After midnight, the holiday weekend in the States still has two full days to go. Another forty-eight hours to unwrap presents, meet friends, relax, and have fun. Yet the New Year's spirit, which should last at least those two days, always seems to evaporate with the first rays of the morning sun.
The realization settles in: the holiday is over. Garlands are packed away, Christmas trees are dismantled, the remnants of last year's feast are finished off—the people of Gotham quietly let everyday reality back into their lives. For me, though, this post-holiday crash is no surprise. I had already decided that as soon as the spotlights dimmed and the hall emptied, my noisy days would end as well.
Enjoying carefree fun in this world is like walking on a knife's edge. Who knows when a meteorite will fall on you, a space beam will strike, an alien from Nibiru will descend, or—most banal of all—a piano will drop from the sky.
In this crazy comic-book universe, anything can happen… and I live here! Someone stop the planet—I want to get off… No, wait, don't stop it; it's even more dangerous in space! Great, I'm trapped with no way out. So the only thing left is to get stronger and beat up anyone who looks at me sideways. Especially villains—only villains, obviously. It's not like I'm going to punch ordinary people just because I don't like them. Still… who was it that cut me off in traffic this morning? That was rude…
These thoughts circled in my head as I once again lay with my back pressed against the stone floor of the cave. Bats clung to the ridges of age-old stalactites above, watching my suffering with what felt like mocking amusement. Having fun, are you, bats? You're lucky your daddy is here, or I'd line you up for an obstacle-course marathon.
"Bruce," I groaned, addressing the cause of my torment, "are you losing control here? My whole body's covered in bruises, and that's with my enhanced durability."
I slowly pushed my exhausted body up, supporting my side near the liver, where the Dark Knight's last merciless blow had landed.
"That's exactly the point," Batman replied calmly. "You've started relying too much on your increased endurance. You act like nothing can break you anymore."
"When did I ever say that?!"
"You thought it."
"Not once! What, you think you're Charles Xavier now?"
"What? What does the professor have to do with this?" Wayne frowned, not catching the reference. "Wait—he's telepathic?"
"Oh. Spoiler. Anyway, back to my self-control. What were you saying about that?"
Bruce stared at me so intently it felt like his gaze could drill a hole as deep as the Mariana Trench. To my surprise, he didn't press further about Professor X's telepathy, apparently deciding to investigate that little revelation on his own. It looked like I had just handed the world's greatest detective a fresh case. Knowing the Dark Knight's personality and his phobia about telepaths, this wouldn't leave his mind anytime soon.
Batman has never liked people who can pry into thoughts and rummage through the subconscious of others. He even trained with Tibetan monks to learn the art of false memories and developed parallel thinking to resist the unethical power of mind reading.
"Your physical resilience has grown so much that you can't even begin to grasp its limits," he continued. "Weakness is born from ignorance. You might not notice when you reach your breaking point until you've already gone too far. So we have to let our fists do the work now and push you to exhaustion, so you can feel the true extent of your renewed body."
"I could literally die from that!"
"Your regenerative factor will help us," Bruce said, allowing himself a rare, satisfied smile. "It will keep you alive even if you're hanging on by your last breath. Don't worry. I know when to stop before I kill someone."
"How reassuring," I muttered, swallowing a nervous lump.
"So, Alex," Nightwing cut in, twirling two metal batons with an almost theatrical flourish, "get ready to be beaten. And remember, we're not doing this because we enjoy it," Grayson added, barely containing his laughter, "we're doing it because we love you and care about you."
"Really? I'm soooo happy to have such caring friends. But you're sure this isn't just an excuse to take out your frustrations on me?"
"Oh, how could you think that of us?" he gasped, clutching his chest in mock heartbreak. The act, however, didn't last long.
Nightwing lunged, swinging one of his batons straight at my solar plexus. In an instant I drew my samurai blade from my inventory, deflected the blow, and stepped back. But the heir of the night was already a step ahead.
Batman grabbed my sword arm, twisted my elbow, disarmed me in a smooth motion, and drove his massive fist into my liver. A follow-through sweep took my legs out from under me, slamming me onto the stone floor again. Unlike last time, the assault didn't stop there: both batons came crashing down toward me as I lay stunned on the ground.
In a split second, I sent the dropped sword back into my spatial pocket and drew it again, just barely managing to intercept the descending strike. My relief was short-lived. My sword arm once more ended up in Batman's iron grip as he somehow locked my elbow again. Fortunately, the difference in our raw strength had grown, and this time I managed to wrench myself free and even launch a brief series of counterattacks.
By evening, training finally ended. I was alive, technically in one piece, but it felt like all that remained of me was my name. On New Year's Day, when normal people relaxed and had fun, I had voluntarily let two Gotham sadists use me as a personal punching bag. Sob, sob. How did my life end up like this? Pull yourself together, Alex—this is no time for crying. There's a plan to follow.
But how? What other way is there to grow stronger—safely? No matter how much I think about it, my mind stays blank. Where should I go from here? Maybe this uncertainty is exactly why I push myself so hard in training: it's the only path I can still see that clearly makes me stronger. I hoped that fighting side by side—and against—two Gotham heroes would help me set aside pointless worries and focus on what matters, so I could finally shape a real plan. But those hopes were doomed from the start.
I let out a long sigh, trying to scatter the feeling of helplessness settled deep in my chest. These are just temporary difficulties. Progress will come, step by step. Maybe I should work on my poison resistance next. It's only at 19% right now. On a universal scale that sounds impressive, but it is nowhere near enough to guarantee safety from toxins even on Earth. There is no doubt about the strength of Poison Ivy's transplanted immune system that now lives in me, but even it could not always handle certain things—like Joker Venom.
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