Training Days

July 25, 2015:

Following the events of Proving Grounds, Slade Wilson takes his crew to train.

REDACTED

Characters

NPCs: Hobgoblin

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

It's been a couple of days, but Slade hasn't lied to them once. He gave them ten hours, and at nine hours and fifty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds he walked back into the room and led everyone to a training room where he and Taskmaster, mostly Taskmaster, began hand to hand combat drills. Slade watched. Critiqued. Judged. Taskmaster talks almost endlessly, Slade is down right laconic. Task is almost goofy with his good intentioned if somewhat off color ribbing, Slade is cold and aloof, distant. Then it was weights. Then a meal. Cardio. Tactical training. Meal. Code break down and linguistics breifing breaking down the unique code words and phrases the Authority will be using in the field. Day two was much the same, only this time where was some sort of yoga class, if Yoga was designed by monks of sadism and intended for the sole purpose of causing excrutiating pain and weight were replaced by a ten kilometer run. The school work was the same.

Day three Slade enters the amphitheatre like room the lot of them have been sleeping in and sniffs the air once, his face screwing up unpleasently, "I have great news, private quarters are complete. Each comes with a bathroom, and a shower, thank god. You're all walking bioweapons." he turns to go, "Gather your gear and follow me, I'll take you to your squats."

After the several days had passed, Alexander Aaron didn't really have much in the way of gear remaining. His gymbag/backpack was mostly empty, its contents used during their long exodus through the appropriated Murderworld. His school books had been used for toilet paper and once to stop some bleeding. His food and water had been rationed out and eaten, and his mp3 player had been smashed during a scuffle with a robot. Yet he does as Slade says, scoops up his bag and slings it over the shoulder opposite the one that gives a place for Grass Cutter to rest. He sets off to follow Deathstroke.

Ten hours of sleep was glorious. Melody slept like a baby. Well, a baby on a hard ground on a sleeping mat but at least the pillow itself was fluffy. Then there was training. She was still tired, but the food helped replenish some of her functions, even if training had taken it away right after. Cardio. Cardio is the devil. Melody huffed, panted, wheezed a bit and kept on moving. But it was the last day, she felt her muscles ache as she stood and stretched, pulling the items she's collected since her time her together into a neat little bundle and slowly trudged her way on. And the entire time? Silent. Quiet as a mouse. Everyone here knew a variation of someone, and while Melody just knew that Taskmaster worked for Guy, his constant jabs hurt her feelings.

But.. she learned with a punch to the face that there was no crying in The Authority.

Lunair is at least a hard worker and seems to learn pretty quickly. She seems fairly good natured once the fever starts to break. The rest helped. Her backpack's stuff is eventually retrieved, lost when she got dropped into things. She's resilient, seeming more wry and amused by the ribbing. She tries to look after Melody, but the person who uses social skills as a dump stat is probably not the best. Even if she's quietly friendly.

As far as she's concerned, the news about showers and such is like an angel of hygiene descending unto them from the heavens bearing good news. She follows the others, looking a little bit pale and such but much better than before. Still, hardly the most chatty today.

Slade Wilson leads the way out of the amphitheater and down the long hall the same direction they've gone for each of their classes or for their meals, taking them past off shoots, coridors, big double door sets, the works. The architecture is beautiful frankly, slowly curing, there's a sense of size to the place that makes sense when they consider the labrynth was built, ostensibly, in the same structure. The slowly curving path takes them to a coridor with a light gray techno-style design set into the dark charcoal gray metal of it's frame, which seems to fit with the over all color pallet of the HQ. Almost everything is a varying shade of gray, black, white, silver, and pearl. Everything is metal or at least metal like, and the only 'color' they've seen was from the odd machinations inside the walls of the maze itself, the gold next dimensional workings there.

Slade taps the design on the hallway entrance as he walks past, the armor of his gauntlet 'tinking' softly, "That color leads to barracks, you'll get familiar with it." as he walks past he names off doors, "Taskmaster," next to the door is a small square pad engraced with the same symbol that grace's Taskmaster's shield. "Phobos." he says as he passes, motioning to the next doorway, the panel there is the Greek glyph for Phobos, the arrow through a circle. "Grace." one of her more prominant tattoo symbols, a sun like pattern, "Rant," a knife with blood that drips in the pattern of a circuit board, "Armory," hers just has the name on a peice of masking tape stuck on the panel, apparently they're not done etching all the locks yet, "Hobgoblin," a pumpkin with a fuse of course, "and finally me." the hallway ends at his door which takes up the end of the hall and stares right back down the length, the half deathshead with a single eye on his lock. "Each door is biometrically locked and keyed to you and you alone, only I have override power and doing so blows the lock so if I'm forced to used that measure I cannot do it secretly or without your knowledge, there would be evidence." he turns to eye the team, the other side of hte hall has doors, but no symbols on the locks, "Those are for possible expansion to the unit." he explains. "You have four hours R&R, do as you like though I recomend show-no, I order showers. You're all filthy."

The young Olympian strolls slowly over towards his indicated door, for some reason a measure of incredulity lights his features. He cocks an eyebrow, turning his head to the side to consider Deathstroke, even as he flicks a fingertip against the nameplate. For those that hadn't met him before they might now have some inkling about him and what he does or who he may be… but still, something about his manner seems out of sorts.
Then the hesitation slips away from him as he touches the lock and then shoulders open the door. Before the door shuts and over his shoulder, Alexander offers in casual commentary, "I'll have you know, I smell of roses." He gives a nod to himself as if having settled some large injustice… and then he disappears from view for the next forty five minutes.

The entire architecture of the space, training room and amphetheater included was impressive. Passing down the hallways to their personal barracks even more so. Everything was biometric.. which means.. if Melody needed? She could probably hack in and get into someones room! Sweet! Bleed on things! Like, look at her name plate! She's a bleeder!

Though, showers were ordered and she was so, so willing to comply, pressing her hand against the door which unlocks and opens with a slight hiss, stifling a slight laugh at Phobos' retort, then shuts the door behind her to reveal.. her room.

"Hory shet!"

Even though it has yet to be furnished properly, it was spacious. Rows of screens that line the wall each with their own keyboard.. laptops, desktops, one traded for the other with a large brick of a server in the corner. The room itself was even chilled to perfection to stave off the heat.. and.. the bathroom?

"HORY SHET!"

Clothes were practically sheared off Bruce Almighty style, hot water cranked on.. and she was in.

"Hoooooooorrrrry shet." Talk about bliss.

Lunair looks around, her eyes widening a bit. She's taking it all in. She looks quietly amused by the masking tape on hers. It's no bother, considering a possible codename shift and all. Maybe. Maybe they're still thinking of it, too? She'll look forward to finding out what hers is, perhaps. "Wonder what mine'll be," She mumbles to herself, thoughtfully. There's a glance to each of them. Though, Lunair prefers knocking to being hacked in. There's a wry smile at Phobos. "I would send those roses back to the factory and write up a complaint," She offers. Lunair is very literal. Nothing goes over her head because she catches it, yes?

Nevertheless, the prospect of a shower sounds like total bliss. "… I hope mine doesn't stay duct tape," Something to ponder on. And she meanders over to try it and disappear into Shower World 3-3.

Once they're all done, they find Slade waiting for them at the end of the corridor, a long knife in hand, flipping it back and forth across his knuckles, spinning it through his fingers, deftly cycling it from hand to hand and showing a dexterity that's impressive for a man of his size that's also wearing armored gloves. "Finished? Good." he turns to go, "Come along, I'll show you the," he smirks and it shows in his tone, "armory."

As he walks down the mail hall, he taps doorways he passes, or more acruately the slightly colored frames they carry and each time he taps the frame, a razor thin line of the same color shimmers down the wall, so quick and faint you'd miss it if you weren't looking for it, "Mess," he says as he goes by, "physical training, meditation, simple weapons combat, hand to hand, tactical analysis, firing range," each title it tapped to a door so they can see the colors and he assumes they'll figure out how the rest of it works. One may note there are no windows and none of the doors say 'exit' on them.

The shower was exquisite, wonderful to get the dirt and grime of several days off of him. The young deity spend entirely more time than he needed just exulting and enjoying the sluice of warm water. It was with a singular reluctance that he forced himself to get step free, turning off the multiple spigots and then reaching for one of the towels.
It only takes a handful of further minutes after that for him to emerge, wearing what new clothes were available. Black combat boots, black canvas pants, black t-shirt, black socks, he saunters out of the door with a casual amble looking at the other individuals there when they emerge as well.
Once Slade starts to lead them off he follows along with an easy step, hands in his pockets and his gaze somewhat distanced as he listens to the man.

That.. was the stuff. Her hair was washed and finally combed out. No blow dryer though. Nothing to flat iron her hair with.. gosh, now she was going to be all curly. She dressed down all in black, cargo pants with many pockets donned, belt sinched off to keep the pants upon her waist, t-shirt tucked into her pants and her impossibly curly hair tucked into a ponytail which seemed a little too large at the back. She'll tame that fro soon enough.

Once she had her rest and they were out, she follows along the hallway, hands tucked into her pockets, eyes alight upon the room to memorize the placement of doors.. her lips bunching just a touch.

"Where are we going now?"

To those dying, to those in a desert, water is divinity - an answer to a prayer and a begging upheld hand. Closed eyed revelry in a mundane universe, existing solely for the patterpatter flow of water. Lunair is grateful to be fresh, clean (armor seals it in alarmingly well) and rested a bit. She will eventually step out, and finding what clothes she can - dries and dresses. It's an activity that is a strange sort of relief. Nothing is trying to kill her (yet), no dart drones (not Thursday) and it's refreshing.

And yes, her standards are so low someone painted the line on and called it a day. But she's duly dressed, neatly tidied up and her hair done into a long, wavy ponytail. She emerges, like a BO Caterpillar turned into a stankfree butterfly, peering out cautiously, before stepping out of her room and joining the others. Paranoia never really leaves one's shoulder, nudging away angel and devil for something far more primal. She smiles, seeing the others. And she watches, attentively.

Slade Wilson stops at a redish-gray door and walks in, the door opening completely silently, not even a Star Trek hiss, as he walks through he motions a hand at the walls, "I told you Rant, the armory." Welcome to The Matrix… sorta. The walls are all brushed nickle and they extend in library like shelves, rows cross columned with openings so one can navigate it well enough. Hand guns, machine guns, shot guns, knives, swords, axes, plasma cannons, powered Mandroid armor, even repulsars, if it can be carried into war by your average soldier, there are likely 3 different versions of it on a wall somewhere in this room. "There is an extended armory at the back that is accessible to me alone, in there we will find specialtiy weaponry for when it may be needed, things to expensive to allow you to merely wonder off with." he dosn't appologize for the implication. "Gear up, even you," he says when he eyes Lunair, "pick up a personal carry and suitable ammunition and magazines. I saw what happened to you when you taxed yourself, you need a back up that you don't have to summon. All of you," he pauses and eyes Hobgoblin who's sallow expression and gernally quiet meloncholy has been somewhat pervasive, "I did say," he says as he turns to whistle, "all of you." a glider drops down out of the ceiling. It's not bat shapped, but it's clearly high tech and covered in stealth material. The engines glow faintly with repulsar tech and no black noxious smoke spews out of it's back end. Goblin hugs it. Openly.

Sauntering down the aisles as if they belonged to his favorite candy store, it's only then that Alexander seems to come to life for a bit. He lifts a hand and casually brushes fingertips along the stocks of various firearms as his thoughts and memories drift back to a few different moments in time. He glances over towards the others, then to Slade. "Not a bad selection," He offers in way of commentary even as he pulls an SMG from one of the racks and partially breaks it down.
The weapon clicks and clatters apart as he removes the clip, checks the chamber, flips on the scope, ticks it through its various firing settings, then replaces it as it was and reshelves it. He hms to himself as he continues on, eventually deciding on a Colt M1911A1 and a few spare clips. He wanders over to find a suitable under the arm holster and begins getting strapped.

"Armory.." Right. They were going to go to an armory. They were going to be around guns. Melody never held a gun in her life and avoided that time. Until now. Buck up, kiddo. You're in the big leagues now. The array of weaponry was unlike anything she's ever seen. She's possibly only seen a glock, but nothing of this calibre. So, she takes her time, really. Picking up something and carefully setting it back down as if it were made of glass. She finally finds one that suits her, she didn't know what it was called, but it was small enough to fit her hands. It was pure black, nothing silver or chrome, but she holds it in her hands in a way that her finger doesn't touch the trigger.. for she was shaking. She didn't know how to feel about this. But she would soon learn.

She kept the barrel away from anyone, keeping it pointed to the ground, even a little bit away from her feet. She didn't want to shoot herself, even though she'd heal it. But she was sure that it would hurt. She's been riddled with bullets before.

Lunair looks quietly amused at the armory talk. Maybe she should keep the codename and accept her lot of being mistaken for a guy who wears trucker hats unironically. Nevertheless, she blinks looking around. Interesting. She looks curious, taking it all in. "Yessir," She manages. And burning off one's immune system for starters is no good, further and it would've been uglier than a badger turned loose in a beauty pageant talent contest.

After all, surviving is a talent, too. And normally, Lunair favors alarmingly large and powerful weapons. Offense and speed mean a lot when you're an average teenage girl on a battlefield. But she watches, quietly amused by Alex. Hmmm. Choices, choices. Probably something similar to Alex. A pistol (ooh, hey, Beretta 93R), its holster and so on. She beams as Melody says Armory. She has a sense of humor. And handles her weapon carefully, "We can practice together if you like." Sure, Lunair's a gunslinger by preference, but practice is important. No one wants to lose an ey—

Ehm.

Slade Wilson watches each of them closely, his gaze almost burning 'judgey' holes in their backs as they go. He nods at Phobos, "Take an extra mag pouch, 8 rounds is low for what we may face." so his only 'advice' to Phobos involves the other man taking more bullets, that's a good sign right?

He follows on over then to Rant and watches her move, picking her way through. He plucks up a shoulder rig for her with a reverse mag pouch with two built in knife sheaths for small but wickedly sharp fixed blades. He then begins stuffing Rant's arms through the straps, and clipping it down on her. He tights it up where it should be tight, makes sure it's loose where she can move, then he stuffs a knife in the spot between her shoulder blades, another just under her armpit on the side opposite the gun. He holds up a pair of mags for her to see, "Springfield XDM .40. The .40 is the size of the rounds," he ejects a bullet from the mag and shows her the stamp on the back, "these are jacketed rounds, basic rounds essentially." he puts the round back, puts it into her gun, then holsters her gun for her with a shove that's a bit rough, setteling it into place. He then takes two more mags and slides them into their spots on the pouch against the ribs opposite the weapon, "Don't remove that thing until you're on the range, we'll get you taught up. You'll fire at least two hundred rounds a day until I say you're proficient. Then we'll move you up to other weapons, start with this." he 'pats' her once on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger her and then moves on.

He stops next to Lunair and eyes her choice, offers a shrug, "Acceptable, try to work your way up to a larger calibre. What we will be shooting is likely going to require more stopping power." he turns to look back at Hobgoblin who's cooing at his glider and sighs, "That's enough for now. Find the firing range," he expects them to remember, "work out the kinks, help your teammates if they need it. 2 hours from now we go for another ten click run this time geared up…" he heads for the doors, "And Armory? Get something stabby, stabby things never run out of ammo."

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