Stranglehold/Graveyard Shift
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
((This is really just a series of vignettes from Stranglehold's early days. In many aspects, he's come a long way since then, but in others, he hasn't changed at all. I like having them here because they're perfect as past moments trapped in amber. Eisregen))
Contents |
Chapter 1
The trail of clothes began right at the door: The mask had gone first, then naturally the gloves, belt, boots and finally the dark blue leathers. Now he stood in front of the ridiculously oversized mirror that was in fact a polished plate of a particularly reflective steel. And it took up an entire wall in his bathroom. His hair was getting a bit too long, and the mask did hell to it, he thought for a moment before dismissing the overall consideration with a look at the entirety of his reflection... It wasn't like he had other issues.
Like the burning bright red marks that riddled his body, some kind of neo-primitive tattoo inked straight into the soul. The emanations were so stark and vibrant that they'd show straight through a single layer of clothes, even two or three if they were particularly tight or flimsy. Yes, he had issues. And these were only the visible ones.
Tearing himself away from his reflections, he stepped into the shower. The steady spray, warm and soothing and relaxing almost made him forget while it lasted. Almost. There was no way that Gideon St. John -Stranglehold- ever would let his guard down. He knew the price for that after all. For himself, at the very least.
One thing he could do was however to allow his thoughts to drift a bit. Like so often these days, they wandered towards the alliances he had recently made. Some useful, some... unlucky, for all kinds of reasons. After a fashion, he admired the levity so many of the CAPES could allow themselves. No, he envied it. Because he simply couldn't. Probably never would. Stranglehold had tried to at least play the part, feigning amusement, anger and interest, but at the end of the day, he was just playing at being like them.
His one choice then, he knew, was to consider it their fault. Their naivete as to the workings of the world. Glory seekers and braggards, aimless wanderers and slackers. He shook his head, water trailing from his hair adding to the shower's tender spray. It was pointless. They served their purpose and that was good enough. And he... he'd be their Cato. Only that he had the power to destroy Carthage if needed rather than argue its destruction at a club meeting. In a warped way, it all made sense...
The sensation of something stirring inside made him abandon his train of thoughts and assert his self-control again. It was really a reflex at this point, like adjusting a piece of clothing that had shifted from its place. Once he considered his muscles relaxed enough and his skin clean enough, Gideon turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Turning his eyes towards the gigantic mirror, he saw that it had (unsurprisingly) fogged over from all the steam in the room. An impulse made him wipe a spot clean with his hand.
Just enough to see his face in the mirror, and not much more. No mystical symbols marking him as a walking graveyard... Just a young man whose eyes looked far more lively than their owner thought they should. Deserved to. Maybe it was the streaks of wet hair randomly dangling in front of his face that broke it up and skewed the impression. Those eyes were supposed to mirror his soul as the steel plate mirrored them after all.
And he hadn't had a happy day in a decade, he'd swear. Hell, it took effort for him to just read and keep his demons bottled up at the same time these days. And then, the people whom he had affiliated himself with contained those with psychic abilities... A part of him was morbidly curious if any of them ever managed to penetrate through the surface layers of his being. He'd imagine they'd either break down screaming or try to kill him on the spot. Maybe they'd understand. Probably not.
Which was another problem altogether. They didn't understand, and he couldn't tell them. And even if he could, they still wouldn't understand. Well, maybe one. But she was yet another problem entirely.
Groaning at the realization that every further thought about his problems would only reveal and highlight a new batch of problems, he stepped out of the bathroom, naked and dripping as he was and snatched his cigarettes and a box of matches from the living room table. Smoking had been a funny and somewhat relevatory experience for him. The damage the coffin nails caused in his body actually made him stronger, in a way. Like a healthy diet affected his body, the smoking affected his powers. The changes were minor on their own, but he noticed them anyways. As if he drew power from his own decay... or maybe his being, changed as it was, was simply trying to counteract their destructive nature in its own way. He really didn't care in the end. He just wanted the nicotine. A bit of calm and quiet in the torrent of his thoughts.
Flopping onto the leather couch with his newly lit cigarette, he reached for the remote control and turned on the stationary MP3 player across the room. The shuffle function found a song that made him smirk despite himself when he heard the distorted sounds that heralded the beginning of The Cure's contribution to that movie soundtrack. He still didn't consider himself angsty in any form or fashion, but the choice of song would surely have proven the stereotype right on the spot.
Heedlessly dropping the remote, Gideon reclined into the leather embrace and savored his cigarette, lingering on his brief amusement before actually bothering to listen to the music.
- "Just paint your face" the shadows smile
- Slipping me away from you
- "Oh it doesn't matter how you hide
- Find you if we're wanting to
- So slide back down and close your eyes
- Sleep a while, you must be tired..."
And he did. Slid back down a bit further, taking another drag and listening.
- Every night I burn
- Scream the animal scream
- Every night I burn
- Dream the crow black dream
Which was why he wouldn't be sleeping. Not until he simply passed out because he couldn't hold it off any longer... only to shoot up straight at best an hour later. It would feel as if it had been just enough to keep going for another day. And even if not, he had enough aces up his sleeve.
But at least he knew why he was doing all of this. He knew it was worth it. Maybe one day he'd even... no. Probably not. Some things just weren't... shouldn't... whatever. Maybe was better than never.
The MP3 player went through more telltale music and after another cigarette, he finally passed out to the worst lullaby imaginable.
Chapter 2
So that was done and done. It had even gone better than expected. In fact, it had gone over beautifully. His concerns had been laid to rest and that was what counted. Okay, so he had to act like a complete retard for half an hour or so and that might come back to haunt him... He did care. After all. What was the sense of hard and fast rules when there were no exceptions?
He paused as the Weave spat him out on top of a skyscraper in Talos Island. These things had many names. Paths of Selene. Rainbow Bridges. The Weave. He just considered them his personal PTA. Tiny ethereal wormholes, folds in human reality that were more quickly passed by going through them than around them. And if needed, he could push against the fold to get exactly where he wanted to go.
A brief look confirmed that for the moment, he was alone up here. But that was of course just a matter of time. Pulling the mask halfway over his face to reveal his mouth, then patting himself down to find the cigarettes under the leathers was a habitual gesture. As habitual as the lighting of the cigarette was. Taking the first drag he stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down at the city below him. Too high to make out more than black dots that were people, it almost looked serene. Serene enough for the moment...
So yeah, he did care. So what? He could allow himself a tiny opening in his emotional armor. But what he needed was someone to talk to. Someone to talk to who'd shoot straight with him and call him on having his head up his ass. Though that might be asking a bit much, considering where her own head seemed to be most of the time. Still, she cracked him up, in as far as he could be amused. That was the best emotional response anybody had gotten out of him in... ten years. Discounting the rush of going to work, of course. But that was different. Very different. He just couldn't defend against her. Her sarcasm just resonated with him and maybe it was good that way. Maybe he'd just found himself a little friend. They were similar after all...
Anger flashed through Stranglehold's mind at that thought. Too similar. All their talk of inner demons had really sounded like some kind of agonizing pissing contest. And that just wouldn't do. But what was he supposed to tell her? That he had decided that the only way to utterly destroy his enemies was to take their souls and spirits and lock them in the safest place he knew? That they were raging against the dungeon walls of his soul day and night, trying to sway him with promises of power and happiness, threats of agony and death? That just standing here and thinking like this actually was an effort for him?
That he'd gone and soundly fucked himself up, willingly, before his anger could?
He knew there was only one reasonable response to this. And that was why he couldn't tell her. Because he'd lose what little he had that made him feel human then and there.
Because it wasn't reasonable.
Or sane.
But it was the only way.
And he'd walk it through the end. All the way up the food chain. Paragon City was the start. They were concentrated here, but they had other areas of operation. He'd have to go into Africa at some point and then... beyond.
More anger, enough to incite howls of pain from the trapped spirits in the prison that his soul had become as their cell wound tighter and tighter... until the tension released itselt in a burst of laughter, hoarse but loud, echoing out across the sky over dusky Talos Island. Insane. He had to be insane. That plan meant taking down a god on its home turf. And then stealing its essence and keeping it locked up.
Killing a god... that would require another god.
"Then I guess I'll have to become one."
He lit another cigarette before stowing the pack and lighter again. Kneeling at the edge of the rooftop, he peered down again. With his eyes, he couldn't see much of anything. But when he closed those eyes...
Talos Island turned to a vision of Boomtown. Skyscrapers to charred husks, streetlights replaced by smouldering trees. Part of his curse, part of his blessing. His blind eyes swept the streets below until he found that subtle glow. Someone in fear, someone in pain.
"It's what I was born for."
Ditching the cigarette, he jumped, replacing his mask on his face in mid-fall. Then he reach out toward the Weave and just like that... he was gone.
Chatper 3
Gideon dodged out of his anatomy class and cut down the hallway towards the exit, with a quick but quiet stride as he always would. As he had been for over a year now. He wasn't out to make friends after all, so there was no necessity to stop to exchange pleasantries and nothings with someone. So he could keep to himself. Play it quiet and simple. Once the mask was on that all would change. Not that Stranglehold aimed to be louder, but Stranglehold could and would deal with everything as needed.
Today was different though. Eager for the outside, the cigarette he could smoke as he trailed out of sight, and then the quick hop to his appartment and the midnight blue leathers, the barbed wire, his face, all eagerly awaiting him.
He walked his walk as always when they came his way. All three of them were big guys, bigger than him despite his stringent workout routine, probably members of the football team judging from their demeanor and uniform look. The trio probably didn't even see him as they were busy probing the philosophical depths of the eternal question whether a 5-2 defense was preferable to a 4-3 defense or not.
But he saw them. And maybe yesterday he wouldn't have cared, just ducked out of the way and gone on his way. But today, he didn't. For some reason, he just didn't. The sudden contact caught the other man by surprise, as if the big guy had automatically assumed everyone would make way anyways, and so Gideon managed to simply push his way past him.
Only to be stopped by a large hand grabbing his shoulder.
"Mr. St.John, I'm honestly more than appaled by this incident. You're studying medicine..."
"Forensic pathology, actually, sir. There is a major difference..." Gideon's voice was calm and collected. His facial expression almost serene. In fact, it had had this look ever since that hand had touched his shoulder.
"Do not interrupt me, young man. It's a fact that all science is for the betterment of the human condition. Your anatomy classes are not supposed to teach you how to willfully dislocate shoulders or find the ideal breaking point for a rib. MY anatomy classes are not supposed to teach you this."
It had been a convenient excuse. He was not in the league of powers that could lift an aircraft carrier, but his physical strength was still enough to punch through a brick wall unenhanced. And his body resilient enough to not break his hand in the process. Given an enraged or scared opponent, he became even stronger. Citing his understanding of anatomy as cause for the damage he managed to deal his assailant made sense. He even took a punch to the face in stride that just so split his skin over his cheekbone.
Of course, he was ignorant of the fact that the relaxed cool on his face betrayed him more than anything else. Though at least, it hid his satisfaction at what he'd done.
"I am sorry, professor Svensson, but I am not big enough of a man not to defend myself when presented with an attacker. And I didn't drive those ribs into his heart or lungs after all. Fact of the matter is, the guy was being a bully. As of today, he no longer is."
"Because he ran into a bigger bully." The older man adjusted his glasses while still giving his student a stern look. No matter what had or hadn't transpired, he simply couldn't allow this kind of violence right outside his classroom. And he didn't want to see that kind of violence from any of his students.
"Because he has learned that size isn't everything. That a physically inferior man can beat him. People like him thrive because they think they can size up everyone and cow them... But today, he has learned that appearances only run skin deep, and he'll never be sure whether he could actually beat someone in a fight."
Stranglehold... Gideon just stood there, hands folded in the small of his back like a soldier, chin held a bit too high to look any shade of humble.
"Maybe you're even right. That doesn't change or justify the injuries you caused the man. Judging from my first impression, that was a very precise punch. I'd guess you have martial arts training?"
"A bit..." The reply was vague. Because there was no right answer, not really anyways. And the second last thing he needed -aside from a girlfriend- was someone asking which fighting style that was exactly.
"Then you should know not to abuse your proficiency. Your opponent, for all his physical superiority wasn't your equal, and you should have been content to show him that without him requiring a cast. I understand you were only defending yourself, which is why this isn't going to the dean, but..." The professor turned around to his desk and scribbled something on a notepad. Tearing the page off the pad, he handed it to Gideon who reluctantly adjusted his posture to receive it. "But I want you to see a Counselor."
The smug cool escaped from Gideon's face in a blink. His fingers tightened around the piece of paper in his hand, crumpling it into a tiny ball.
"I do believe you have anger management issues, and they need to be addressed." Said the old man, looking at Gideon's clenched fist. "In fact I'm pretty certain you do."
Chapter 4
A week later now, maybe even two, and he still hadn't bothered to see that counselor. His prof hadn't bothered to ask, but he knew, and if he was disappointed, it hadn't shown. But donning the mask, becoming Stranglehold, had become the one thing he supposedly needed. An outlet.
He hated to have to hide behind the mask, but at the same time knew why he needed it. Friday afternoon blurred into friday night as fists blurred into faces. His fists. Other people's faces. Mostly the armored security Crey employed... and every once in a while, one of their very own superhumans. Real opponents, real challenges, not the chaff he usually fought, whose only strength was in numbers.
That was an additional draw. But not the main reason he fought them. He'd tried to remain neutral and impassive about Crey for long enough, no matter what his oh so well educated compatriots said. But piece by piece, he'd uncovered simply too much evidence to ignore... Which left him angry, without even knowing who or what he was angry about. But that anger needed to go somewhere...
And the face of one of those so-called 'Paragon Protectors' was as good of a place as any for his anger to unload in full force. Especially since he could see the jaw heal back from where the impact of his knuckles had broken it. Good punching bag. Nice punching bag. Now time to roll over and...
Had the communicator gone off earlier in the fight, it might have inconvenienced him, but the Protector dangling in his grip was no threat to him. No threat to anyone anymore. Not today anyways...
...and probably not ever again. After reassuring Delia that yes, he'd send her those files and the photo of his great-grandfather (who had either been a world-class bastard or a wold-class idiot) he turned his attention back to the slowly healing sack of lacerated flesh and broken bones. Stranglehold's fingers twitched tight around the man's windpipe before speaking to him, in a voice that was barely his own.
"I've got to get going now. But I've got a present for you. Consider it a learning experience."
As he dodged out of the Crey lab, he did so safe in the knowledge that this one at least would never be any threat again, to anyone. Not today, not on any other day. He'd head home to send over the files in a moment, but first, one more stop.
Cigarettes.
