Wanting to be a superhero and becoming one, are two completely different things. But becoming the opposite? That's way easier. And sometimes it's not on purpose.
Fate didn't want me to be a hero.
I was a fairly normal girl, growing up in Central Cit...
This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill Fifteen percent concentrated power of will Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain And a hundred percent reason to remember the name! ~Remember the Name ~ Fort Minor~
... Progress Inspection: August 6, 2009...
"What's the first thing I should teach you...?" papa asks himself. "Oooh, I know! How about you show me all that you've learned?"
I've learned basic disguise makeup, advanced hand to hand combat, stealth, and can basically talk cats into doing my bidding. That still includes everything from before.
"Sounds good, papa!"
I learned to call him papa instead of Joker because he gets angry and slaps me for being disrespectful. Not like it really hurts though because of my healing factor.
"Ooh," he purrs. "I love that! Let's go to the training room."
I follow him into the 'training room,' more like the room of weapons, torture, and death. I've heard the screams of pain resonating from this room while I'm watching tv in the living room. It has never phased me though, I know what I've gotten myself into. I just turn the volume of the tv louder to be able to hear the show. The room is full of an assortment of weapons from guns to knives to swords to grenades to flamethrowers. A normal girl would be terrified, but then again I'm anything but normal. I'm turning psychotic just like my parents.
I grabbed a few kunais and place myself at the line for flicking weapons towards a dummy. "Ready."
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"Show me, my little villain!"
I hold all the kunais in one hand and flick them all at once, embedding the four stuffed dummies in the head and heart. "Was that good, papa?"
"Fantastic!" he cheers. "How's your aim with a gun?"
"Not great..."
"Nonsense," papa says, grabbing a gun off the table and throwing it towards me to catch.
I catch it effortlessly along with the chamber full of ammo. I grip it in my hand, unsure if I'm holding it right. Papa comes over and smacks me on the back of my head. "Ouch!"
"Idiot, that's not how you hold it," he says, plucking it out of my hand forcefully. He shows me the proper way to hold it and points it at my forehead. I look up at him as if tempting him to do it. "And fire it like this." He aims the gun at the dummies while looking straight at me. "Look at me!" With his other hand, he forcefully makes me look at the gun with his unclean, blood-stained nails gripping the handle. BANG. BANG BANG. BANG BANG BANG. BANG.
I watch the bullets ricochet off the metal human cut outs right in the center of their foreheads. "Wow."
The bullets run out and he goes to get a new bullet full chamber. "And that's how you do it." He laughs. "Guns might kill people but the human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter."
