He feels sick. It’s nothing physical - pain is a near constant when you are attacking things fifty times your size with only a ring. As easy as it looked, it still took a toll. He was flesh and bone, his willpower was the real battery. That’s the tool that’ll serve him best in the recovery period, the sheer capacity to overcome.
This isn’t the first time he’s been tortured and it won’t be the last. He knows what to do. He takes a hot shower, keeps to himself (fends Zatanna off, somehow, it helps that she’s mostly out). The first night, he spends on the roof, outside, breathing in the (fresh?) air, dangling his legs over the edge, trying to understand freedom.
The second night, he climbs to the highest point he can, and stays there. Or he wants to, at least, but his hands are still injured, and the healing process will be delicate. He can’t paint, he can barely cook, all he can do is stare at what he considers the most important part of his body completely destroyed (and he feels so sick). It’s so different from his vision being taken, and he hates himself for dwelling on it so much when it’s just a matter of waiting for it to heal.
All the same, he doesn’t miss Bruce’s training. In fact, Kyle takes his little escapade with the cult as even more reason to train harder. It hadn’t been his fault that Jim’d jumped in, and Spock had followed, but he still took responsibility for it. If it’d been only him taken... he’d have managed.
Enough of that. Failures happened, when the sky broke, a Lantern picked up the pieces and moved the hell on. If there was going to be an army of the undead in his future--
He can’t use a bow and arrow, obviously, luckily it’s not Monday when he shows up at the warehouse. He’s learnt to be quiet, but really, very few people can sneak up on the goddamn Batman so he isn’t surprised at being addressed first.
‘Hey.’
His voice lacks its requisite cheer, and he is already dressed in workout clothes. There is no ring anywhere on his person, he’s just Kyle.
But just Kyle is also who he says he is, when he’s out there, just an artist, not a physicist, or a diplomat, or a geneticist--, and just Kyle is every bit the force of nature, ring or no ring.
His hands are clumsily wrapped in bandages, and he looks determinedly at Bruce as he steps onto the mat, ready to begin. Broken hands aren’t an excuse.
no subject
This isn’t the first time he’s been tortured and it won’t be the last. He knows what to do. He takes a hot shower, keeps to himself (fends Zatanna off, somehow, it helps that she’s mostly out). The first night, he spends on the roof, outside, breathing in the (fresh?) air, dangling his legs over the edge, trying to understand freedom.
The second night, he climbs to the highest point he can, and stays there. Or he wants to, at least, but his hands are still injured, and the healing process will be delicate. He can’t paint, he can barely cook, all he can do is stare at what he considers the most important part of his body completely destroyed (and he feels so sick). It’s so different from his vision being taken, and he hates himself for dwelling on it so much when it’s just a matter of waiting for it to heal.
All the same, he doesn’t miss Bruce’s training. In fact, Kyle takes his little escapade with the cult as even more reason to train harder. It hadn’t been his fault that Jim’d jumped in, and Spock had followed, but he still took responsibility for it. If it’d been only him taken... he’d have managed.
Enough of that. Failures happened, when the sky broke, a Lantern picked up the pieces and moved the hell on. If there was going to be an army of the undead in his future--
He can’t use a bow and arrow, obviously, luckily it’s not Monday when he shows up at the warehouse. He’s learnt to be quiet, but really, very few people can sneak up on the goddamn Batman so he isn’t surprised at being addressed first.
‘Hey.’
His voice lacks its requisite cheer, and he is already dressed in workout clothes. There is no ring anywhere on his person, he’s just Kyle.
But just Kyle is also who he says he is, when he’s out there, just an artist, not a physicist, or a diplomat, or a geneticist--, and just Kyle is every bit the force of nature, ring or no ring.
His hands are clumsily wrapped in bandages, and he looks determinedly at Bruce as he steps onto the mat, ready to begin. Broken hands aren’t an excuse.