3 A Wrinkle In Time-part 2

Words 4,624

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The world's swimming around you, your vision's a mix of floaters and flashing colors as you stumble up, clutching at your ears. Your legs shake as you take a step.

You need just a second to get your bearings, to right yourself, and not get killed by this psychopath.

Then, as if in response an anchor sinks deep into your gut, and the world turns cold. Time has stopped.

You spot a walkway up the catwalk during your frantic searching. Your rush towards it without a second thought.

The weight fades away just you as you reach the top, and your vision is slowly returning to normal but you still catch floaters out of the corner of your eye.

Wilson looks down at the spot where you used to be before pivoting to the catwalk's entrance almost instinctively.

His face is covered by a black and orange face mask and his body covered in the same colored-armor. You realize the stick on his back is actually a blade, a longsword.

"Teleportation," he muses to himself. "mildly interesting."

Oh, he wants to see interesting? You'll give him interesting.

"Terrible form," he tuts while dodging your fists, slowly backing up the while.

He's almost like water, flowing around your strikes with almost uncanny ease, somehow keeping his eyes locked with yours.

Then finally, you overreach, throwing all your momentum behind the punch only for Wilson to slide underneath it. A fist-sized indention forms where your hand hits the wall with spider-web cracks spreading far up to the ceiling.

"Super strength, how uninspiring," he drawls before lunging forward.

Unlike yours, his do not miss. His gauntleted fists dig deep into your skin and you fall back with every strike, desperately attempting to fight back.

He swats away your attacks like they were just a mere nuisance. Pain blossoms across your torso from where he makes contact.

Then he lashes out with his armored boot and you slam into the catwalk's railing. The thin metal groans and gives way and you plummet back to earth.

The ground shakes and rumbles as you crack against it. You slowly open your eyes, more than a little surprised that you're not a Cadmus' sized pancake.

"Superhuman durability as well," he remarks from above. "aren't you just a little bag of tricks?"

You rise out of the hole that formed from your fall. "Why don't you come down here and I can show what other tricks I've got?"

Maybe you shouldn't be egging on the man who's shown how easily he could kick your ass.

Then again, you aren't exactly known for your stellar decisions.

"Well, we've tested hand to hand, let's see how you perform with a blade," Wilson says as he reaches the bottom of the walkway.

A saber falls at your feet. "I've heard you're something of a prodigy with that. I thought it'd be fair to at least give you a fighting chance." He draws a longsword from his back, the metal glints in the light.

You pick up the saber. The weight is just like the one you used if just a tad heavier for the hilt. The blade itself is razor-sharp. You smile grimly, two can play at that game.

Wilson is faster than any other person you had ever fought before, his reflexes too fast, his movements too quick, its almost super-human.

Superhuman. Gods, you're an idiot.

Well, if he wants to have a superpower dick measuring contest, you're more than happy to oblige.

A weight settles in your stomach as you concentrate on the current that flows around you. You didn't want to slow it down this time. You want to speed it up, around you.

They bend to your will in answer, rushing around like a riptide.

Wilson's single visible eye widens fractionally as you lunge forward.

The longsword is a heavy weapon in comparison to the saber, but Wilson wields it with the same ease as if it was a kitchen knife.

That still didn't stop you from blasting through his defenses.

The saber scratches against the armor and then again as you deliver a series of strikes to his unguarded torso. Then his backhand catches you across the jaw and you fall back out of range, nursing where it hit.

Wilson examines his armor for a minute. "Super speed, maybe, perhaps something else," he says, "a bit sloppy form, but you've clearly been trained, enough to get five hits on me. That's more than my daughter could manage at your age."

A girl huffs from the shadows above you. Wilson chuckles in response.

"You have talent, Mr. Orthys, more than a little rough around the edges and quite atrocious in close combat, but you have talent."

You really don't how to accept the compliment from a man who might as well have been trying to kill you.

"And that," he continues, "is something I can work with. Congratulations, welcome to Wilson and Family Contracting."

"Good luck," the unknown girl says from above, "you're gonna need it."

You have a sinking feeling you will.

During your time under Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke, you quickly learn two things.

One, he's a slave driver whose methods would drive a southern plantation owner green with envy. Your daily schedule began before the crack of dawn and ended a few hours before the sun rose again.

Wilson was...thorough in your education. You didn't just learn how to swing a sword or fight hand-to-hand, many of your lessons revolved around language, politics, geography, and basically every other -ology you could think of.

The finest crash course a mercenary could ask for.

Two, his daughter wants to kill you.

Ravager's katana slices through the air with a hiss, passing over the space where your head had been just a moment before.

Blue eyes glare balefully from behind her mask as she lunges forward again.

You catch the blade on the edge of your sword, compensating the shortness of the blade with your strength.

Slade watches silently from the catwalk above you, his one eye intently analyzing both of your every move.

This could have already been over if you could use your powers. But no, according to the all-knowing Deathstroke, they were a crutch that would get you killed in the field.

You think he's just jealous.

Ravager dodges your strike with almost cat-like grace, sliding underneath the blow and diving forward underneath your guard. She staggers back when you give her a solid shoulder-check and her mask splits with a loud crack.

Her pink lips curl into a sneer. You barely have time to react as she attacks again, unleashing a flurry of blows that send you staggering back, even with your strength you're unable to react accordingly.

It's almost like she knows what you're going to do before you do it.

"No powers, Ravager," Slade chastises from above you.

If she wants to play that game, well, you can as well.

As you retreat backward, you use your back foot to stamp down on the floor hard. Chunks of stone fly up and you swat them towards the oncoming Ravager.

She's already of out its way, dodging them before they were even thrown.

You really need to learn how to do that.

Before you can react, your blade is clattering to the ground and her Katana is pressing against the hollow of your throat.

Neither of you move. You stare into Ravager's eyes and how her pupil is the size of a pin. The only things stopping her from plunging the blade down is that it wouldn't do much, and Slade.

Deathstroke claps echo loudly through the empty warehouse. "A good showing, Ravager." The katana immediately drops from your neck as she bows deeply to the man.

"If you had not cheated that is," you don't attempt to hide your smirk as Ravager stiffens.

"As for you, Nemean," he drawls your field name with no little amount of displeasure. "to be quite frank, I've seen children half your age put more of a fight."

Why do you get the strange feeling he's talking about himself?

"Had you simply lost, I would be content to let you continue your training, but you also cheated. Don't think I didn't notice broken tile and stone flying every which way. As punishment, you'll both be in the Pits for, hmm, let's say three hours? Yes, that'll do."

Your skin curdles at his words. Three hours, in the Pits? You can't help but gulp loudly. Ravager seems to be reacting just as badly as you are.

Nevertheless, you both know better than to argue with Slade.

"This is your fault," you tell her as you both walk deeper into the cavern. "little miss perfect couldn't handle taking a loss."

"Me?" she hisses back, "If you could wield a sword better than your dick maybe you would have been a challenge."

"Stalker much?"

She snarls in response. "What my- what Slade sees in you besides a brute who's good for anything besides throwing cinder blocks I'll never know. You have no skill in anything."

You do not miss the hitch in her words.

What had she meant to say? you wonder.

You're swarmed by a horde of cats the minute you open the door to Selina's, well it's yours now as well, apartment.

Diamond tugs on your pant leg while Ruby's biting at your heels like she always does. Wait no, that's Emerald, does that mean the one in your arms is Amethyst? Then where's Garnet?

You groan in abject misery. Too many names, too many cats, too much hair. Too bright. Too sore. You limp heavily into the kitchen mindful of the litany bruises littering your form.

"Where's all the Aleve?" you mutter as you dig through the cabinets, finding nothing besides some Tylenol and Pepto. You might need the second one, seeing as how much your stomach is pulsing in pain.

"Rough night?" You turn to see Selina leaning against the door to her bedroom.

You would have been focused on her dress, or lack thereof if there wasn't the massive sweltering bruise on her torso.

"Looks like I wasn't the only one." Selina smiles wanly before collapsing in her seat at the table.

"That's good, I'm not paying Slade to baby you, after all."

"And why exactly are you paying him, again?" you ask.

Selina's eyes soften. "Because I know what you want to do. You want to make Cobblepot pay for what he did. Am I right or am I right?"

"Don't see why you have to pay me to get my ass kicked by a merc," you scowl.

"That merc is one of, if not the best in his profession in the world. If you're going after Penguin I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you went in untrained. And if you happen to pick up some skills that could prove useful later on, is that so bad?"

You give her a long look. "And I'm sure your intentions are purely altruistic,"

Selina tuts as she pours herself a glass of wine, one of the ones she had you age. Apparently, it's becoming a bit of a hit with her socialite friends.

The drink stains her bruised lips a dark red. "What else would they be?" She smiles.

You sincerely wish she's telling the truth.

"Mind telling me why it looks you were on the wrong side of an eighteen-wheeler?" You ask, changing the subject.

"Oh this, I just went for a little night stroll and saw a little shiny I just had to have. The owners were not exactly quick to agree." She says casually but every word seems to make her flinch in pain.

"Did you at least get it?" She pulls out a fist-sized emerald from her underneath her dress.

She sighs when you give her a blank look.

"You have your plants, I have my jewels. Now go to your room, I have things to do." She waves her hand and takes a sip from her glass.

You reluctantly comply, climbing up the steps to your room. "Remember, only two glasses! I don't want to find you passed out on the couch again." You call out once you reach the door.

You can hear her muffled angry reply even through the heavy wood.

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"Remind me again why I'm dressed up like a butler?" you pick at the collar of your shirt, the fine cotton somehow more irritating to your skin than poison ivy or kitty litter.

"Don't be so dramatic," Silena chastises across from you, leaning back in the limo seat. "we got the suit tailor-made for you, it fits you perfectly fine."

Easy for her to say when her dress is a single piece of silk cut into thin ribbons. Not that you mind of course.

"I still don't see why I'm going with you," you scowl petulantly. The smooth silk of your suit seems almost hot to the touch, maybe it's just your hands.

I hate suits, you decide with the utmost conviction.

"I don't think you understand how popular you are, Cadmus. What with your paper on the spear of empathy-"

"Arrow of Entropy," you tersely correct. How hard is it to remember? It's just three words, after all.

Selina waves her gloved hand carelessly, the wine in her hand sloshing daintily in the glass.

"You know what I mean," she pouts. "Anyway, with that paper getting published in Physics Today you're the talk of the town, the little Gotham orphan who's shocked the world."

It honestly wasn't even that impressive. The paper was a mess of typos and misspelling. Ms. Egrane spent more time making it readable than you did writing it.

Then again, Ms. Egrane was a grammar nazi in the truest sense of the word.

"Also, I do want to rub it in Luthor and Wayne's faces what they missed out on." She laughs with malicious glee, her pearly whites framed by painted lips.

You raise an eyebrow. "So I'm just a tool to embarrass your friends?"

"I can't deny you're very good at that." The limo comes to a slow stop. "Now come on, we've got a party to crash."

Would you believe it a coincidence that the first who you meet upon entering the Gala was Bruce Wayne? The same Bruce Wayne's whose scholarship you had rejected?

No, you didn't think so.

But for the moment his attention was not on you, but instead, on your sister-mother-guardian? You still don't have a word to define your relationship.

"It's been a long time Selina, looks like you haven't aged a day," he says kissing her cheeks like they were old friends. You aren't jealous of him at all, it's just protective instincts, obviously.

"I do my best to keep in shape. Time's been good to you," she almost seems to purr. Nevermind, definitely jealously. "your late-night activities are clearly paying off."

"Alfred refuses to let me grow fat." he sighs in faux-dismay. "He's gotten into his head that's he both my butler and my personal trainer."

Selina laughs in response. "That sounds just like the Alfred I know, do give him my thanks."

Just how well do these two know each other?

Mr. Wayne politely refuses an offered glass of champagne from a passing waitress. Selina gladly takes one for herself and for you.

That's when Wayne's attention passes to you.

"He's just a kid, Selina," he says worriedly but there's just a bit of steel underneath it. "maybe it's not a good idea to get him drunk at his age."

Selina gasps in affront. "Bruce, how could you accuse me of that! I have been nothing but a responsible and caring guardian to him." She pinches your cheek for good effect.

You narrow your eyes and lightly push her hand away, mindful of all the eyes passing over the three of you.

"Why I even take an interest in his passions, he has his own little garden and I let him talk my ear off about his Sword of Emotion-"

"Arrow of Entropy," you and Bruce both correct her simultaneously.

"You know what I mean."

"Speaking of that, Cadmus, I do want to extend my congratulations to you on your paper, it was quite informative and an interesting read. I hope Selina has given you every opportunity to pursue the subject."

He may be talking to you but his eyes are focused on Selina almost challengingly.

"Err-yes of course, I've had a lot of opportunities to learn about some other areas of science that I hadn't been introduced to."

"Oh," he says with clear disbelief. "please tell me about it, I didn't realize Kylecorp had such a robust science division."

You take a sip of your champagne. "Oh yes, the lovely ladies who run the department, Garnet, Emerald, and Sapphire are some of the finest in their fields. I've learned more from them than I think I could have anywhere else."

It isn't a lie. Garnet could scratch wood like she was a tiger, Emerald is the fastest of the bunch, and none could out-sleep Sapphire. You did have to learn a lot on how to deal with them or Selina would have let them turn the apartment into a giant litterbox.

Selina snorts while Mr. Wayne's nose curls. You can't tell which one you're more proud of. Then Selina wraps an arm around your shoulders and you know the answer as right as rain.

"Well then Cadmus, I'm glad you're getting everything out of your time with Ms. Kyle," he says stiffly.

"We should do this more often, Bruce, enjoy the party," she says before guiding you both farther into the gala.

By night's end, everyone who didn't know about Selina Kyle's new ward was quite aware of you now.

Your time with Selina and Deathstroke passes quickly, your interaction with Ravager, slowly becoming mutual animosity rather than one step from becoming a blood feud.

And then before you knew it, you were going to the Olympics in Munich, at the young age of thirteen, you were the youngest fencer to ever be a part of the American Team.

If you have your way, you would be the youngest to win gold. And the opponent in front of you is just a stepping stone to that goal.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Selina's in the stands, and you can feel her eyes on you, no, not at all.

"En garde," The rapier hangs loosely in your hand, your thumb pressing against the inner grip holding it steady.

Your opponent falls into his crouch. You can tell that exhaustion is already beginning to take its toll, he can't seem to sit still, limbs jittering nervously like they possess a mind of their own.

You would be nervous too if you were down 14-2 and on your last legs going into match point. But that would never happen to you.

"Pret."

You steady your nerves, sinking into your stance. The mesh frame of your mask almost seeming to fog for a moment before your view clears. Your muscles intense and you press your weight evenly to balance on your core.

"Allez." You lunge forward.

Your opponent lunges backward to dodge your hit. You follow, not giving him a moment to regain his footing, pushing him farther and farther back until he's right on the boundary.

Then like a cornered animal, he lunges out with his own attack.

You riposte your opponent's desperate strike pushing the blade aside before pressing the dull tip of your own into the center of his chest.

The screen in front of you beams a brilliant red and lets out a loud whining beep to signal your hit.

The audience explodes in cheers and you throw off your helmet exulting in the cool breeze flowing across your face, and the crowd, of course.

You graciously accept the offered medal from the judge. Igor Kharov, your opponent sullenly poses beside you for the picture.

You would also be a bit ticked too if you lost to a kid five years younger. Not that it's your problem.

"That was some damn fine fencing, son." Coach Anderson claps you on the back as you walk down the podium's steps. "Kharov is supposed to be in the top 10 in the U20's and you just made him look like today was the first time he picked up a saber." His bald head shines under the lights as he congratulates you.

Well, you couldn't take credit for all of it, no, actually you could. Anderson is due some, of course, he's the one who recruited you onto the Olympic Team after all.

"That's the end of matches tonight. As a reward, take the rest of the day for yourselves, go watch some matches, explore the village, it's not every day you get to be in the Olympics. Enjoy yourselves."

You wave off your teammate's half-hearted attempts to join them. The youngest of them is a sophomore in college, the eldest almost forty, not much in common with a thirteen-year-old, no matter how old you look.

Selina hugs you tightly once you exit the arena.

"That was amazing!" she exclaims. "How you twirled that saber and how you lunged!" she thrusts her arm forward and makes an exaggerated step for added effect.

You do your best not to stare for too long. "Well, I'll be heading back to the hotel, if you ever get tired of staying in the village come over, I miss having my roommate."

"Emerald not good company?" Selina scowls in response.

"She spends more time in the litter box than in the bed. Lazy cat." There's no bite to her tone.

"You head back, I kind of want to go watch the archery matches. It's supposed to be pretty competitive this year."

"Suit yourself, you know where to find me." she walks off into the crowds of Munich leaving you alone.

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You learn one thing from watching the Olympics Archery Competition.

Archery is boring, very boring.

There's no skill, no formula, no strategy, just shooting an arrow at a standing target.

It's basically just glorified darts. You could do this with your eyes closed.

You lazily watch the competitors below. The blonde with a ponytail look minorly interesting, you guess, the others, not so much. You catch her eye and wave, she scowls and throws her ponytail in a huff.

Then your eyes widen in shock when she puts three arrows directly in bullseye of the target, tearing into the shafts of one another with near unnatural accuracy.

The audience watches in similar abject surprise. Then the referee calls the points.

"With 30 points, Artemis Crock takes gold!" The blonde doesn't react to the call, simply walking away from the field, uncaring of the crowd's cheers.

"With 22 points, Cissie King-Jones wins silver!" the girl in question couldn't be more than nine years old, but her face was contorted in an expression of abject horror like someone murdered her family.

The Bronze winner from Bialya accepts her award with far more grace, though you don't catch her name.

She'll get over it, you think. You return your attention to the winner, Artemis.

A burly man with cropped blonde hair and similar if far more stern features, meets her at the exit.

You watch them exchange a couple of terse words before she storms into the tunnel, leaving who you assume to be her father behind.

It isn't like you have much else to do. Archery's done for the day and the next events don't start until the evening.

Of course, you're only motivated by altruism, it has nothing to do with her long legs or how her midriff-, okay, the fact that she's hot may have played a bit of a role.

You find Artemis stomping right outside of the Olympic stadium, a clear path in front of her with both citizens and other competitors unwilling to stand in her way.

It makes it easy to reach her at least.

"What do you want?" she snaps. You do your best not to look down. She looks Asian you realize, though you can't pinpoint from where exactly.

"I was just going to say you were really impressive out there." You say with raised hands.

Her posture slackens a bit, clearly not expecting your words. "Thanks," she mutters. "Apparently enough to get this gaudy thing." she looks at the fist-sized gold medal with visible disdain.

"You don't exactly seem happy about it."

"Oh I am, can't you see? Youngest Olympic Archery winner n history." she forces a smile across her face.

She's clearly not happy about it.

You flick out your own medal from your pockets.

"I can understand that." Her brown eyes widen in surprise.

"What sport?"

"Fencing."

"Oh the fancy stabbing stuff." she sticks her arm out in an exaggerated flourish.

You nod patiently, used to that being everyone's first reaction. "Exactly. It turns out I'm pretty good at it."

She snorts. "I wonder what gave that away."

"I don't think I ever got your name, well outside of the referee blaring it."

"Artemis, Artemis Crock." you shake her offered hand.

"Cadmus Othrys, a pleasure to meet you." A light red dusting covers her cheeks.

"So, are you up to anything?" you ask cautiously as the conversation slowly falters.

"Free until this whole thing's over or my dad- nevermind, why?" she asks.

"Well, I was thinking might be nice to hang out with someone our age."

She blanches. "No way you're thirteen, you're almost as tall as my dad."

She slowly comes to believe you when you show off your id but is still sporting a look of semi-disbelief.

Artemis smiles after a bit. "What are you thinking of?"

There s a beer hall on every corner in Munich. So it doesn't take you long to find your destination.

To your pleasant surprise, the barkeeper doesn't blink twice when you ask for a pint.

Artemis on the other hand doesn't stop a little thing like cultural norms from her protests.

"You're only thirteen!" she tells you even as you take the pint without a second thought.

"And, I don't look it? Besides, this is Germany, and what's the saying, when in Germany do as the Germans do?"

"I swear if you start goose-stepping I'm out of here." You agree to the stipulation.

You order your food and make a little small talk before the waiter returns with a heaping plate filled with pretzels, stew, sour kraut and gods know what else.

But, you can't deny it doesn't smell as good as anything you've ever smelled.

By the little drop of drool coming from the side of Artemis' lips, you aren't the only one.

You have little time for words with the two of you stuffing your faces and stomachs full.

Sometime during your third pretzel, you somehow convince Artemis to try the beer, only when the barkeep isn't looking of course.

She coughs and sputters the first time, but after a couple of attempts, she's drinking it with as much relish as you are.

The barkeeper eyes you both disapprovingly but doesn't make a move to remove you. It pays to have money even in Germany.

However, when she asks for another, you realize you might have made a mistake.

"That was fun lover boy," she pokes your chest and laughs as you exit the beer hall with your pockets significantly lighter and bellies heavy with food.

"But, now it's time for me to show you my idea of fun." her eyes gleam with excitement and just a hint of danger.