Oh no, they're feeding him alright, but it doesn't mean that it's anything close to gourmet.
Or even the slop that most fast food chains try to pawn off as being "food".
But its food, and Superwoman has ensured that there is nutritional value to it. After all, they can't have their star superhero fighting crime if he's not in top form, can they?
She freezes outside his cell and considers turning around. Superwoman hates threats of any kind, and she knows full well that he'll actually go through with the singing if he doesn't get fed.
She grimaces. She has not choice. He must be fed.
She tosses Gladiator a shirt as she enters. "Stop whining and put that on. Dinner's served."
Superwoman glares at him, her eyes glowing faintly red. "Honestly, you act more and more like a dog every day," she says. "I can practically see you drooling at the mouth, as though you were one of Pavlov's dogs."
"Food. Now. Bark bark whine," he says. "'Sides, isn't that what you all want me to be? Whose more disgusting--the person that acts like the dog or the people that treat someone else like a dog and want them to act that way?"
He starts to shovel food into his mouth with his fingers--the only option he has, really.
"I thought it was more common sense than philosophy," he says, after swallowing. "And you know, common decency, but there's a shortage of that around here."
A twin pair of beams of sizzling heat hits some of the food, burning it to cinder. "We're not paying you for your smart mouth, so if I were you, I'd start keeping those ideas to myself," she says. "Furthermore, you're no longer allowed to converse with any of the heroes who are falling out of the sky and into our world. Clearly, you've never been able to keep things close to the vest."
Oh, there's the frowny face. That was perfectly good disgusting food!
"One, you don't pay me at all. Two, maybe if you'd let me talk to somebody--other than pleasant individuals like Spence--" he spits it out like a curse word "--and yourself--I'd feel less chatty when you let me out."
He hangs his head, looking miserable.
"Can I talk to Hope? She's nice. We could play Scrabble."
"Play what?" Superwoman stared at Gladiator incredulously, her eyes opening wide from behind her cowl. "No. No you can't. And this is exactly why I'm limiting her visits to you," Superwoman says. "She's too nice. Which, really, for someone that connected to Luthor..." Superwoman shakes her head. "Off topic. You messed up big time by dropping whatever hints you were dropping. Don't ever do that again. You're not as hard to replace as you think you might be." She crossed her arms. "Really? Scrabble? Scattergories is a much better game." ....dammit, Gladiator, stop pulling Superwoman off-topic. "That being said, we don't particularly want to replace you, and you don't want to know what happens if we have to."
The young man leans closer so that he's in the light, and blue eyes peer up at her, narrowed.
"Yeah, I cost the government how many billions of dollars now? Didn't they have to make cuts to NASA and social security to fund this program? That's a lot of money. It'd be a shame if you had nothing to show for it, like a hero that decided he didn't want to hero anymore. People might wonder where all that money'd gone, when it could be going towards feeding them."
"Are you threatening me, kid?" Superwoman asked, staring right back into his blue eyes. "Are you threatening me?" She strides up to him and comes dangerously close to his face. "Trust me when I say that that's the last thing you want to do."
"It'd really suck, wouldn't it? If you paraded me around. I'm kissing babies, shaking hands. All of a sudden, for no reason, I blow my own brains out with my telekinesis on national television. Be tough to explain that one away. The heroes would start poking around, wondering why I did it..."
"What the hell do you want, kid?" Superwoman asked. "You wanna be called Superman? Is that it? Because I'm telling you now, as the sole bearer of the S-shield, that isn't happening."
"What I want," he says slowly. "Is a #*%&ing cheeseburger sometimes. It doesn't have to even be every day. Once a week, a #*%&ing honest-to-god Big Belly Burger."
He adds, "And a blanket and a pillow. They can be somebody's shabby hand-me-downs, I don't care."
A pause, and then he adds, "And let me see Hope. Or some soldier who doesn't hate my face. Just...just somebody. Somebody nice. To talk to for a little while."
He adds, louder, "You writing this down, general?" because he knows he's listening and watching, like always.
Or even the slop that most fast food chains try to pawn off as being "food".
But its food, and Superwoman has ensured that there is nutritional value to it. After all, they can't have their star superhero fighting crime if he's not in top form, can they?
She freezes outside his cell and considers turning around. Superwoman hates threats of any kind, and she knows full well that he'll actually go through with the singing if he doesn't get fed.
She grimaces. She has not choice. He must be fed.
She tosses Gladiator a shirt as she enters. "Stop whining and put that on. Dinner's served."
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"I thought it was more common sense than philosophy," he says, after swallowing. "And you know, common decency, but there's a shortage of that around here."
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"One, you don't pay me at all. Two, maybe if you'd let me talk to somebody--other than pleasant individuals like Spence--" he spits it out like a curse word "--and yourself--I'd feel less chatty when you let me out."
He hangs his head, looking miserable.
"Can I talk to Hope? She's nice. We could play Scrabble."
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"Yeah, I cost the government how many billions of dollars now? Didn't they have to make cuts to NASA and social security to fund this program? That's a lot of money. It'd be a shame if you had nothing to show for it, like a hero that decided he didn't want to hero anymore. People might wonder where all that money'd gone, when it could be going towards feeding them."
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Then he just looks up at her and lets that sink in.
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That...she hadn't expected him to say that.
She watched him for a long minute before striking him with the back of her hand.
"Never. Do. That. Again. Ever," she hissed.
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"It'd really suck, wouldn't it? If you paraded me around. I'm kissing babies, shaking hands. All of a sudden, for no reason, I blow my own brains out with my telekinesis on national television. Be tough to explain that one away. The heroes would start poking around, wondering why I did it..."
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He adds, "And a blanket and a pillow. They can be somebody's shabby hand-me-downs, I don't care."
A pause, and then he adds, "And let me see Hope. Or some soldier who doesn't hate my face. Just...just somebody. Somebody nice. To talk to for a little while."
He adds, louder, "You writing this down, general?" because he knows he's listening and watching, like always.
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