42 CHAPTER 41: "Life Is Pretty Good"

*Barbara Gordon (Batgirl), Gotham City

"GAHHHHH"

The thief screamed as he clutched his broken arm, a side effect of attempting to swing a bat at Batgirl.

"FRED! YOU B&*^H GAHHHH"

His partner tried to support him by pointing his revolver in her direction but that resulted in an arm twist and over-the-shoulder throw through the neighborhood convenience store front window.

Glass shattered falling on the two thieves which only distracted them slightly from their injuries inflicted by Batgirl.

Seeing that they both were incapacitated sufficiently for GCPD, she reached down and picked up the revolver one of the thieves had dropped and placed it on the counter next to the register.

"Please, make sure the GCPD are given that." She asked the clerk politely before walking through the broken glass window.

It was nearly sunrise, about the time for her patrol to end when she spotted the armed robbery. Whether this was their first time attempting or they were merely incompetent she did not know. She had first approached it politely asking them to drop their weapons and leave. When they resorted to violence she took care of them quickly, practically a blur to the view of the clerk. Hopefully, stories would be spread about the quick and violent takedown to help deter others from following in their footsteps.

Barbara sighed as she took her grappling hook and shot it to the nearest building ridge. She began making her way back to the Batcave, feeling a little tired and frustrated.

Despite Batman being a constant presence in Gotham for years the crime rates had remained even, perhaps grown. 

To be fair, the growth in population, and several economic downturns played a significant part in increases of low-level crime. If one were to look at organized crime one would find mass decreases with Batman being directly responsible for putting many of the heads of criminal empires away.

Many argued with the fall of the criminal heads that their minions were running rampant with no control, thus increasing the rampant low-level crime. It relaunched the discussion of the benefits of organized crime vs. disorganized. With organized crime, powerful heads could control their criminals and limit the damage based on the idea that doing business quietly was more profitable. The counter of that however was that these organizations festered corruption and more violent crime overall whereas disorganized crime while higher in number was less violent.

Advocates for both sides of the aisle would argue the merits of which was better but in the end, those discussions mattered little to Barbara. Swinging through the high rises of Gotham, the cold wind flowing through her hair, she was feeling more depressed than anything about the situation.

When Penguin was incarcerated everyone felt that it was the start of a new age for Gotham. The fall of its most powerful Godfather had brought a sweep of arrests and peace for several months on the streets. Then Krios had struck, first with the officer Montoya, then later with the Riddler leaving more casualties. At that same time, crime levels were returning to normal, Carmine Falcone had returned and already was reasserting himself, and now Batman was investigating an international crime syndicate that had deep ties to Gotham.

Not that she was supposed to know anything about the Light, but with Batman withholding more info than usual her curiosity got the better of her.

'I just need some rest, I am feeling down because I am tired,' she thought.

Finally, she reached one of the designated rooftops that they used to hide their airborne vehicles. A single seated jet-propelled glider was tucked securely in what looked like a maintenance shack but was more like a vault to prevent theft. That and Bruce Wayne personally owned all the buildings they used to store vehicles and equipment made it more secure for their needs.

'No school today or work means I can sleep in a bit,' she thought with forced happiness.

It was still bothering her that despite all the efforts the heroes made, the progress of ridding Gotham of its crime problem was at least from the look of numbers failing to stem the tide. Very little had changed and it continued to seemingly grow.

This wasn't the first time she had these thoughts. Hell, she had confided in Alfred her disappointment at their progress.

'It's natural to feel this way Miss Gordon, Master Wayne feels it prominently every day. This war as some refer to it is a constant in human nature. What is perhaps important to remember is the small to large actions you take are saving lives. In my mind saving a single life is worth fighting a thousand battles.'

Remembering his words always made her feel better. And he was right, the feeling of saving one person was worth it, even if the job was frustrating.

Jumping into the cockpit she started the quick pre-flight checks before stopping to check her personal messages. One, in particular, made her smile slightly and feel better about her life.

It had been months since they last seen each other but James and she had gotten into a habit of irregularly messaging each other.

She was disappointed that he was away on a foreign internship trip, but he occasionally would send pictures of some of the places he was visiting such as Greece, Egypt, and Morocco. He said it was part of a history scholarship he was working towards for college. He had also promised to bring her back some souvenirs as well as fulfill the promise of them getting dinner as soon as he was back.

The email message he sent was short, mostly just asking how her week had gone and some remarks about how hot it was in Morocco and his desire to ride a camel.

Leaning back in the cockpit she continued to smile lightly. It was nice to have something in her life that was simple, and completely normal...

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*James 'Krios', Somewhere in Western Africa

Lying flat on his back, his muscles seemed to purr at the satisfaction of being allowed to relax after nearly 3 months of non-stop training from Deathstroke.

His left arm especially seemed to love the relaxation. But that could be in part because the upper bicep was wrapped in a white bandage that showed hints of bleeding through. Grimacing, he gingerly poked it wincing at the pain, but satisfied he could now feel it again. It seemed like his healing factor was catching up and fixing the damage, it should be back to normal by tomorrow. 

He had just finished sending a message to Barbara talking about his desire to ride a camel in Morocco. It was all true, save that he was several hundred miles south of Morocco, and he had no desire to ride a camel.

His room if it could be called was furnished with a simple cot, a broken desk with a laptop, and a light that had extension cords extending to the outside where the generator ran. The walls were all sand-worn timber posts that were not flush allowing light to creep in from the outside. The roof was made of the same material with random portions being covered by tin sheets.

Deathstroke said the house and surrounding buildings used to be a mining camp till the copper they mined dried up in the area. 

With a grunt, he sat up on his bed and began to remove his boots to dump the sand that constantly snuck in during his training. They were the same boots he had bought when he traveled from Egypt to Kahndaq and they were showing well past their use. The laces had already been replaced twice, the soles were worn down, and he was certain they had cracks that water could leak into.

'They kind of look like me right now,' he thought amusedly.

Allowing his feet to breathe and stretch he thought back on how these months had gone. Despite what his reputation would suggest, training with Deathstroke was... well not fun, nothing they were doing was fun but it was interesting. He was rough and demanding but he never raised his voice or did things cruelly. Overall, he was more like an incredibly strict personal trainer. Not at all like the bloodthirsty and merciless mercenary his public image portrayed him.

That did make James rather suspicious of how he was being treated, but considering what he was gaining from it made him push it to the back of his mind. Deathstroke for all intents was perhaps the greatest fighter and mercenary the world had ever seen, even just a few months of training had paid massive dividends.

Never had James been in such great physical shape as he was now. A benefit they had discovered with his healing factor was its ability to increase the speed of his recovery from exercise. Training muscles and the body in simple terms was adding straining and damaging lightly muscle fibers so the body would repair and strengthen them. This took time and great effort to maintain with months if not years of training. The healing factor of his though repaired the strain and damage rapidly allowing him to reach an incredible fitness in a short amount of time.

Deathstroke had been surprised but also pleased. He estimated with his healing ability he would be able to reach the peak of fitness a human could have in another month or two.

And while he could not be sure, he felt his telekinesis had grown by a leap. Perhaps it was the continuous training he had kept to lift heavier objects and multiple objects, perhaps it was the improved physique he had. Either way, the past week had shown a surprise when had lifted their car with greater ease then he would of expected.

Now if only his martial arts and weapons training was developing like his physique and powers. 

Similar to when he trained with his Sensei years ago, he found his ability and talent extended primarily to the defensive rather than the offensive in martial arts. For now, Deathstroke was teaching him Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and some mixed MMA techniques. It took nearly the entire 2 months to reach a proficiency not to be knocked down by his teacher in less than 30 seconds. 

Weapon training had proven to be better with a small proficiency in firearms. He would be no marksmen but he would be able to handle most pistols and rifles at suitable ranges of 15 yards to 500 with the right weapon. It was when they switched to swords, knives, and other melee weapons they hit a roadblock. 

Although he was proficient with firearms, was adept at defensive martial arts, and could now maybe with effort throw cars at his enemies, he was an absolute joke with melee weapons.

The first time he drew a sword to swipe at Deathstroke had resulted in a small tap on the guard of his hilt sending his weapon flying away followed by a slash to his torso leaving a bleeding stomach and bruised ego. Luckily his wound healed completely in a few hours, unfortunately, that seemed to encourage Deathstroke to deal wounds for every failure with a sword or knife James used in their spars.

Today had been a great example of this training technique.

After finishing a morning and afternoon filled with cardio training, namely running through the desert bare-footed for 10 miles. It didn't help that Deathstroke had also decided to make him practice his dodging skills by occasionally firing a rifle round near his feet. It was certainly not his favorite practice the merc had forced on him, but it was better than what happened after his run.

Reaching back to the camp he had folded over heaving breaths from the run and dodging. Taking a moment to gather himself he had pulled his boots on when a sword was tossed to his feet.

Deathstroke had his blade out in a casual one-hand grip which he swung loosely till he nodded with satisfaction.

"You ready for some sword training?" He asked as he bent his knees and got into his usual sparring stance.

Staring at the merc, James felt a great deal of irritation which he fought down. Deathstroke had been right that his anger while useful for spouts of increased telekinetic strength did little for him to think through combat rationally. 

'Kill the bastard and see how he likes it...' his lovely inner voice whispered.

The past few months it had popped in occasionally but the temptation to listen to it had been tempered by his training and keeping busy. Only at night, when he was alone did he have to worry about it. Over time he came to realize it was not the voice that was the problem, it was the feelings it invoked in him, anger being the most prominent.

Picking up the sword he gave a stiff bow in mockery before bringing the blade with both hands up to his side as he bent his knees and took his stance.

Deathstroke initiated contact with an upward swing which James leaned away from before bringing his blade in a downward motion in retaliation. Deathstroke responded with a twist of his torso dodging the swing and delivered an elbow to his face which drove him back a few feet.

Shaking his head he took a step forward and began the jabs and slash combo of form 3 the merc had taught him. Two slashes low and high to force the opponent's blade away and one stab to attack the defenseless core was how it was designed. The technique while simple required precision and speed to prove effective which was more difficult in the heat of battle. For James, it seemed for a moment to work as the merc parried both slashes leaving his center open for the jab.

The jab came but Deathstroke spun allowing the blade to pass him with James. Now with Deathstroke to his side and his own blade overreached, his eyes widened as he saw from his peripheral the merc smile and slash downward across James' left bicep causing blood to spurt out.

The hit must have cut through several muscles because his arm immediately went limp leaving him using one hand holding his blade. Gasping from the pain and blood he turned to weakly raise his blade for defense only for Deathstroke to strike his sword's guard and knock it out of his hand.

For a viewer watching it would seem the fight lasted less than a minute. For James, it felt like an hour of fighting, but maybe that was because of the pain in his arm.

Panting, he felt Deathstroke's blade pressed against his throat.

"Better," the merc commented, "But against any professional, you will still lose."

Gripping his arm to stem the blood, James bowed his head, "I thought I had you with the jab."

The blade against his throat was removed with Deathstroke walked over to their rundown shack of a house. Walking into the entrance, he came back a second later with the first aid kit and motioned for James to come over.

Taking out some wound dressings he wiped the bloody arm with some alcohol and began wrapping it.

"The feint you did at the beginning was good, the form 3 was executed well but not perfectly, and you put too much power into the jab leaving you open for a swift retaliation."

The merc finished dressing James' wound and began putting the tools away.

"Blades are not for everyone, even the boy wonder is hopeless with them. However, that is more because he is afraid to hurt someone severely. His ability with bo staffs and batons is expert level, so if he ever gets over his fear of blades be wary."

Looking up at the sun, Deathstroke checked his watch and nodded, "That will be it for today, it's late and with that arm injured there is no point in more training. I will see you at dinner."

James had limped to his room from there and spent an hour relaxing and messaging people like Crystal, Jane, and Barbara.

Laying on his bed considering how rough life had been this year and missing his family he couldn't help but smile. Despite or in spite of it he was happy, he felt at peace, and nothing could ruin it for him...

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*Jane Coulson, Upper Eastside Gotham Apartment

Jane was enjoying some leftovers from a party she had attended with some work friends. One of their group was moving out of Gotham to live out west in California so they had gotten together after work to eat some food and cake. 

In a few months, they would probably host another party for her as she had already announced to her boss and colleagues her intentions to move out of Gotham and live closer to her kids. She had decided to stop by in Metropolis to visit her son first before moving out to the small farming community where her daughter lived as a more permanent residence.

She even had the mortgage documents on her kitchen table for the house she was considering to buy.

Things had been good for her despite the horrors and loss from the Eastside burning and losing some of her closest friends. But the past few months had shown great promise with James getting situated, Crystal's treatments coming along, and even Penguin giving his blessing for her to leave his employ permanently.

It did go unsaid that if he tried to force her, James would probably throw the Penguin Lounge into the sea.

Either way, life felt good and she knew it would keep.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"Who could that be," she muttered as she got up to answer the door.

Checking the peephole she frowned at who she saw before opening the door.

Confused she said, "Hello, can I help you?"

Standing in front of her was a Hispanic woman, and a hefty but tall caucasian man with a severe case of five o'clock shadow. Both wore rumpled suits with the woman forgoing a tie, while the man had one loosely around his neck.

The woman, held up what appeared to be a badge and said, "Jane Coulson?"

Jane nodded, and the woman smiled though it did not reach her eyes.

"My name is Detective Montoya and this is Detective Bullock, we are here to ask you a few questions..."