Unknown to him, Damien was doing nothing but edging him on when he spoke back to him. Talk of suing over slander got him a laugh, a humored, entertained laugh that broke free and told him that Impulse wouldn’t be frightened into backing down. “Go right ahead. Sue me. Try it. You think I care? If you’re such a coward that you have to sue someone because they’re talking about you, then have fun with that.” He tapped his red sneaker against the ground, crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them. “I did what I could to survive. Comics don’t tell everything. They don’t tell how a kid had to get along on the streets with thugs and gangs and drug dealers on every corner. Tell them about my habit. It doesn’t bother me.” And it didn’t. He had stolen so that he wouldn’t have to sleep outdoors, vulnerable to attacks and everything else that could bring him down. He had made that mistake once, and hadn’t wanted to make it twice. He’d picked up the habit again not that long ago, and he’d felt bad about it afterward. Hadn’t kept the money for himself that time.
“Like I said, have fun with that. I’m sure you’ll get all excited before you find out that there will be no court date. I have my ways too, you know.” Being a member of the Justice League, and having Oliver Queen as a sort of unofficial guardian had its benefits.
Impulse witnessed Damien’s emotions flicker. He saw the anger take it’s place and he smirked, satisfied that he’d been the cause. “Here’s the thing, darling: I know an evil asshole when I see him standing right in front of me. My instincts, they’re usually always right.” He paused, thought of the name. Mark? Mark, who was Mark? He didn’t know and didn’t care. But he could use it anyway.
“Yeah, I bet he cared about you. You have to work your bullshit on him too? Have to drag him up, lock him in your room? Did you defile him too?”