[i][b]New York March, 20th, 2005 9AM[/b][/i] Ted dropped the junk-fiends quick, then left them lying in the streets, crying for their mamma's and groaning about the pain. He could have called the cops, got them carted away, but he felt getting the snot punched out of them by an old grey hair was probably punishment enough. If they came around again he might revise that position, but for now he was happy to leave them be. He didn't think they'd be bothering no one anytime soon anyway. The old boxer was in much finer fettle after that little fracas, feeling twenty years younger than he had when he got outta bed. Funny how a wee morning jog had left him like death warmed over, but rearrange some meth-head's faces and it was like he was walking on air. He felt so good that he was almost tempted to dig that old locker outta the back of his closet, the one with the big, heavy lock, to open that lock and take out the contents held within, a dusty old costume that was as precious as gold or jewels to Ted, and get back into the vigilante business. After all, looked like he was still good at it. But he was only [i]'almost tempted'[/i]. That was a young mans game, and no one liked to see the old champion come outta retirement just to get humiliated by some young, hungry contender. Smashing some sense into half-skeletal junkies was one thing, taking on the very worst criminals that New York had to offer was a whole different ball game. Whether he liked it or not Wildcat was staying in that locker, where he belonged. Ted returned to the gym, where Sock brought himself to remark that Ted looked the happiest that he'd seen him in. . . ever, after which the two got down to work, taking promising young scrappers and molding them into future champions. Or at least that's how Ted described it, Sock was more inclined to describe it as trying to make a silk purse outta lousy pig's ears, but then Sock always had been a miserable sort. Regardless of Sock's bitching it was clear that most of boys showed real talent, while others had an insatiable drive that made them push themselves to the very limit of their abilities. Ted wouldn't accept anything less of his fighters, and they knew if they ever slacked then they'd be outta Grant's faster than a Texas ten count. The best of the bunch was a young fella called Claudio Volpe, nicknamed [i]Clawhammer[/i] on account of the ugly mess he made of anyone mad enough to step into the ring with him. He was strong, fast, skilled, and so damn dedicated to his training that Ted wasn't quite sure when he got the time to sleep. So it came as a surprise when Volpe was late for said training, without as much as a phone call as to why. It wasn't like him, and Ted, while initially annoyed with Claudio's laxness, grew more and more concerned as the minutes crawled into hours with still no word. Eight PM, closing time for the gym, came and went, and while locking up Ted decided he'd stroll across to Volpe's apartment and check up on the trainee, get some answers. He better not be sleeping one off, Ted brooded, or there would be hell to pay. Though by the time Ted arrived at Claudio's place it looked like hell had already been paid, and with interest on top. The door had been busted off it’s hinges, though someone had taken the time to lean it haphazardly back in place, a flimsy attempt at putting a sheen of normalcy on the scene. Ted pulled the useless hunk of wood outta the way and edged warily inside, hackles up and ready for anything. The trail of destruction only got worse inside the apartment, pictures pulled off the walls, the remains of an oak bookshelf that was little more than kindling now, books ripped and shredded. Ted couldn’t help thinking that was strange, as he’d never pinned Volpe as much of a reader. Someone had taken their time wrecking this place, putting a real shift in, being meticulous in their effort to destroy all of Claudio’s worldly possessions’. Dick-headedness of the highest degree. Ted carried on down the hall and into a living area. A half-shattered lamp came flying towards him, only reactions honed by years of dodging-things-that-would-hurt-if-they-hit-you practice allowing him to sway outta the way. “Come back for more, huh shit-birds!? Well I’m gonna kill you for what you did to Claudio!“ A tall, suited figure screeched, brandishing a dining chair like it was a battle-axe, and looking like he meant to use it to knock Ted’s brains out. The old fighter took a cautious step back, throwing his palms up skywards. “Whoa, whoa, calm down there son. I’m Ted Grant, Claudio’s trainer. He never showed today, so I came to check on him, see what’s what, just to find this mess.” Ted made a real effort to look as non-threatening as possible, no small task for someone who looked as inherently rough around the edges as he did. For a half second it looked like the other guy was gonna swing with that chair regardless, but at the last second he calmed down and lowered his makeshift club, though didn’t drop it completely, Ted noted. Still, good thing for him because if he had swung Ted woulda been forced to hurt him. “Yeah, yeah. Ted Grant, now I recognise you. Claudio’s always speaking about you. Doesn’t shut up, really.” The suit looked a bit sheepish, maybe embarrassed about the lamp-throwing now, though Ted forgave him for his frayed nerves, considering the circumstances. “And you are. . . ?” Ted coaxed, seeing as the other guy didn’t introduce himself. “I’m his big brother, Luciano.” Now that he mentioned it Ted could see a resemblance. Luciano shared his brothers swarthy coloring, blunt features, and big build, though he wasn't as weighty, lacking the sheer muscle mass that Claudio had built up through all his training. The kid had mentioned having brothers, though Ted didn't know too much about them. Family didn't come up much during bag-work and sparring. The gum-shield generally got in the way of chit-chat. "Hrrm. And where is your brother?" The only question that really mattered right now. Luciano took a step back, gesturing for Ted to come further into the room, pointing at a three-seater couch that had it's back to him. The old boxer stepped around it to see Claudio spread upon the upholstery, unconscious. The kid was in a bad way, all bloodied and bruised, clothes ripped and torn, face so beat and swollen that he mighta passed for the elephant man. If it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of his chest you'd be forgiven for thinking he'd already died, so serious was his injuries. Ted had seen men die from a lot less, but then Claudio was a fighter, that much was evident, if not already then from his bloodied knuckles. The Clawhammer hadn't gone down easy, and Ted guessed who'd ever done this was smarting right now. "Why haven't you got him to a hospital?" Hissed Ted, under his breath so he wouldn't wake the kid. Not that there was much risk of him rousing, not right now. Luciano glanced away, as if he was embarrassed to answer. "Claudio. . . before he lost consciousness, he told me not to. Say's the one's who did this told him that if he involved the police then they'd come back for him, for our familly, that they'd finish the job. He made me promise not to take him to the hospital, knew the cops would want answers. I have a doctor friend though, one who can be trusted. Our cousin is fetching her now. They wont be long, and once Claudio is stable I shall take him to my home, to recover." Ted grunted in reply, not too happy that the kid wasn't receiving proper medical care. He just had to chew on it though, seeing in Luciano's face that he wouldn't be dissuaded. At least they'd made other provisions. Instead the old fighter changed tact, to something he could deal with. "Claudio tell you who did this?" Ted fervently hoped so. Would make what comes next just that much simpler. "No, he didn't, but I can guess," Luciano replied, his heavy brow furrowing. "This was the work of that cocksucking, wannabe-mobster Victor Moretti. Or more likely it was the Dragna twins, acting on Victor's orders, because he never, ever get's his hands dirty, not when he can pay other men to do it for him." "He's been trying to get Claudio to join his payroll for a long time, to become his new legbreaker. Claudio always says no, wanting nothing to do with Moretti's black buisness. Moretti obviously got tired of being told no, decided he'd give my little brother an ultimatium." It was a familiar story to Ted. Mobsters always needed new muscle, especially in a world with men like Batman, Superman and the Flash, chewing through regular mooks faster than a cow through cud. And where was the easiest place to get that muscle, why from the inner cities troubled youth. And one like Claudio, who already knew the best way to smash faces, well he was just too tempting a prize to pass over. Only problem was the kid had some real tight morals, morals that would have to be beat outta him, threaten those he hold dear some, until you had yourself the perfect little enforcer. Yeah, Ted had seen this before, almost ended up a victim of it himself, once upon a time. "Are you alright, you look ill." Said Luciano. And yeah, he was right, Ted was sick. Sick to his stomache of men like Moretti. But luckily he knew just the thing to set him right again. Looked like the Wildcat was getting outta that locker after all.