Superboy / Kon-El (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
matchmadeinhell) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ya_assemble2014-11-29 05:37 pm
matchmadeinhell) wrote in ya_assemble2014-11-29 05:37 pm
Entry tags:
[LN] Livin' on a Prayer [closed to Nico]
"Tommy used to work on the docks
Union's been on strike
He's down on his luck...
It's touuuugh, so too-ouugh"
Kon was singing, his voice somewhat delirious and horribly off pitch because he generally couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
Because why not, right? It felt good to belt it out. It was just sort of tumbling out of him.
It was monstrous, what happened in the training gym. Catastrophic. That was what happened when someone like Kon didn't hold back. Even at a more limited capacity than usual, he'd still wrecked the place; clockwork robot parts were strewn everywhere, some of the obstacles had been broken, although the magical fields that supported them at the higher training levels kept him from totally trashing them all.
He'd gone for about four hours with the thing set at the highest level, level 20, working himself into exhaustion and the program had finally registered that he was getting too beat up and stopped automatically, magically sensing that the workout was moving away from rigorous and bruise-ey to genuinely harmful.
"Gina works the diner all daaay
Working for her man,
She brings home her pay
For loooove, for loooooove"
Where he lay in his little impact crater in the wrecked floor, clothes tattered, sweating buckets, bleeding slightly from his eyes (his heatvision had been left flaring about an hour too long), Kon was lost in a haze of self-hatred. The abject rage had died down, but what was left was a sheen of self-loathing that'd been left behind like greasy residue in its place.
"She says, 'We've gotta hold on to what we've got.
It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not.
We've got each other and that's a lot.
For loooove we'll give. It. A shot.'"
It was funny how each time something horribly traumatic happened in his life, he kept thinking nothing could ever feel worse. Accidentally get some poor dude killed showboating and playing up the fame thing? Couldn't get worse. Get betrayed by some sick, psycho older woman who was toying with him? Couldn't get worse. Watch his first love die? Couldn't get worse. Lose a mentor? Couldn't get worse. Get conscripted to be a medic holding people's guts together in a war, get tortured on Apokolips, watch a friend get traumatized as a part of him died, get brainwashed and attack his friends, actually freakin' die...
It always got worse. The never-ending trauma congo line went on.
"Whoooooa, we're half way there
Whooooa, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear
Whooooa, livin' on a prayer!"
The gym was mostly soundproofed but anyone near the lower levels might have heard the thunderous booms and zappy noises from his training/smashing session, what with some of them shaking the foundation of the place. They'd gone quiet now. He'd forgotten to lock the door, which meant if anyone walked in they'd be forced to listen to his terrible singing.
Union's been on strike
He's down on his luck...
It's touuuugh, so too-ouugh"
Kon was singing, his voice somewhat delirious and horribly off pitch because he generally couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
Because why not, right? It felt good to belt it out. It was just sort of tumbling out of him.
It was monstrous, what happened in the training gym. Catastrophic. That was what happened when someone like Kon didn't hold back. Even at a more limited capacity than usual, he'd still wrecked the place; clockwork robot parts were strewn everywhere, some of the obstacles had been broken, although the magical fields that supported them at the higher training levels kept him from totally trashing them all.
He'd gone for about four hours with the thing set at the highest level, level 20, working himself into exhaustion and the program had finally registered that he was getting too beat up and stopped automatically, magically sensing that the workout was moving away from rigorous and bruise-ey to genuinely harmful.
"Gina works the diner all daaay
Working for her man,
She brings home her pay
For loooove, for loooooove"
Where he lay in his little impact crater in the wrecked floor, clothes tattered, sweating buckets, bleeding slightly from his eyes (his heatvision had been left flaring about an hour too long), Kon was lost in a haze of self-hatred. The abject rage had died down, but what was left was a sheen of self-loathing that'd been left behind like greasy residue in its place.
"She says, 'We've gotta hold on to what we've got.
It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not.
We've got each other and that's a lot.
For loooove we'll give. It. A shot.'"
It was funny how each time something horribly traumatic happened in his life, he kept thinking nothing could ever feel worse. Accidentally get some poor dude killed showboating and playing up the fame thing? Couldn't get worse. Get betrayed by some sick, psycho older woman who was toying with him? Couldn't get worse. Watch his first love die? Couldn't get worse. Lose a mentor? Couldn't get worse. Get conscripted to be a medic holding people's guts together in a war, get tortured on Apokolips, watch a friend get traumatized as a part of him died, get brainwashed and attack his friends, actually freakin' die...
It always got worse. The never-ending trauma congo line went on.
"Whoooooa, we're half way there
Whooooa, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear
Whooooa, livin' on a prayer!"
The gym was mostly soundproofed but anyone near the lower levels might have heard the thunderous booms and zappy noises from his training/smashing session, what with some of them shaking the foundation of the place. They'd gone quiet now. He'd forgotten to lock the door, which meant if anyone walked in they'd be forced to listen to his terrible singing.