones throw from the local police department he'd done just that, taking out both some form of hand held GPS only to realize he was no longer somewhere viable. He could hear the sirens, see the lights, he didn't need the patch in to all emergency communications to know that this all had hit the fan, he wasn't the first killer who's plot was foiled by some idiot in her momma's underwear, he knew he wouldn't be the last.
And as he came upon his storehouse, he slipped in like a thief in the night, going by his optic scanner, facial recognition camera and a plethora of locks hidden by a dingy door barely on it's hinges, when pulled aside revealing the high end security, the home itself was a thing of contrasts, a barrio outside only to be spartan in it's innards, utilitarian certainly but not disheveled as the neighborhood this warehouse was located in would indicate. It had a small sense of opulence but was far more form over function. Persian rugs and a stoked fire, homey and cozy perhaps in a small way, far more than he had as a child on the battlefield with Slade. There were pictures strewn about in his armory, caged weapons placed immaculately in studs in the wall, all manner of ammunition, munitions, weapons both as bleeding state of the art as lex luthor might possess- such as the Ravager helm he peeled off, placing on it's stand- to as archaic as the ninjato he placed in their appropriate scabbards.
He didn't know why he kept the pictures of himself as a child, as he looked to them, they only incited vitriol and horror, as he stripped off his armor and placed it carefully, the pictures of a boy, so clear among the ethnic Bialyans as a blond haired, blue eyed ghost of a boy, not 4 or 6 and totting about an assault rifle near larger than himself, strapped with bandoleer and grenade and all manner of weapon of war. And when he peeled off the last pieces of the armor he felt on his muscled form, taut and tainted the scars of his life that were more explicit, much more vivid pictures of all he had gone through, his form seemed dotted with them creating a tapestry of battle and blood and death on his body. And he remembered why he kept them, because his body was ever the reminder of the cruelty he'd endured in his youth, nothing he'd ever escape even if he'd burned down all that he was. His body was his war journal.
And when he drew forth his father's old dagger, remembering knife training he'd done as a boy and then when he'd implemented it, the berating, the lauding and all in between, he slammed it down on the table near the chair he fell asleep in. The fire toasting his form clothed only in his underclothes.
"And stop kicking me there! You don't need feet to live b@#$%!" Finally he had found himself within the parameters of what might constitute a safe distance from the cult now devastated by assassin and caped karateka. He had in fact intended to double back after leashing the girl to a telephone pole like a misbehaving dog, and when he'd gotten close enough to one a stones throw from the local police department he'd done just that, taking out both some form of hand held GPS only to realize he was no longer somewhere viable. He could hear the sirens, see the lights, he didn't need the patch in to all emergency communications to know that this all had hit the fan, he wasn't the first killer who's plot was foiled by some idiot in her momma's underwear, he knew he wouldn't be the last.
And as he came upon his storehouse, he slipped in like a thief in the night, going by his optic scanner, facial recognition camera and a plethora of locks hidden by a dingy door barely on it's hinges, when pulled aside revealing the high end security, the home itself was a thing of contrasts, a barrio outside only to be spartan in it's innards, utilitarian certainly but not disheveled as the neighborhood this warehouse was located in would indicate. It had a small sense of opulence but was far more form over function. Persian rugs and a stoked fire, homey and cozy perhaps in a small way, far more than he had as a child on the battlefield with Slade. There were pictures strewn about in his armory, caged weapons placed immaculately in studs in the wall, all manner of ammunition, munitions, weapons both as bleeding state of the art as lex luthor might possess- such as the Ravager helm he peeled off, placing on it's stand- to as archaic as the ninjato he placed in their appropriate scabbards.
He didn't know why he kept the pictures of himself as a child, as he looked to them, they only incited vitriol and horror, as he stripped off his armor and placed it carefully, the pictures of a boy, so clear among the ethnic Bialyans as a blond haired, blue eyed ghost of a boy, not 4 or 6 and totting about an assault rifle near larger than himself, strapped with bandoleer and grenade and all manner of weapon of war. And when he peeled off the last pieces of the armor he felt on his muscled form, taut and tainted the scars of his life that were more explicit, much more vivid pictures of all he had gone through, his form seemed dotted with them creating a tapestry of battle and blood and death on his body. And he remembered why he kept them, because his body was ever the reminder of the cruelty he'd endured in his youth, nothing he'd ever escape even if he'd burned down all that he was. His body was his war journal.
And when he drew forth his father's old dagger, remembering knife training he'd done as a boy and then when he'd implemented it, the berating, the lauding and all in between, he slammed it down on the table near the chair he fell asleep in. The fire toasting his form clothed only in his underclothes.
