Of Ashes and Embers

Demon

There's a sharp knock at the door. I'm already awake. The footsteps coming up the stairs was all it took. It's Sportsmaster. My handler. It's either time for training or we've got a mission that he wants me for. At least, I hope it's one of those. The other options always prove to be much more painful. I quickly rise from my cot and put a fresh shirt over the sports bra that I slept in. I neglect changing pants. There's not enough time for that anyways. I slide my combat boots on quickly and rush to meet him in the training room. I practically run down the twenty steps, the thirty feet straight, turn left, twenty more feet.

Sportsmaster awaits me in the middle of the room. I approach him with caution. He tends to wait for me to get within striking range and then attack. Training. Or so he calls it. I'm pretty sure at this point that he likes to take his anger out on me when something goes wrong in the league or with his daughters. He is angry often. My prediction was right. He strikes out at me with a baseball bat. I roll backward out of the way and hold back a wince at the sound of the bat hitting the ground where I just was. That would have broken something.

"Very good. Good reflex," he informs me. As if I didn't know. It was either have a good reflex or a broken rib. Been there, done that, I'll pass on doing it again. The training room is rather small but also has built-in platforms and smalls walls just to make training more realistic. And entertaining to Sportsmaster or whoever else decides to watch from the observation deck higher up on the other side of the room. I run up against one of the wooden walls and launch myself back at Sportsmaster. He thinks I'm aiming for his face and prepares for such. I land a solid kick to his torso. A sharp inhale is the only tip that I hit him. Well, besides feeling it in my foot. I duck out of his reach once again as he goes to grab me. Rule seven: when it comes to fighting bigger guys, and just about everyone is bigger than me, never stop moving; getting caught equals getting dead. Ducking under his grab I attempt to sweep his legs out from under him. Not an easy feat and it does fail. The bat comes towards my head and I am forced to roll away, feeling the graze of the bat on my left side. Coming up onto my feet I pull a throwing knife from my thigh holster and send it straight at his right shoulder joint. Predictably he goes to block it and immediately I come at him with one in my hand. Bad move. He moves enough that the first knife sinks into his arm, but nothing vital. The other grabs my wrist. Squeezing a nerve painfully until I am forced to drop the knife. Easily, he throws me backward and my proximity to his target prevents me from not hitting the wall. The air rushes from my lungs as my back collides with the vertical wooden platform.

"If you had aimed for the heart you would've lasted longer. How many times do I have to tell you to go for the kill," he yells the last part. I do my best not to flinch but he sees the minuscule reaction. "It's like you're a glutton for punishment but I find it hard to believe that you actually enjoy it. You'll get three lashes for your refusal to do your job and go for the damn kill."

I sigh heavily as he stalks from the room. Standing I remove my shirt and walk towards a wooden block. Getting on my knees I push a bit of the shirt in between my teeth before placing my forearms on the block in front of me. Just in time too. I hear his boots behind me and prepare myself as best I can. One. The pain hits me before I hear the sound of the whip meeting my flesh. Biting into the shirt saves me from an outcry. From more lashes. Two. He has remarkable aim when it comes to hitting roughly the same spot. My body reacts, flinching painfully before I can stop it. He waits, expecting a noise but he receives none. I will not give him the satisfaction of doing more than three today. Three. Slowly I unclench my fists. Knuckles white and nails dug in deep enough to break the skin, a little bit of blood. I remove my shirt from my mouth before standing and turning to face my handler.

"Go let the docs clean you up and then get ready for a mission," he barks.

"Yes sir," I respond before heading in the direction of the lab. I don't bother putting the shirt back on. No use getting it covered and blood and irritating the slashes on my back just to take it back off when the quote on quote doctors take a look and them and ensure I can join Sportsmaster on this mission. Twenty feet straight, left turn thirty feet straight, twenty steps up and I enter the lab. Directly opposite in this small compound of my cell. I mean room.

The doctors, the three of them, take pleasure in poking and prodding the whip lashes as I maintain a straight face and concentrate solely on not making noise or flinching. Eventually, I feel the sting of them cleaning the wounds, and then bandages are wrapped around my torso. At least there is some precaution being taken from me bleeding out during this mission or getting an infection. While I hate these men with a passion, they can at least prevent me from dying under Sportsmaster's care.

"Arm," one orders. Judging from the voice it's Dr.Hanson. The head doctor, the one who loves to inject shit into me and see the effects. I obediently raise my left arm so that it's straight in front of me. I watch as the tall, thin man with his muddy brown hair and his eyes to match, inserts a needle into the inside of my elbow. I don't know what it is but it feels like magic as before I'm out of the room my pain is no longer there. It likely had at least some morphine in it but there's no telling what else. Twenty steps down sixty feet straight and twenty steps up. I'm back in my room and waste no time in getting dressed. Black pants that feel tight on my skin but have a surprising amount of pockets and storage. I strap my throwing knife leg sheath around my right thigh. I pull on my shirt, red on the torso but black up the arms onto the shoulders, the attached hood is also black. I put my contacts in, the ones Sportsmaster insists that I wear when I'm in uniform. They make my eyes appear all black instead of their usual emerald green, there's no white to be seen. I pull on my utility gloves, which includes a small computer built into them, much like the boy wonders. I strap my utility belts across my chest so that they create an x. These have practically everything I actually need in them. Hesitantly I strap my pistol holster onto my left hip. I, myself, am not allowed to have the gun when not on a mission but it's a good bet that Sportsmaster will give it to me before we leave the compound. Finally, I strap my mask to my face. It's styled after a Japanese Hannya mask. The majority of it is red, but the teeth are white, the mouth is black and the horns are black. It even has fangs that reach down to the chin of it, which means mine as well. This, with the fact that my eyes are all black and visible, matches the name Sportsmaster gave me perfectly. I am Demon. Property of The League of Shadows.