The Demon's Recruitment Efforts

Summary:
December 20, 2014: Damian meets up with Veruca once more.

Metropolis

The Big Apricot


Characters

NPCs

  • <Name of NPC or "None">
  • <Use same pattern for all npcs>

Mood Music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bAFITGnjrg | The Doors - Five to One


It wasn't hard to put together for a young man as well trained as Damian. The tell tale signs of the surroundings limited the amount of places it could be. It took a bit of time, but he had time. That's the one thing you can say for sure about the al Ghuls. They have lots of time.

Expecting anything, they surround her warehouse. 88 of the best trained assassins that the world can muster close in from all angles. They begin to spill in from the broken windows, making nary a sound. 88 in all, but they don't make a word and don't move to strike Veruca.

Odd.

One in particular wears an interesting helm. Though he is shorter and more slight than many of the warriors, said helm seems to show he is a man of importance. The cowl has long ears to either side, a grate over the mouth area, and a red visor that glows hauntingly in the darkness.

"I've been looking for you," says the low, robotic voice.

In the face of a terrible threat; Veruca remained calm. While she did not know that they were approaching, she sat in the middle of the warehouse, television screen on to watch some old showing of the Twilight Zone, long cord from the back of the flat screen television which sits on a few crates gone to the wall upon the side. The screen flickers..

And it gives a small light show to the shadow men that pours through her windows.

She shifts her weight subtly, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette hung between two long fingers as she inhales and releases. With just that small shift, the metal, worn chair creeks, and in the darkness.. the redness shines like a beacon.

He must be their leader.

"You and everyone else." She murmurs cooly, gaze soon tearing from the scene that plays out to those gathered, brows lowering in a slight frown that does not reach her lips.

"All of this for me?" She asks, brows soon lifting. The smile she usually wears? It was not there.

"You shouldn't have."

The man in the cowl walks towards her, his katana still sheathed. "Oh, but I should have. You know all about having the numbers in you favor. What am I to call you?" he asks as a gloved hand wipes some dust away from the top of the television.

"You gave me the courtesy of warning me before I made a fateful decision. I figure I'll give you the same luxury."

"You have choices, just like you gave me. You can attack me, kill me once again, but I'll only return. And next time I will bring more men."

"Or…" his voice trails.

"I can kill you, and bring you back instead. And we can play this game over and over until you give me what he really wants."

"Or you can save everyone time and simply come with me now."

She doesn't budge. Not when he's so close that she could reach out and throw a rock at him. She just.. doesn't budge. That was, until she was tired of the cigarette, and with a lean forward, she tosses it to the ground and stamps it out with her booted heel.

"Interesting." She states. Then slowly draws herself to a stand. "I don't know who he is. And quite frankly, I'm enjoying being free, and not a slave to man… but…" She moves around the chair now, his words.. she had to think back upon them as she stops in place, her gloved hand resting upon the back of the chair which is gripped ever so tightly.

"Noooo…" She wasn't refusing his offer, yet. "No.. fucking way…" She begins to laugh, her head shaking as she takes in a deep breath. "..Little bird? Are you /alive/ under all that get up? Damian.. is what she called you… or is it /really/ you.."

He reaches up to unhook the sides of the mask and with a slight twist takes off the back of it. It's more a helmet than what he used to wear.

"Damian. Robin. Heretic. I've been called so many things, more than one for every year of my life."

As he pulls the mask away he reveals that it is, in fact, the Damian she last remembers as a dead carcass of the ground.

"Murderer. Terrorist. Assassin. You mock me with that name. You underestimate me." His long hair spills out over his shoulders.

"You will come with me."

"And my god.." She states, watching him as the helmet slowly reveals the long, curly haired man that she once killed. "..you are gorgeous." He simply was. It was rare for her to admit that, and to openly fawn. But it is what it is.

"No matter how dead in the eye you look, little killer. I will not come with you. Not today. Not tomorrow." Her gaze shifts left and right, taking into account of all the men present.

"You are not my equal."

There were no multiples this time, only a brandishing of twin blades from the sheaths attached to the thick of her thighs, which were twirled within her hands, both pointed to the ground to mark the start of the fight.

"You're right. I'm not your equal." Damian shrugs out of the shawl he wears over his shoulders, revealing a new, sleek, form fitting suit.

"I'm better."

Arrogantly, he pokes his katana down into the cement, its end resting lightly upon the floor as it hangs from the end of his outstretched arm. He's mocking her now with his lackadaisical approach as he stands there with the smug smirk upon his face.

Arrogance, she had to appreciate that fact. He did arise from the dead and was standing around her now.. but she wouldn't go after him just yet.

One thing. She did /not/ forget about the 88 who stood behind and around her, they were going to go first. Most of them.

With a smile, she takes a step forward, grip tightening upon the blades as she gives them one last twirl to lick the kink within her wrists. It was a test. She knew it. And it was one that she intended to win.

*FWOMP*

That was the sound of the speed that carries her, crossing the distance that remained in between the two, those few steps marking her first moves into battle, both blades lashing out to cross from shoulder to middle at an X if Damian wasn't careful enough to move.

His smile grows as Veruca attacks Damian. The 88 stand there, solemnly, apparently eager to either let the pair fight, or step in to get the corpse of the young man if she should be successful once again. But in their minds, there is no worry. He is the chosen one, the grandson of the great Ra's al Ghul and heir to the throne of the League.

And judging by his face, Damian doesn't seem worried in the slightest either. The last time they had met, he was distracted by the young woman who had led him that way so many times. There was no such distraction this time. As Veruca comes upon him, he strikes like a viper, timing her run and strike in a way where he catches both blades with his, even as he turns to attempt to sweep her legs out from under her in a roll.

Battle of the century!

Her two blades catch with his, sliding and sparking from the force of her blows, the sweep catching her off guard which causes her to fall right upon the thick of her ass. She follows through, throwing her weight backwards, rolling upon spine and shoulder to knee and foot, the angle of blades change to form sharpness at the extension of her arms. Her hair, in her face, but eyes glow through the curtain of dark hair, along with a slight flash of brilliant white chops underneath. The kid was fast.

And so was she.

That low vantage, she dragged forward upon one knee, blades aiming towards his feet and ankle, hoping for a turn so that he could be hamstrung and rendered useless while in battle. Each attempted cut and blade came with quick and deft swings, with an added sweep of her own to mix.

"Tt," Damian responds arrogantly as he sees her move coming. He pauses just a moment, apparently trying to make her think she'll be successful in slicing away at his legs. Yet at the last possible second, he leaps impossibly high into an arcing flip up and over her, out the reach of her blade.

He lands upon his feet, sauntering away. The entirety of his strategy seems to be saying and showing that he is better than her and that this is hardly worth his time.

He even takes a moment to inspect a wayward bit of twine on his sword's handle.

The flying leap over her causes her to look up, her lips forming into a thin line as she stands, blades soon twirled and placed within their shelves. It seems that she stands where he is now, her hand reaching down to turn down the volume upon the television which was soon leaned upon.

She was waiting, at least waiting for him to finish inspecting his swords handle with a curious, yet vacant look.

"You made your point. In the midst of your death, your balls dropped and your cock grew bigger." In other words, stand still so she can stab you!

"I concede defeat. You are obviously my better." Her voice, it wasn't dripping with sarcasm, and neither is her actions in which she bows. "Either way kid. You're going home alone. I have nothing that /he/ wants. Nothing to give /him/. Whoever that is. You failed kid."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. In fact, he's not really sure. It was I who brought the idea to him. It was I who felt that you should join us."

Damian stands and puts his katana down upon the ground at a point.

"You will come with me to meet the great Ra's al Ghul who will train you as he trained me. He will give you more resources and opportunity to meet your desires than you can possibly imagine. And when I, the heir of the League, take over, you will be my closest ally. For my grandfather, there is Ubu. For me, there will be…"

He chuckles. "We're so intimately familiar, and I don't even know your name."

"And if you call me kid one more time, I'll have your tongue. And you will rule by my side silently."

There are a few times where Veruca was completely baffled. The first being the fact that an old, rich sort took an interest in her, paid for her tutelage, groomed her for the life of violence. The second? Barbosa. The way he obtained the power with just a slick word and a wink of an eye.

"Ra's al Ghul is dead. Everyone in our world knows that. It was seen to by those who shant be named, and if there was word that he even came back.." She glances around the room at the 88, her hand lifting to rest upon her head. And this was his grandfather.

"Veruca Anastasia Steltko." She pauses. "Or bitch. Whore. Gaijin. Fracture. Assassin.. murderer.. betrayer…"

With those last words, she retrieves a grappling gun from her hip, which was soon aimed at Damian with the intent to fire.

"What is the catch.." Cause, right then.. she was actually considering the offer.

"Veruca. I like the sound of that." Damian approaches her, almost daring her to shoot him in the chest as he approaches. He's unafraid and as he gets there, should she refrain from shooting, he taps it away with the end of his sword. "There is no catch," he says quietly. "Anyone who can best me is someone my grandfather takes quite a lot of interest in.

He chuckles as if in addendum. He raises an eyebrow, "As to whether or not he's still alive…well, you were pretty sure I was dead, too, weren't you?"

The gun was held steady. Even though there were no bullets, the razor thin coils beneath the metal casing possibly could have been used to string him up in such a way that would have been more gruesome then the acts committed. But lucky for him.. or possibly for her, the gun was pushed aside and then aimed slightly upward, her fingers loosening their grip until her arm hangs slack against her side.

"There is no catch." She states, almost as a finality, like she was agreeing to the terms. She was, after all, a servant of the best. What's a few more years underneath someones wing.. and added resources too.

"There in lies the temptation. Just to see how you came back to life. The temptation to allow you to take my life, to start that game of cat and mouse you speak of. To live. To die. To repeat."

She takes a step forward now, bold in her movements, her free hand attempting to wrap around his waist and.. without rhyme or reason, or any romantical feelings, she kisses him. Square, and full on the lips. But her gun hand does raise, the trigger firing off with a loud *POW* that would make anyone else jump, the hook extending from the barrel and smashing through the glass above, raining shards down above them. She gives a tug to make sure it catches upon the remaining steel frame, then takes a step back.

"I'll think about it, handsome." And with that, she flips a latch upon the side so that the line could recoil and take her up.

Though there's no emotion behind her act, Damian closes his eyes as their lips meet and makes no attempt to pull away. As she pulls herself upwards and away, he licks his lips thoughfully and only opens his eyes as she rises up and out of the building.

"<Sir>?" says one of the men closest to him, wondering aloud with a word as to whether the 88 should begin chasing her.

"Let her be. And prep the plane. Prepare for an additional passenger."

His dark eyes look upwards toward where she went.

"She will show up. Curiosity will have the better of her."

There was that moment, where she was sure that he'll strike. That he'll drive the katana home through the middle of her gut, ending her life as she did his. And she didn't even afford him the luxury of a clone this time around, she put herself at risk because..

That stupid little obsession of hers. To serve at the seat of destruction, to watch the world burn and to know that there was a quiet hand with your brand of it all.

*brrrr*

Delightful.

Remaining at the top of the warehouse, Veruca watches. She watches as they all filter out and decidedly picks the one of the 88 that lags behind, and follows. To the airport, is where they'll go, keeping up close behind…

*

Just an hour later, as the sun is beginning to rise over the east, an abandoned airfield sits quietly in the distance with an adapted C-130, painted in dark colors, and modified to jut in certain areas to avoid radar contact, sits idling.

"Shall we continue to wait, sir?" the co-pilot asks Damian as the latter has not bothered to call yet to bring up the draw-bridge style ramp.

"Tt," Damian mutters under her breath. "And leave without her?" He doesn't need to finish the sentence. They're not leaving because she is coming.

She could skip the fanfaire, rob the young man of the feeling of smug appreciation of the self by using a mirror or two to portal herself into the plane. But she does not. She has a feeling that this flight would be a long one, and she'd need everything she has to endure.

So in the distance, she approaches, hands tucked within the depths of her pockets, chin held high as she approaches the runway, the walk itself somewhat long, and with each step a breath was taken, eyes pressed to the figure standing within the door.

A little smile grew, but faded as she neared, never swaying from her path or the gaze that she held upon him, jaw clenched as she stops at the bottom of the stairs.

So this was it.

Damian's face looks down the ramp at her with a smile. The wind blows his hair back and away from his shoulders as he looks down upon her from behind a pair of sunglasses. As she approaches he reaches out a hand towards her, but makes no movement down. No, in his mind she is rising above to her new status quo. The League of Assassins is not lowering themselves.

No hestitation. As soon as the hand was offered to her she ascends the steps, her hand wrangling itself from the depths of her jacket pocket to reach out and take his. It was a tight hold, a transferrence of trust in this moment even though their meeting, union, words spoken in between were lies. But this moment?

It was not.

She gives a slight nod of her head then releases the grasp she held on him, then moves inside the plane. And there was no looking back.


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