Those Who Could Not Defeat Me

I wrote this when I was bored and wanted to see how far I could force myself to write before I scrapped it. Figured I might as well share my late-night ramblings with those who are curious enough to explore them...

Here's Part One of Chapter One.

~Traveler


Rule -1: Don’t Beg. I Love It When You Beg.

Beams of light attacked the glass on the walls. One by one, each corner was illuminated with the intense white light, unobstructed by the street lamps that tended to leave shadows in any other room. The squeaking of a door. The falling of a foot. It had begun, and he knew that there wasn’t much time left for him. This wasn’t like anything else he had ever encountered before. His adversaries had usually faltered by now, giving him a window of opportunity to jump from.

His head was sore. The room refused to spin, as he was used to when encountering such an ache. Unfamiliarity flooded his senses, and he was overwhelmed by the new environment. It had such an acrid aroma, a dusty impression. There was no movement in the room anymore. Or had those last bits only been his imagination? Anything could be believed upon waking. Many times, hallucinations invaded the world between consciousness and unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the mirages didn’t like him. How could they not like him? Everyone liked him. It didn’t make any sense for anyone in their right mind to not like him. Therefore, by this logic, the man who had taken him here was mentally insane if not past such a state.

It was so cold. How did the liquid manage to be so cold? Drip. Drip. Drip. It fell into his collar and rolled down his spine. Cold-induced tremors sprung through his body. Drip. Drip. Drip. His attempts to discover the source of the coldness failed miserably, his head restrained. Already, he found no chances at reaching for something. Both his arms and legs were controlled, his wrists chafing against the metal. He dared not cry. There was weakness in crying, and there was going to be no telling what kind of responses he’d get from his people if they knew that he had been crying. Drip. Drip. Drip. A flash of movement behind him. His peripherals strained to catch a glimpse of what was terrorizing him. No matter which way he angled his head, however, he could not see anything. A mop of dark hair, messily damp, blocked small portions of his line of sight. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do, as his arms would not move, regardless of how hard he pulled on them or how deeply he willed them.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t squirm, my dear.” The voice came from the figure behind him. It was a male voice, oddly enough. There was a slight rasp to it, as if the voice was worried about something.

“Who are you?”

The voice ignored him, explaining his previous statement, “Squirming just makes you tired, and death comes quicker to those who stay awake. A slow death would do nothing but waste my time, especially since you aren’t nearly as interesting as the last one.”

“You’re going to—” he gulped, “—kill me?”

“Don’t be so shocked, dearie. I’m sure people have tried killing you before. Who wouldn’t want to be known as the man who defeated the all-powerful Datman, AKA Richard Menzel?” Datman. The idol of children everywhere. He spoke their language, ignoring the conventions of proper English and grammar. The stereotypical hero, his powers involved flight, increased strength, and heightened senses. However, his weakness was well known: bondage.

“H-how did you know who I am?” Richard, like most heroes, had confidence in his secret identity. He did nothing that would involve the powers of Datman. Being a waiter took care of any ties that he might have had to his alter ego, unlike the way Peter Parker took pictures of himself to secure his job as a photographer.

“You’re so naïve, did you know that?” The movement started again. Richard was sure that his captor was pacing the floors, as most villains did when he was caught in their traps.

“What?”

“Stop talking, you’re wasting your valuable oxygen.” Click! Richard felt pressure right below his rib cage. His lungs contracted; breathing becoming shallow.

Gasping for a decent breath, he tested the sincerity of the treat this man posed, “Who are you?”

“Tsk tsk. You don’t follow orders well either.” The footsteps worked their way around the chair. Something kicked at his foot, sending a pain shooting up into his jaw, ringing behind his eyes. No fooling around. This was serious business. Richard started to feel his heartbeat accelerate. One shallow breath after another, he attempted to ignore the pain that was vibrating into the cartilage of his ears. He bit his tongue.

“ARGH.” There was no way of containing his outbursts of pain. Whoever captured him knew what he was doing. He knew where to hit the body to make it hurt, and he knew how to keep someone uncomfortable. The pressure ceased, and pressed again in various undetermined intervals. It took away his breath every single time, the element of surprise capturing him at his worst moments.

“Complaining gets you nowhere, darling.”

The whole “darling” and “dear” business was getting annoying, but he knew better than to try to stop a psycho. They would always do something worse, especially after complaints. Complaints were fodder for them. One after one, the pain would worsen. Complain about the cold and, soon enough, you’re soaked in butter, covered in bread crumbs, and baked in the oven while you sleep until your skin turned golden-brown. Not that they would be eating you, or anything. Most humans, being ridden with disease and bacteria, weren’t a good choice to be chewing on periodically throughout the day.

With a sigh, Richard started to devise a plan to escape. He knew that there was a window in the room, though he was unaware of how high up he was. It wasn’t too much of a problem, as long as he had enough strength to fly upon leaping out of the window. Another issue was the lack of information. He didn’t know where he was, nor were there any clues that would help him determine which way he’d have to be moving to get home. There was also the dilemma of getting out of this contraption and away from the creepy man who had him strapped to a chair in the middle of a dim room.

He stared at the wall. More often than not, ideas came to him when he wasn’t even thinking about the task on hand. All he needed to do was distract himself.

It came easily. The wall was covered in puzzle pieces, probably the missing ones from puzzles done one too many times that would now suffer for the rest of their cardboard lives incomplete. He spent a few seconds on each one, imagining what kind of pictures they belonged to, and how the surrounding pieces might have looked. As this pastime turned into boredom, his next idea was to figure out how two neighboring, but unrelated, pieces might end up connected. It got difficult when he reached a piece with an ice cream cone on it, and another with an amethyst eye surrounded by dark fur.

Only then did he realize that his captor was not in the room. There had been no movement for the past five minutes, and rarely could any human being sit still for that long. Richard started to rub his legs around, double checking for faults in his restraints. They were fastened tight to the steel legs of the chair. The same was true of his lap to the seat, his chest to the back, and his wrists to the arms. Although he could not see the substance, he assumed it to be duct tape or something of the similar composition, as nothing was able to move freely, though there was always a little bit of give. Amazingly, the chair was not bolted into the ground. Richard loved when villains made these little mistakes. It made everything so much easier, especially when his friends had no idea where he was. Otherwise, they would be able to make a rescue in only a few hours. Richard could play along for that long.

He didn’t have to. And it was great.

One little scoot to the left. That was where the window was. He was sure of it. It was almost as if he could already smell the crisp autumn wind that awaited him. That time of the year had come again, when the apples were ready to be picked and the leaves stuck at the bottom of every single shoe that managed to touch residential streets. Already, he could envision himself walking into work, dragging leaves into the kitchen behind him, Dante, the chef, lecturing him again on how he needed to keep the kitchen clean to prevent complaints from the ever important customers. Most of the time, Richard didn’t even care about the customers. They always looked at him funny, as if he was supposed to be pitied because he was a waiter. But anyway, he was letting his mind wander, a problem that had often plagued him during his school days.

His cloudy blue eyes surveyed the areas of the room that they could reach, barely even managing that in the dim light that came from the outside world. It must have been cloudy. Otherwise the sunlight would have made the room a much brighter tone of beige. Ears perked up, Richard deigned another scoot. There was a horrible scuffing sound on the wooden floor, and he could feel something else pulling at the chair. That couldn't be good. Something had to be attached to the chair. Upon the lifting of one of his feet, he could feel the chair pull back towards its initial position. He put another foot down, noting that he probably didn't have too much time left. He was making too much noise already, and there wasn't going to be enough time for another chance at escape. Richard had to do this now. One drag after another, he pulled the chair across the floor, probably denting the floor or scratching it up drastically.

He could feel the tension in whatever was pulling the chair back. If he didn’t move quickly, he’d be snapped back into place, and the pain would quadruple. Richard wasn’t sure if he could take it. He might have been a super hero, but he had nothing while he was taped up like this, and even super heroes felt pain. They weren’t impervious to it. That was obvious. They could even die, though that didn’t happen quite as often.

“Oh Richard! I have a surprise for you!” His kidnapper was on his way towards the room. Richard started to move solely off of adrenaline. There was no way that he could die in dignity here. He wanted to die in a battle between good and evil, during the training of some apprentice or something. Now, he was stuck in a creepy apartment, bonded to a creepy chair, with a creepy guy who liked to use the terms “darling” and “dear” far too much. If Richard had been close to tears before, he was even closer now. There was nothing like a blow to the pride, especially of a celebrated hero such as Datman. “You’ll love it. I promise!”

Was that a chuckle? Richard thought. It sent a shiver down his spine, already cold from the unidentified substance that had dripped down the back of his shirt. He lifted his shoulders and rolled his back, lifting up his knees for a split second. Too late.

Chapter One- Part Two




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“You silly little super hero!” He finally saw the face of his captor. He was in his mid-twenties, much younger than he would have expected, “How could you possibly think about leaving me here without so much as an arm?” The laugh that followed this question made Richard cringe. How could someone who looked so normal seem so devious?

“Owww…” Richard groaned, attempting to set the chair back up so his legs weren’t so awkwardly bent over the chair. He found himself, seconds later, on his side, his head pressed against the floor, directly next to his captor’s feet.

“You, my dear Datman, need to stop trying to escape. It’s futile. I’m being as fair as I can about this. You’re going to die. I’m going to be rid of you. This world will be a better place. That’s all there is to it.” He reconsidered, “Well, not exactly all there is to it. In fact, I’m giving you a set of choices! Isn’t that exciting?” Gleefully, he lifted up the chair, as if it had weighed nothing, and reset it in the middle of the room.

Richard glared at him, trying to weigh his options. If he bit the man’s leg, he could get some extra time, but it wouldn’t be enough. As hard as it was to believe, he needed back-up.

“I’ll take the staring to mean ‘oh yes, please do tell me my options, oh magnificent one!’” He shot a narrower glare at him. “So, option number one: I plug in that chair of yours and fry you, not to kill you, but enough so you’re conscious enough so you can watch as I feed you to my fish. Option number two: I experiment with my new toy on you, and record the affects,” He held up a tiny dart gun and a vial of deep purple liquid. “Or, or, or, or… Option number three: Fun with bleach! It’s entirely up to you. Oh, and by the way, that little pressure bag that’s been changing your breathing rhythms? That’s going to be adjusted to a higher level, so you’ll end up dying via asphyxiation if you haven’t made a decision within an hour and a half. Feel free to think aloud. I love listening to these things.”

The captor sent over a cruel smile, spinning the dart gun around his fingers on his way out of the room. Richard took as deep of a breath as he was able, and closed his eyes, attempting to get himself to snap out of this nightmare. Nothing was working. Something had to work. This couldn’t possibly be real. Or could it? He had been in life or death situations before, but usually had something to build up to it. This came as a complete shock for Richard. That was another thing. He was just Richard Menzel, not Datman. If he was Datman, he would have come up with a plan by now. It was all about the mindset, and Richard was a blistering pessimist, even while Datman always had confidence in the good of humanity to triumph.

The pressure increased again. His captor had called it a pressure bag, though he saw no source of the force. Richard, unsure as to how something like this could simply happen, refused to get too involved in his speculative sciences. Rarely was he right, and even rarer was his ability to come up with something that no one else had ever thought of.

His face grew warm, and Richard swore that he could feel his eyeballs popping out of their sockets, practically straining against the eyelids.

“I don’t hear any thinking in there!”

Only one thought popped into Richard’s head. “My captor is a douchebag.”

The signature chuckle echoed into the room, “Much better, dearie.”

Richard started to think of exactly what his captor had meant by “fun with bleach”. Was he going to be dyed white? He did NOT like the thought of turning into a version of Michael Jackson. He was already pale enough, but a ghostly white did not go well with his icy blue eyes. Too much lightness would turn him into the faded tragedy of a man, only contrasted by the chestnut locks, finally starting to dry; the mysterious liquid from earlier was no longer dripping. The bleach, the bleach, the bleach. There were so many options. What if his captor was an artist and decided to strip him down and turn him into his newest project after he'd been killed? One photograph hardly seemed like the kind of thing to murder someone over, but an entire portfolio of art that could end up being worth thousands of dollars? It was possible. There were a lot of people out there who thought that art was worth whatever means it required to get it done. Richard had heard of people who went dumpster diving just for bottle caps or broken glass, or folks who jumped into the ocean for a rare piece of seaweed that was the "exact color they had envisioned". This, however, wasn't the only option for the bleach. Bleach wasn't just to turn someone white. Bleach could be a toxic liquid, able to kill a human quicker than several kinds of specifically manufactured poisons. It was easily detectable, but his captor didn't seem to be worried about getting caught. If anything, his captor had no worries whatsoever.

A deep breath. Another. The pressure had been released. Richard relished the time that he could breathe normally. It was amazing to see what difference just a little bit of a pressure could make. His temperature dropped back to his frantic level, but not his panic level. No longer having to worry about lack of oxygen, Richard decided to see how far he could get the chair to move. Maybe he could get some sort of whipping motion to catapult him out the window. All he needed to do was move far enough in the right direction. Although this required moving towards the door that his captor could use any minute, it was a risk he was willing to take. Perhaps the force from the chair would be enough to break the bonds that the duct tape had with the chair, especially since it wasn't going to be losing its grip on his skin any time soon.
He scooted. It was quiet enough. He was sure that it was going to be more and more difficult as the chair got further from the source of the band that secured the base of the chair to the ground. Richard knew how these things worked. The process would get more and more difficult as he got closer to his goal, something that would give him even more motivation to escape. Things often seemed much easier when they were closer; easier to reach, easier to visualize, easier imagining the life that would exist after reaching this marvelous prize. In his case, freedom was the prize, and it was a prize worth winning. Richard scolded himself for using such a cliché phrase, but it seemed fitting, so he could do nothing but forgive himself, expecting more creativity when it came to explaining another situation.

Another quick movement. He wondered if he would be able to lunge and get further than this scooting business was getting him. Richard attempted to determine all of the possible outcomes and weigh them against each other. It wasn't as simple as it might have seemed. There were too many variables. If he made too much noise, his captor would come back and probably torture him even more. If the pressure returned at any point during that movement, he would be snapped back to the initial spot again, probably taking additional damage to his head. If his captor came back before he made his decision, that time would be lost, and he'd have to suffer the consequences-- not very pleasant, if his impression of this man was correct. If he made it to a respectable distance, he would have used up an extra ounce of energy to project himself to that spot and would have to find some way to have enough energy to keep himself moving, burst through the window in full consciousness, and retain the ability to fly after escaping from this bleak prison.

He had only been conscious in this room for a few hours, but it was taking a toll on him. Richard, in his Datman persona, rarely had to deal with the opponent like this before. Normally, they'd fight, he'd weaken them, they'd take something of his, he'd go out and rescue it, falling into a trap for some maniacal scheme if the villain were corrupt enough, beat them up, take his property back home, greet the city and accept their gratefulness for saving their civilization from an infinite amount of horrors, go home, and get a good night's sleep. This wasn't anywhere close to that. His captor hadn't gone through a speech about how feeble Richard was in comparison to him, or how nothing could ruin his plans, or even what his plans were. By this point, Richard would know all there was to know and start formulating a plan to save the day from imminent destruction. Rarely did things stray from any of the components of that pattern. Things were looking bleak. He wasn't sure how things were going to play out, or if he'd even be able to save himself from death. Death was staring him in the eye, daring him to defy the force that no one had been able to escape before. All heroes had been mortal. All heroes had been able to avoid death at some point, but there was always something else to it. Richard wasn't convinced that he could manage it this time.

“Richard? Are you done yet?”

“I’m thinking about it. I’m trying to… um… narrow down my options.”

“Oh? Is that so? I’ll give you another few minutes then. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your process. Just remember that there’s no going back after you’ve chosen, so choose wisely.” The captor's voice carried so well. It was like he knew exactly how loud to speak to be heard without yelling. If only Richard enjoyed hearing the voice of a psychopath, this would be a paradise. Too bad.

Richard decided that he was going to go for it. It was better that he tried something drastic and got caught than not try something that could save him and end up dying a long and torturous death unworthy of the most cruel criminals. The lunge was going to require a lot of energy, and a lot of force in his legs. It was difficult, as his legs were still tightly taped to the legs of the chair, and steel wasn't as easy to bend while the rest of his body was restrained as well. Richard started to tip the chair forward, keeping both feet planted on the ground to keep the distance that he had already managed to cover. There was a sound from the other side of the door. He cringed, thinking that the captor was done already, and had only been lying to him when he said that there were a few more minutes of alone time. It was gone as quickly as it had occurred. With a sigh of relief, he returned his concentration to the preparation of this jump.

Secure and as ready as he was going to be, Richard took a deep breath of air, waiting for the pressure to return and destroy all of this planning in one spontaneous crushing move. One step towards the door. Another step towards the door. He lifted his right foot and placed it in front of his left, balancing on the balls of his feet, covered in stained white material. He wasn't sure where his shoes had gone, but they most certainly weren't on his feet.

The last thing he remembered was hearing a cracking noise and the squeaking of a door opening. He was sure he had gotten pretty far with the jump, but his footing slipped at the last possible second, and the effects of the elastic took hold.

"What were you trying to do this time, Datman? I thought I told you that it was futile trying to escape! I spent so much time making sure that you couldn't leave this room after I brought you in. You didn't think that you could turn my plans against me, did you?" There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, something that hadn't been present before his last few sentences. At that time, Richard hadn't realized his mistake. Angering the one person who knew where you were was always a bad idea, especially when they had planned on killing you anyway. Luckily for Richard, he was only half conscious anyway. His full consciousness would have probably started a breakdown by this point, crying and ranting at the captor about what he wasn't going to be able to do and what he was going to miss in the world.

"Ungh." Richard didn't bother trying to speak. He was barely alive, his forehead on the ground. The coolness of it started to sink into his skin, and he realized how much colder the room had become. It was almost to the point of shivering. And the pressure was back. He wasn't aware as to when it showed up again, but it was constricting his airways again.

As his awareness of the situation increased, Richard put together the pieces as to why he was on the ground. The chair had tipped forward, and dragged him back. It would explain the pain that he felt in his skull, the scuff marks on the wooden floor, the soreness of his knees-- it all could be contributed to an idea that had now cost him all chance of escape. The thought of it brought droplets of liquid to gather in the bottom lid of his eyes. His life-- over. His wife-- gone. His kids-- gone. How would they be able to survive without him?

"AGH!" The captor brought his foot back from its connection with the side of Richard's skull. "What was that for?"

"I don't like you, and I figured you needed a little pick-me-up as a reminder."

"You're an asshole, I hope you realize."

"I'm well aware, darling. Are you sure that you're what you say you are? You're no hero. You can't save anyone's life." He kicked him again, "All of those people that you've supposedly saved from danger or death could have managed it on their own or gotten help from authorities. They didn't need you. No one needs you." Another kick. "There's no need for super heroes in a world where super powers could just be considered a mutation and would therefore make you an outcast. And someone like you? You're worthless. Super strength doesn't do it anymore. Neither does any amount of special ability you might have contracted from your experiences with your so-called powers."

"Shut up! The world needs me to protect them from psychos like you."

"Oooh, a psycho. My feelings are so hurt, dear. I've gotten worse names, and it'd suit you well to learn them for the next time you want to cross me... if you ever get such a chance again, which I highly doubt."

"Just let me go."

"Let you go?" He started pacing. "Wish I could, but it wouldn't be as easy to observe your reactions from a distance while you're moving. It's much better that things happen this way."

"Please." Richard let his eyes turn glassy and widen. That’s how girls got things done. Maybe there was a soft spot for begging, or at least the adorable giant eyes that affected just about any sympathetic being.

"Oh, don't beg. I love it when you beg. It never works on me, but I love it. Something about the desperation just gets to me.”

"You're insane,” Richard blatantly explained.

"Glad you noticed." Was there no getting to this guy? Did he not value human life? There was something wrong here, and Richard wanted to figure it out, though the complications of such a plan piled up higher and higher. “So, have you made your decision?”

“Not yet.”

“No?” His captor lifted his brown boot from the ground and swung it dangerously close to Richard’s face. “Why not?”

“It’s a difficult decision. Surely you understand.”

He kicked him. Richard spat out a tooth along with a small quantity of blood. The pain echoed through his skull. “Y’know, I’m really getting tired of this whole ‘stalling’ business. You underestimate my intelligence, Mr. Menzel; a mistake you really shouldn’t be making. I expected more of you.”

“Who are you?” It was a question that he had been wondering since the beginning and had yet to be answered. Difficulty seemed to be a quality of his captor, and a recurring pattern at that.