A None Too Subtle Smack

March 06, 2016:

Deathstroke imparts some wise words to Rant. And it stings.

The Resolve

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NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

In the last ten days Slade has brought new untold levels of misery to Rant's existence. He has redefined words for her who's meanings she /though/ she knew, words like pain, suffering, limitation, despair, and in their one time (clearly very weak) definitions, he's left clarity as to their reality. Currently he's squatting down next to her, his cold eye glaring, "I don't remember telling you to stop." he says in the same flat harsh tone of disappointment and disapproval he's said since she started this regimen. "Twenty-seven more to go soldier, and believe me when I tell you you don't want to know what happens if you call a single one short." that same emotionless voice promises all manner of newly redefined pain and suffering should she not complete the task set before her.

Everything.

Hurts.

Nanite healing or no, Rant gets to enjoy the feeling of muscle strain in new dimensions, blisters in place she didn't know she had places, and of course that doens't even go into the effects of a suddenly very clean and very toxin free lifestyle. Which has it's own… down sides.


Misery. Melody thought she had knew misery for being laid up in the hospital bed close to several years. She thought she knew misery when she -thought- she lost a loved one and had to live those months without him. She -thought- she knew misery when she didn't have her phone or laptop.

But this was an all new low.

At least she could be grateful for one thing. When she was able, showers and deoderant were a godsend because the hell that she was going through today made her want to either haul off and get a deathwish and punch Slade in the face or just roll over and die.

Her chest was on fire. It hurt to breathe.
Somehow, it feels like someone kicked her in the crotch.
Her back hurts. Like right in the mi-.. no. Lower.. wait.. higher.
What in the world is up with her fingers?!

She was struggling, huffing in hissed breaths, her lungs ready to fly out of her mouth at any moment, then bend of her knee felt as if it were crunching and her arm slipped and made her elbow snap, though lately, the quickness of her nanites were frightening for that bone snaps right into place as she continues to go.

Have you ever seen anyone cry without crying? That was Rant now. Somewhere along there, her tear ducts dried up and now there was endless, quiet whimpering. But she pushes on.


Deathstroke finished his burpees minutes ago, and since then he's been squatting next to her, calling the numbers out as she goes and reminding her of exactly how weak and soft she is if this work is such a problem for her. "Starting to feel like I should have just left you with some P90X videos and some of those little old lady weights, the pink ones? They come in half and quarter pound increments, you know the ones, have little straps on them for your hand so you won't drop them?"


So Rant was almost done! Granted she was smaller than him, she should have been done minutes ago but this was a whole new animal that she's done.. for ten goddamned days straight. That arm snapping? That was probably the last time it was going to happen during a burpee. Her kneecap shifted once, she caught a hairline fracture in her ankle. One of her fingers caught wrong and snapped sideways..

"Fuck you." She snaps out, she truly wasn't thinking.

Actually, a punch in the face and a kick to the gut was a welcome because that would mean her arms and legs.. and chest.. and everything else would have a moment to relax. "Fuck you /so/ hard right now.." Her voice was a shaky mess. She wanted to feel.. REAL TEARS. But she needed water first, she was severely dehydrated.


Deathstroke shakes his head at her words, "You're in no condition for extra curricular activities, and lets be honest, even on your best day you'd have to bring friends to manage a proper fucking of me." this is all said conversationally, as if they were discussing morning coffee or perhaps their favorite sandwiches. "A US Marine will suffer through thirteen weeks of boot, they have the most intense of the in-doctrinal period of training. Following that you get your specialization work, maybe another six weeks depending, or combat if you're lucky enough to be shipped out. I've been training you for a few months now, you've seen some small semblance of combat, if I had to make a guess you're slightly less useful then your average United States Marine." he leans in close, "I'm Army. I don't suffer that Marine Corp. weaksauce bullshit, not in my outfit."

His eye narrows slightly, "After the last ten days, a mere /taste/ of what your life needs to become from this moment on, you've almost quit a dozen times. I can see ti in you," he inhales deeply, "shit soldier, I can /smell/ the quit in you." he pushes himself to his feet, "And either I'm going to wring every last drop of that out of you until all that's left is will, or…" he shrugs, "you'll go mad and I'll have to put you down. One way or the other, we're going to find what's at your center little girl. Wanna know the secret?" he asks casually as she hops back up to her feet and he nonchalantly drops a weighted vest down around her shoulders, about 40 lbs of weight, which is heavy, heavier still in her current condition, "ten to go," he informers her as the vest settles on her shoulders, set there just as she hopped up and thrust her arms in the air, as if he'd been waiting for that moment. Which of course he was. "The secret," he continues as if nothing had happened, "is that I already know what's at your center princess. It's cold hard steel. Only question is," as she drops down to her next push up position ten inches of serrated combat knife thunks into the floor three inches from her nose and quivers there, "is it gonna be yours, or mine? I'm kinda excited to find out honestly."


"No condition my ass.." She huffs. "..wait til I get some sleep!"

Yeah, she was getting angry. There was no shutting off of emotions nor hiding it then. She went through a gamut of emotions within the hour. First it was helplessness. Then it was grief. Then there was sorrow, the need to throw in the towel to .. well be put down. Then there was delirium, and a little shock and surprise because.. look at how long she has been doing this! Look at how much she sweat! Even on a hot summers day in Gotham and New York she has NEVER sweat like this! She never thought it was possible! Awesome really, totally awesome. She was sweating like one of the dudes!

Then, there was more sorrow, which was experienced five minutes prior. The dry cries that were turned into whimpers and now? Now she was pissed. Determined.

It comes in waves, really!

But she couldn't really shit talk once the forty pound vest was thunked upon her. Her knees nearly giving out at that moment but she rights herself into a proper fall and stance, legs outstretched, her little arms bulging their cute little muscles (and by her stature, she's ripped by now.. and once actually ripped right then..), the skin of that arm stinging with pain and bruising near black which disappears at an instant as she stops and holds still as soon as the knife was thrown.

It was a precarious position. She was halfway up, arms outstretched and ready to draw her knees forward, but instead, her head tilts to the side as her lips peel back to bite upon the serrated blade with a *ting*!

And down and up she goes, yanking the blade from the ground by her teeth alone, that steel grip her jaw provides was probably a future threat to anyone who tried to fuck with her. Thank you Deathstroke! (Not to mention, it also kept her quiet.) The blade was soon clattered to the ground as she continues.. slower than before, more effort. But goddamn does she do it. Wordlessly. Okay.. not.

"Gonnachangemynametofuckingprincesswhenthisisover.."


Deathstroke shakes his head, "Fucking Princess is already taken, some two bit mercenary with pheremone powers out of Keiv, ex-KGB lab rat turned femme fatal. She used to be something to look at too, back in the 80's, now she's just a 60 year old woman with enough plastic surgery to pass for a rough 40 and a super power that is one step away from making her a reoccuring star in bad internet porn with a 'mature' label on it." he grins down at her, "A failure, like everyone else not willing to do the work." his derision for her is thick in his voice, "Besides, Fucking Princess just does not work as a brand, and you will need one if you survive." he waits until she's finished her last one and he reaches out with the toe of his boot and lightly shoves her on her hip, upsetting her balance without any real effort, "There is a chance, a small, insignificant, minuscule, nigh unto impossibly minute chance that you might make it."


Alright. Melody didn't expect that. It was so unexpected that she actually shut the hell up for once to listen. Maybe this was the stage of delirium, but hearing him rant about 'Fucking Princess' was actually getting her goat to the point that she was quietly laughing. It was horrible. Trying to do the burpees while laughing, but she didn't upset the balance that she created and the form that she's perfected for over.. what time was it? Has hours passed?

That last one was done with a quiet grunt, as soon as she was down upon the ground again she was set to a slight roll upon her side. But she was smart enough to not rest now. Always keep moving or you'll eventually stop. That's when the bad happened.

She reaches out to grip the hilt of the blade upon the floor, drawing it to her side as she pushes herself to her feet with effort. For a moment, it looked as though her back wouldn't straighten. But it did. And her arm, shaky as it was and forced to stop, held out the blade towards him handle first, her own small grasp covering the bottom half. Not the blade.


Deathstroke waves the knife away, "I have more." boy does he, "You're done." he says suddenly, turning to pluck a water bottle up off the floor and chuck at her underhand, it comes fast and hard, "Lucky you." he sounds flat, "We have a lead on the target, I'm going to run some recon, see if it's legit and I might need the team in fighting condition and right now I wouldn't put money on you in a cage match with an irate toddler. Hydrate, shower, keep loose. Do the yoga, it'll keep you from tightening up to much, the pain is how you know it's working. I suggest you hit the ice bath today, or a really really cold shower, nothing hot. Heat will aid inflammation, keep the ice bath short, no more then five minutes or you can damage the joints."


Rant shrugs her shoulders, or tries to at any rate, but the pain was felt, right at the pressure point that would take an arm out of commission. The blade was brought up and back, fitted into the back of the vest slot with little bit of effort, though twisted and shoved out of the way as she's used to from someone else.

Her hand drops down to catch the water bottle from the air, the force at which it's thrown stinging her palms, her other hand grasping it as she shakes it out, top of the bottle flicked off with a press of her thumb and politely sipped. As if it were a spot of tea.

Her face scrunches slightly as she gives a shake of her head. "You should let me come with you." Yeah, deathwish much? "I just got to keep moving. If I stop I'm going to feel like I'm dead. And I can't stop now." Idiot. She's an idiot.

"And.. and you don't know what I can do now. I mean.. you do know but you really don't give me the chance to prove it. I mean you're so goddamned mean about shit and I really, really would like it if you can say.. 'swell job!' But, I know you're not going to say it because you're going to say.. 'Rant, the day I say 'swell job' is the day that you're pulling my still beating heart out of my chest after you bested me in combat which is never going to happen and you still suck like crazy had a pair of lips on a dick'. So of course not. Why did I ever ask." Swig.. swig.. swallow.

"Holy cow. My filters gone." Ayep.


Deathstroke eyes her, "I don't ask you along because I can't trust you." he says simply, the words coming out only slightly less forceful then a hammer blow. "You don't know much about me, not really, but you know enough. Discipline is the method through which all things are attainable, personal discipline, mastery of ones self over all things because in the end the only enemy you'll never be able to out run is in here," he taps a finger to the side of his head, "and it's the only battle you have that won't end until you do. I can teach you discipline, I can break you, remold you, form you into a soldier, a warrior, a human shaped machine of purpose, skill, and control. But only if you want it." he sniffs the air again and his face scrunches up slightly in disgust, "I can still smell the faint wiffs of cocaine toxicity in your sweat." he shakes his head, "What you do on your time is your business, but it says something about your character, about who you are," he shoots a glance at her forehead, "and which of you is winning the fight. I'll use you when I can, when your skills are needed, because you're useful and because I think one day, with a lot of effort and work and patience on my part, you might be made into something worthwhile. But right now?" his lips twist in something almost like a sneer, "No. You're either a junkie or on your way to being one and I can't think of anything I trust less."


Even if those words were slightly less forceful? It still hurt like a hammer blow. There was a visible reaching that nearly makes her hunch, her right eye twitching which has her turning slightly to hide that away. And still she drank. There it was though, another variation of the speech that she's heard and blew off time and time again, but the near vacant look upon her face shows that she gets it. The little rattle in her chest stopped as she lubricated her body with liquid and yet, it was still something sharp in there that hurt.

Hearts do have muscles too.

Just. Ow. The pain behind her eyes has it closing for a moment, her fingers reaching to pinch at the bridge of her nose, biting back that need to make a noise or a sound as her hand drops to her side again. She doesn't feel pain anymore, physical pain. The completely audible heartbreak and shame took over the aching in her joints and the repairing of muscles that were torn to rebuild them anew. Totally took over. And it was visible when she clenches her teeth together to make her jaw tense, yet somehow.. some kind of way. She keeps it together. For now.

"Okay then." Her voice was crisp. Jigg was up. "I.. guess I'll go bathe now."


Deathstroke nods once at that and heads for the door, "You wanna be something more, prove it." he says as he pauses before exiting, "Just because I'm not here doesn't mean the training's over," he shoots her a look, "just means no one's baby sitting you anymore. You get to be growed all all on your wittle own. Because the real harsh truth about life is that it's all on you. Everything ever is on you, and everything is your fault. Nothing ever happens to you that you did not allow it to, nothing is ever done to you that you could not have chosen a different path." he heads out, then his head reappears as if he'd had an after thought, "Oh, and if you show up high to a mission and someone gets hurt I'll dismember you and scatter the parts across four oceans just to make sure your robots can't stitch you back together. Just so we're clear. Enjoy the bath." and then he nods once and heads back down the hall.

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