The final confrontation between the Bat and the Grandmaster had sent the latter to Blackgate. But though he possessed the abilities to escape, like the freaks that littered this place...He did not. Instead, he quietly meditated in his cell even as the various factions from Mistress Karai to Tiger Claw battled it out for the right to rule the Foot. He could not understand it and eventually, paid for a ticket to Gotham City, to do a deed he would not have dared before the Paradise incident.
To confront the former grandmaster and ask him directly. Before his cell, Adrian kept himself bowed. His eyes remained to the floor, his arms locked at his sides through force of habit and discipline. He had been in that position for an hour now, and he would remain that way till the master said otherwise. Finally, he heard a noise he almost was sure he imagined as he risked a look upward.
Oroku Saki was laughing quietly. Clad in the orange vestments of Blackgate, shorn of his armor and fine suits, there was still no mistaking him for anyone but the Master. Power, he wore like a cloak and the confines of his cell only seemed to accent that. Even reduced to this, he was proud and uncowed. In one corner of the room, a wooden dummy of the sort used by Wing Chun practioners rested, next to a desk with letters. These were neatly stacked, set aside in favor of a calligraphy set in which the Kanji for maelstrom was being painted.
Oroku Saki finally spoke.
"The survivor. The one who killed the beast himself, avenging his brothers. What brings you to me, servant?"
Adrian hesitated, his expression troubled before he took the plunge.
"...Master. Why do you not return? The Clan desires strong leadership. Currently, it lies fractured between three. Each one, warring upon the other. If you were to come back to New York or even to send a message-."
"-And what message would that be? That scarcely little time had passed, since I was required to hold their hand? That all my work had collapsed between those who should know better? No...The Clan has been strong, but it was the strength of ants. The removal of the hives leader reduced the workers to chaos."
His eyes arrested Adrian, the fevor in them restrained, but fiery yet as he said softly.
"That is not the Clan I worked for. But what is it to you?"
Adrian blinked. The Shredder smirked.
"You are a soldier without a cause, a warrior without direction. What will you do, in the wake of this madness?"
Grid was silent, tongue-tied as Oroku Saki returned to his meditation as he said in a whisper.
"How will you best serve the Foot, as it is now?"
He contemplated those words later in a bar. All this way and the Master would not come, nor even deign to lift a finger to stop the fights. Instead, he had merely imparted disquieting words that sent the genin into a brooding silence. He stared into his drink, having ordered it two hours past, before glancing into the mirror behind the bar.
The scars in which he earned his street name and reputation loomed back at him, the grid-pattern presenting memories of that fight. Harlem, in the Paradise of the Cottonmouth. And the creature that slew his three brothers-in-arms before pinning him to a wall. 'Warrior', the Shredder had called him. He had doctored his wounds himself, glorifying his survival.
The scars had been merely an added spur to hunt the beast, and among the others his reputation had grown. Was it all for naught? His loyalty and service, rendered as nothing in the end? No....Perhaps not. What was the Foot to him? He closed his eyes and considered quietly. In the background, the sounds of a ruckus could be heard as per the norm in this city. He got up to leave, wanting no part of a bar brawl as he snagged his bikers helmet.
He paused at the sound of a feminine scream.
He glanced over his shoulder.
A woman. A hooker. Obviously a hooker. She seemed to be trying to escape a group of thugs. What did he care? She should get a new line of work, if this was what she had to look forward to. He turned once more to leave.
His traitor body remained. He frowned. There was something lingering in his mind. A hazy idea of what the master had tried to impart. What was the Foot Clan? Power? Prestige? Yes, both of those things. But above all, one more...
Protection.
He turned around.
The first sign of something going wrong for this particular biker gang was the sudden slam of a thrown helmet with enough force to break his nose. Adrien wasn't a hero. He was not a costumed vigilante. He had no sinister backstory nor deep motivation to do what he did. He didn't banter, nor did he quip or exchange any sort of words with his opponents. He was a genin of the Foot Clan.
He simply went to work.
In the split-second shock of the helmet smashing, Grid launched a metal coaster into the light switch. Darkness fell and the gang howled, launching blindly into one another at an enemy they knew struck without warning.
Grid calmly escorted the woman to the door, then returned back into the darkness.
When he returned with his helmet, he dismissed her thanks entirely and drove off. And despite himself, he chuckled. That had felt...Good. Moreover, it had felt right. It was the first time in a while since he felt like a true member of the Foot Clan. He'd almost forgotten. In his bliss, he almost missed the S.W.A.T. car driving past. He hesitated and finally, turned to follow at a distance.
Night was young. No reason he couldn't check it out.
@LuckycoolHawk9 @Sonevar @Drixe @Gands @Michale CS
