Frosty morning air nipped at any bits of exposed skin like an overzealous chihuahua with way too much confidence. The smell of smog blowing out from the street from those bustling their way to start yet another workday, no matter how unwilling most of them were. If the excessive honking were to be believed. Add that with the old, somewhat in tact streetlight above slowly losing it's potency as the sun's rays pierced through the nearly invisibly barrier around the city, it was safe to say it wasn't yet another bright day in Gotham.
Drug addicts retreating further into shadowed alleyways, fighting with barely conscious drunkards who mostly likely barely even remembered to wipe the vomit off their fronts or the average streetwalker sauntering out of sight. And maybe even some heavily muscled thugs stretching as they swapped watches with those who wore similar colors than them.
Albert strolled down the street in the 'orderly' chaos, slowly inching his way towards a target he'd spent the last day briefly researching. Taking extra care to step around the unknown puddles and twitching limbs grasping out from nearby alley mouths. By this point, all this had become the norm from just living in this damned city. Maybe it was callous to just on by someone who obliviously needed some sort of aid, mental above all else if they were content with getting either black out drunk to the point where they slept in alleys that were more than likely dirty as all get out or taking in so many mind altering drugs just to chase after that feelgood sensation that they would never be able to reach, but he didn't see anyone else take a moment out of their time to provide aid to these people either.
This wasn't Metropolis, hell it wasn't even Star City. The people so low here wouldn't hesitate to drag that same hand held out to them into the abyss alongside them and revel in the misfortune of the uppity individual for seeing what it was like to live day by day suckling at the needle or bottle.
'I need a cigarette after that..'
It was an itch, a foreign thing. Never in his past life had he even thought of falling down that rabbit hole of smoking, no matter how life had gotten. Maybe things would've ended differently if he had, finding happiness or joy at the end of burning lungs and an embering cigarette butt. Probably drawing out his inevitable end out by another year or two, when even the putrid stick of fire failed to bring anything beyond something neutral.
A mere fancy for the current him and maybe leaning a bit more in the ascetic of being a private eye. After all, weren't all private detectives chain smokers? Puffing down nicotine to fight against depression threatening to consume them entirely. But even with the image in mind, he had to be honest with himself.
'There's no way I can afford getting addicted to anything.'
Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, sex or really anything that would both take up time and money he simply couldn't afford. Not to mention the effects it could have on his SAN if the system was being particularly cruel that. In general, it just wasn't a good idea when there were other things he could be doing that would at-least be beneficial to his continued existence.
'Speaking of my continued existence…'
Even now, it was a sore topic to bring up. A flaw in his oh-so brilliant build. A bad-ass detective that can smell a lie or clue with a few wave of his hand and when things got rough, pull out a handgun to finish it all up with no skin off his back. In the last week, there were two instances where half of his build was just outright taken out from the start. One with his weapon being stored away and the other with his inability to incapacitate his foes without fatally wounding them. Freaking out enough to actually get off his ass might seem like a bit of an overreaction after only it happening twice but frankly, having his safety be put in the hands of others wasn't a good feeling in the slightest.
And most importantly, he didn't wish for it happening a third time. Once is a coincidence, twice is a pattern.
Looking down at the slip of paper grip between gloved fingers, Albert only felt a strange mix of anticipation and trepidation. This was a huge step, a chance for him to meet one of the most influential people in all of Gotham...excluding the Bat Family of-course. Someone known for taking in barely trained individuals to molding them into characters that could fight some of this world's most dangerous assailants.
His eyes flickered back up to the rather small and unimpressive building before him. Like stated before, it wasn't a large building. Being barely larger than his own home and looking a lot more rundown. The bricks were uneven, vulgar graffiti sprawled over chipped and peeling paint, windows boarded over with thick layers of old duck tape and finally a wooden sign nailed in place above the cage covered door.
A legendary name all DC fans should know. From comics, to live action TV shows, animated shows and movies. A place where normal everyday humans walked in and monstrous peak humans prowled out.
Wildcat Gym.
It's letters not painted or printed on, but etched directly into the surface. Scratched over again and again with some sort of sharp instrument like a knife, or claw, to broaden the lines.
Despite it's very sketchy appearance, Albert knew this building was the start to his journey of self defense. Don't get him wrong, Harley was a good...goodish...okay instructor. But at the end of the day, a lot of her instruction boiled down to dodge this small object hurtling his way with no warning to speak of.
But sadly, dodging and running simply wouldn't always work. Especially if someone was truly out to get him.
'Hopefully,' He took in one final deep breathe, inhaling all that smog before taking a step forward through the thinner crowd. 'That'll all change here.'
Pushing the door inward, a blast of heat slammed into him. Knocking away the morning chill and instantly starting to feel sweat begin to rolling down from his temple. The place might not have looked like much, but at least it's furnace was working. Something that immediately bumped this building above his own home.
That, and the music blaring throughout the enclosed area. From the short few seconds, he could tell there wasn't even a shred of lyrics present. It reminded him a bit of lofi music, the kind to get his heart pumping and push him to just the next set. But before he could get even a second longer glance, a deep voice growled his way.
"Close my goddamned door! You're letting out all the heat out!"
It was strangely familiar saying, something most people had heard a lot from their parents growing up. Whether it be in the middle of summer or the dead of winter, keep their door closed or else they would be all too eager to use that phrase. And from how quickly the teen closed the door behind him, it'd been ingrained deep into his bones.
In the middle of a simple, old looking mat stood a mountain of a man. Standing at an astound height of six foot five inches with wide shoulders that made the average man small and a bit insecure. Fists, the size of Albert's head, were held up in a practiced manner, wrapped neatly and tightly with faded white wrappings. The man had short cropped black hair with steaks of gray intermixed, a face etched with hard lines that if one squinted could've saw the absolute lady killer the guy would've been in his youth. Sure his nose looked to have been broken a few places and healed wrong, but it didn't take away from the fact that Harley would've called this man a 'silver fox'.
'Why is every named character always handsome as hell or drop dead gorgeous?' It was a stupid question, the answer obvious to even the most dense. A common rule that all companies used without any fear of reappraisal. Sex sells. Else, even DC or Marvel would've gotten nearly as popular as it did. 'Maybe I should put more effort in my appearance (APP)…'
"What're you gockin about?" The boxer, scowled. Blue eyes hardening into a spine chilling glare. "You come to mock my gym?"
"No-no!" Albert quickly waved his wands before him, hoping to appease the grouches' ire. Not out of fear of being forced into the ring with this high experienced boxer, not with his heroic nature being known. Physical violence would never be on the table with this man...hopefully he's not a mean drunk. "My name is Albert Nelson, are you Mr. Grant?"
"Mr?" The man snorted derisively, dropping his guard to prowl a few steps closer, taking care to stop just a couple feet away. Those eyes pierced right through the teen, analyzing him with the same intensity as a wild animal sizing up it's prey. "Mr. Grant was my father. I'm Ted and that's all you'll ever call me. You got it?"
"Yes si-Ted."
"What do you want then?" Ted asked, taking this time to preform a few upper body stretches. "My autographs ain't worth as much as they use to be."
"Well," The teen started, feeling his gaze being forced down to the ground under the heavy scrutiny of the old boxer. "I want to learn how to fight."
"I can't hear you, I'm getting old so you're gonna need to speak up!" He learned down theatrically, cupping a massive hand over one of his cauliflower ears. "And look at the person you're asking somethin of, kids these days…"
The youth knew he was being toyed with. There was no way Grant had any trouble with his hearing, not now and for sure not in the future. But if he wanted to receive the tutelage of this monster maker, he had to play the game.
"I want to learn how to fight."
This time, he said with his chest. Starring up into those hard blue eyes that weighed his worth. Weighed his worthiness against a simple feather.
"Why?" The man looked over the scrawny boy, lingering on how that trench coat looked a few sizes too large. "If you're being bullied, you don't need my teaching. Just give em a good wallop and they'll fall in line. Even if you lose, you'll still win. They won't be interested in someone who fights back."
"I'm not being bullied." Maybe by Gotham but he didn't see fighting an entire city would help him in the slightest. And plus beside, is what the blonde does considered bullying? "I don't need help with my bullies."
"Have it your way." Ted rubbed at his square jaw. "Then why? There needs to be reason, I'm not teaching someone who don't got a vision or goal in mind. Else they always wind up in the pits fighting for money, I ain't contributing to any of that. Kids like you are suppose to live to my age."
'Say that again when you're over a century.'
"I don't want to fight for money. I just want to be able to protect myself."
'As well as the people I care about.'
The words almost attached themselves to the end, a method to leverage the man's heroic heart to Albert's desires but with a force of will, he snapped his mouth closed with a nearly audible click. That split tongue barely able to slither on back out of existence. He would not manipulate this man.
"Hmmm," Grant looked him over. Eyeing the noodle arms and gangly legs that looked as though they would fly away under a strong breeze. "Show me your hands."
The teen almost unwittingly did as he was bid, before he paused. His own eyes flickering behind the man. On an opposing wall, framed photos nearly covered the entire surface. All of them showcasing the old boxer with a multitude of students. One of which were recognizable, very much so.
Near the far corner, the man stood besides a smiling young man. Looking to be in his early twenties with inky black hair framing a chiseled jaw, with those icy blue eyes of his he would definitely be called handsome. Despite it being a much young picture, it would be simply insulting not to know who that man was.
Bruce Wayne.
Billionaire playboy by day, and world's greatest detective by night. Someone not to be treated lightly. To be that man's mentor, there was no way there weren't at least a few surveillance bugs present. Capturing every interaction audibly and visually around the clock.
And here he was about to so easily throw away weeks of effort.
"Just show me one your knuckles." The man said, probably taking that beat of silence in a different way. Not that Albert would complain, it was a way out for his current predicament. And with a sigh, he pulled up a single glove high enough to expose his knuckles. Grant only took a single glance before he too sighed. But this time in exasperation. "Have you ever been in a fist fight before?"
"No?" Sure when he was young in his past life there had been times he'd gotten in fights but that had been at the point adults would only call it 'children play fighting'. He'd never really had to solve any problems with fists growing up and judging from how unblemished his knuckles were, it was the same here with this body as well.
"Are you asking or telling me?" The man snorted, old man humor once more rearing it's head. "Show me how you make a fist."
He did as bid, after sliding the glove back in place, with a small bit of confusion that he didn't even try to hide. It looked fine to him but not to the boxer.
"Not like that, you'll break your hand on whatever you try to hit." To showcase, Grant held up a large palm. Curling first all four fingers before wrapping his thumb on top. "You see how straight my fingers are? They should be a single surface. How my first two knuckles are protruding out from the rest? They're suppose to act like a sort of shield for my smaller knuckles. Your wrist should be straight as well, not that limp mess you had before. You would've broken not just your knuckles but also your wrist if you tried hitting anything."
'But that's how I've always made a fist.'
Even after following the man's directions, he couldn't see a real different between the two methods. But that's probably why Ted was a pro and he was not. If the man said he would injure himself with the way he was clenching his fist, then so be it.
"Now go over there to that bag and show me what you got."
Off to the side, a heavily taped together punching bag swayed from side to side on an unoiled point. Causing a slight screeching sound to sing through the air. And with confident steps, Albert tentatively walked over the matted floor. His shoes sinking into the material. Standing before the bag, he tried to ignore Appraise telling him how worthless it was. Even if it was pounded on by a famous athlete, it's age and disuse had completely devoured up the value such an action would've caused.
Looking back over at the towering man, he was at a bit of a lost. Was there some sort of stance he needed to get into or punch a certain way? If so, the man's features weren't giving anything away as he just stood there with his arms crossed.
Letting out a solid bloom of air, Albert struck out. Not with the speed or grace of snake nor the ferocity of a tiger or bear but with the flailing of a complete amateur. It was like hitting a bag of bricks. A dull pain split off from his hand at that but despite that, the bag barely even swayed out of the way. And that was if it hadn't just moved from it's natural sway.
"Hit it again."
Ted's voice came out commanding and his piercing gaze could be felt like a physical force. And so, the teen struck out again. Feeling his chances slip away with every blow. Strike after strike dully hit the bag, some of them even slid off the surface due to his gloved hands, while others did hit home but not without sending yet another spike of pain up his arm. It wasn't long before he found himself clutching the bag like he'd gone five rounds with the thing and came out losing. Sweat seeping into his jacket and running down his back.
If before he hadn't truly felt how lacking his physical conditioning was, now he knew exactly how behind he was. It had felt like he'd been punching that accursed bag for minutes but a look up at the clock told him barely forty seconds passed. A pathetic showing if there ever was one.
"…" He could feel this opportunity barely holding on with mere strands of hope and desperation. And didn't even need to look over at the man to know that his decision had probably already been made up by the end of that attempt. At this point, he wasn't just flailing physically but mentally as well. "Just give me one more chance!"
And without waiting to hear a response, Albert focused. If his physical strength wasn't enough then he would try his more mystical abilities. Falling into himself, he zeroed in on that sensation just above his skin. Those grains of providence continued their restless dance, striking out with the ferocity of vipers at the unseen. They clashed and swirled around each other. Not all them were as energetic as they ought to be, a result of yesterday. But it would do, this was too important not to at least try. And for the first since that night, a mental glove formed around his fist. Acting like a bag to trap those grains for his own needs.
[LCK: 39/45]
Just like that, he could hear it. Hear the dice tumbling through the air, leaving the hands of something...other. Feel the world tremble as a die spun across this reality so many called home. Spinning, it waited on baited breathes. 'Eyes' gazed down at him, waiting and watching for his next move. And with a primal grunt, or at least that's what he was going for, his fist struck out with all the remaining strength he could muster.
As he made contact, the die stopped. Clattering over reality itself. He stopped, the world stopped. Everything waiting on baited breath.
Agony. Searing hot pain. So, so much pain rocketed up his arm. Sending hot spikes deep into his brain and before he knew it, he was hunched over on the group gripping his hand. It was a bubbling sensation, like something with fire for claws had just used his arm as race track with his head being the end goal. A scream, scrabbling up his throat like an over energized wild animal, threatened to intermingle with the fog of mixing emotions. Fear, agony, anger and even a small bits of sorrow.
He could hear it, those laughing fiends above. Relishing in his hubris, spitting in the eye of his desire to better himself. The world had never been fair and those who cheated often got away with it in the end. But for those who didn't? They often found themselves at their lowest of lows, on their hands and knees crying out to the unfairness of the world.
All those bottled up memories from this world. The brutal killing, the obsessive corpse, the chilling ghost, the rain pouring down over that sea of red. That smirking person so willing to screw him over. That large shadow encompassing him, deranged eyes looking down at him with a murderous intent he'd never felt from either life. And now this most recent failure...
It was too much. Much too much. And for the first time since coming to this world, hot, unwilling tears escaped from tightly clenched eyelids.
(A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I wanted to introduce so more DC characters and with Albert facing so many situations where either couldn't use or have his guns on, I thought of a few options to remedy that. I do read comments and did a bit of research to find out that Wildcat has a gym in East End Gotham! And with him being street level, he would fit perfectly in this segment of the story. There were a lot of things Albert did wrong in this chapter, walking on the mat with his dirty ass shoes being a primary one. Clenching his fist wrong and not pacing himself, just to name a few. He's not a perfect character and he will fail. Badly. Also this chapter was meant to showcase exactly how dangerous LCK can be, it won't always be the answer or the get out of jail free card it had been up to this point. But anyway, thank you all for reading and I will see you all next week!)