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jla_watchtower2006-09-20 09:08 pm
damage-granted.livejournal.com) wrote in jla_watchtower2006-09-20 09:08 pm
Entry tags:
We Are Living In A Material World...
If Grant had any doubts about whether or not he would be accepted back into the Titans, they have long since passed. Donna's rescue mission to Newark, the flight home, the briefing with Kory and Vic, and a talk with a very happy nine-year-old almost made it seem like he'd never been gone. Almost. Certain things had changed significantly in the last few years: Lian was four years older, there was a new Tower in San Francisco Bay, and there's apparently a new Titans apprentice who makes a mean bowl of pasta. Two days ago, he'd been wondering whether he'd have to sleep on a park bench somewhere in New Jersey. Apparently, one really can go home again. Even Lian had known that he would come back.
Grant had slept, heavily, until rather late in the morning. There could be some early days around here, he remembers, particularly when Roy decided it was time for some pre-dawn outdoor training. And, somehow, Grant never got the briefing about such training sessions, so he always showed up with his hair in some rather extreme state of disorder, bleary-eyed and yawning. Those counted among the times when Grant really hated Roy. Today, however, he was allowed to wake up at his leisure, shower, change - somehow someone had found jeans and a t-shirt that fit him - and ice down his bruises.
Kory had caught him in the hallway, telling him that she was going to take him shopping and that there was no use arguing about it. Honestly, he'd only had the clothes he'd brought with him, and calling his quarters on the sixth level Spartan would be an understatement. There wouldn't be any complaining - just as long as he didn't have to shell out the cash for clothes and a new bedset.
The long-haired metahuman sits in the lobby, waiting for Kory, dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans - no belt - and the same ratty, dusty boots he'd arrived in. Seated on a bench in the massive room, Grant looks around at the giant portraits on the wall, each showing an active member of the team: Nightwing, Roy, Donna, Vic, Gar, Kory, and a few faces he doesn't, including a blonde girl, a dark-haired woman with distinctly alien-looking eyes, and some kid Grant thinks he's seen before. The youth makes a mental note to ask Kory about these new recruits.
We're just going shopping...what's the hold up? he wonders, glancing up at the entrance to the room.
Grant had slept, heavily, until rather late in the morning. There could be some early days around here, he remembers, particularly when Roy decided it was time for some pre-dawn outdoor training. And, somehow, Grant never got the briefing about such training sessions, so he always showed up with his hair in some rather extreme state of disorder, bleary-eyed and yawning. Those counted among the times when Grant really hated Roy. Today, however, he was allowed to wake up at his leisure, shower, change - somehow someone had found jeans and a t-shirt that fit him - and ice down his bruises.
Kory had caught him in the hallway, telling him that she was going to take him shopping and that there was no use arguing about it. Honestly, he'd only had the clothes he'd brought with him, and calling his quarters on the sixth level Spartan would be an understatement. There wouldn't be any complaining - just as long as he didn't have to shell out the cash for clothes and a new bedset.
The long-haired metahuman sits in the lobby, waiting for Kory, dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans - no belt - and the same ratty, dusty boots he'd arrived in. Seated on a bench in the massive room, Grant looks around at the giant portraits on the wall, each showing an active member of the team: Nightwing, Roy, Donna, Vic, Gar, Kory, and a few faces he doesn't, including a blonde girl, a dark-haired woman with distinctly alien-looking eyes, and some kid Grant thinks he's seen before. The youth makes a mental note to ask Kory about these new recruits.
We're just going shopping...what's the hold up? he wonders, glancing up at the entrance to the room.
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"Right - okay, bear with me, this will be confusing, but if you're titans, you deserve to know. I have a secret identity myself. In public I'm Wallace Anders, mild mannered husband to Starfire.
In reality - yes, miss, I am Hugo Weaving - but not the one you've seen. I was born in a... parallel reality, is I think the term.
Where I come from, I'm dead. And the Hugo Weaving who lives here doesn't know about me - and probably shouldn't ever."
He sighs heavily. "Now, was that all clear as mud?"
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"No, actually, I get it. OK. No problem. It's not like I'm on Elrond's speed-dial anyway..." She then sees Grant.
Hello, salty goodness
"Oh, hi. Are you another trainee?"
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Emerson glances at the blonde, nodding to her, recognizing her from one of the portraits around the room. Turning toward Santana, Grant gives her a smile and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm a former member. Or...well..." Grant looks over at Kory then, not at all certain how to explain this. After all, Donna said once a Titan, always a Titan, so there may not even be such a thing as a former Titan. "I'm Grant. They used to call me Damage."
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Including you.
She turns to everyone. "OK, we ready? Let's make Visa everywhere WE want to be."
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