Silvia Stone was a vigilante with only one goal in mind, to give criminals a swift and painful death. As one could imagine, Superman didn't exactly appreciate the bodycount that was mounting. After being thrown into prison, breaking out, and more en...
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The walls were crumbling. If Silvia took the edge of her nail she could dig at the softening mortar between the distressed bricks. It was the dampness that did it, she thought. No matter the weather outside the floor was always wet in there; probably an underground spring surfacing just outside the walls and soaking through the building as time passed. Surrounded by four white walls, there was nothing else to do but stare at them. To look at the floor that was littered in claw marks - gouged by other prisoners.
Not long after Superman had left, two rather cautious officers had barged into her cell and scoured for any belonging. They had yanked her mask off, taken her knives, and the vial of dust she had collected from her now disintegrated shotgun. She was use to this routine, Silvia spent much of her teenage years in that very same cell.
When they threw her a prison jumpsuit she had stripped down with little concern for whether they were looking or not, then thrown her sap and blood ridden outfit in their direction. The jumpsuit was a little too big on her, but she doubted that it would be any more comfortable if it fit her properly; it was like wearing a bin bag.
Silvia relentlessly scratched her arms, the fabric never failing to chafe against her fair skin. The prison was full of the mumblings of criminals and the occasional swearing whenever an officer passed by. It was a rowdy environment but one that had a certain amount charm to it.
In some areas they were allowed to sit at the cafeteria for dinner (though they had to help cook and clean in exchange), but in Silvia's section their meals were brought to their cells. The smell of stale wheat products and watery soup filled the air, all presented on a tray and stacked in a way that was definitely squashing the bread.
The man serving dinner was instantly recognizable. Everything about him was wrong. His head perched at an angle on shoulders that were themselves crooked and hunched. His right arm was shorter than his left. His left leg, however, was several inches longer than his right. His feet were encased in black leather shoes, one heavier and larger than the other. He wore a black leather jacket with jeans... his muscles rippled beneath the cloth as if with a life of their own. Nothing in his body was coordinated, so although he was moving forward, he seemed to be trying to go backward or sideways.
His face was even worse. It looked as though it had been taken to pieces and put back together again by a child with only a vague knowledge of the human form. There were a dozen scars on his neck and around his cheeks, likely from his years working around such dangerous people.
When he made it over to her cell Silvia stepped a little closer to the bars. The man didn't look surprised to see her there, but he did look amused. "Almost managed to stay out of jail for a whole year this time, didn't you?"
"Would've been longer if that Boy Scout hadn't ruined my streak." Silvia sighed, leaning against the bars.
"Oh...yeah, him." He replied knowingly, opening a hidden cabinet in the tray and taking out a silver plate. "You should be proud of yourself. He usually just keeps to the bigger stuff. Plane crashes, terrorist attacks, car accidents...It means you're moving up in the world. You're doing good work, Sil. He doesn't think so, but all us little people who have to clean up all the mess...We'd rather clean up the bodies of lunatics than the bodies of husbands, wives, sons, daughters...you get the picture."
