Something Else 2: Femme Fatale in Training

I scanned the list, anger at my betrayal overwhelming even my shame at the idea I was to choose my own pitiful mewling destiny. I realized this was almost certainly what beast boy might call a “Ghostbusters Moment”… where you pick the most innocuous and relatively pleasant of the list and it still turns out to be horrific and degrading. Just being here in this room, naked, being condescended to by someone so powerful was humiliating. It fed my blind impotent rage at my phony friends. More than anything I wanted to drown them in my darkness and watch them scream pitifully as their internal organs turned inside out. Unconsciously, I had begun to glow black, my hair floating a bit in my slight, self contained updraft as I fumed my indignation.

It was then that I saw my fate. Nearly last on the list, in unassuming block letters like the others.

“Femme Fatale-- Female subject to entertain me and my potential clients, perform menial tasks, and learn the art of **** for eventual field work. Subjects deemed unfit for training will be used as test material for exotic execution techniques. Delivery accepted on Standard Earth to Slade Wilson.”

It was the last sentence that caught my eye. Slade Wilson. It took almost a minute to connect that name to the identity I know him as: Deathstroke the Terminator. I breathed heavily for a moment, forcing myself to calm down.

There on the page was my path to vengeance. Deathstroke would never be able to resist pitting me against the Titans. I could well imagine what “entertainment” I would be expected to provide while I trained, and failure promised a horrible gruesome ****… not to mention the fact that Deathstroke would certainly **** and **** me all the more thanks to his long standing resentment of our interference in his plans. Was it worth it?

I pictured the other titans, sitting around in the tower, happy, without me… and shook with fury. Hell yes, it was worth it.

“I have chosen.” I said slowly, sounding out each word dripping with malice “This one. Femme Fatale.”

“You realize you’ll wind up fighting your friends, if you survive his psychotic training.” The voice said slowly, clearly amused, “You will be bound to him until he willfully releases you. Your friends will never be able to rescue you.”

“I have no friends,” I said, crumpling the paper into a ball, “And I’m not going to fight them. I’m going to KILL them.”