Lydia slowly fell back into her regular routine as if she had never left. But she was more pleasant to Arthur, if only by a hair. In fact, after all he had done, she almost regretted giving him a hard time. Almost.
Shortly after her mother left, Barrett called Lydia to her office. She found the doctor not in the examination room, but in her private, inner sanctum of an office adjacent to it. Barrett was staring through a microscope, adjusting and readjusting the view of an unknown sample. A cigarette dangled from her lips. Lydia feared it would fall and set the carpet on fire.
The office was akin to that of a headmaster at a college. Barrett’s white coat contrasted sharply against the wooden walls and bookshelves. Behind her was a large window. A few pictures of family and friends were on her desk. One was of Barrett hugging a girl wearing a high school graduation gown and cap. Judging by the similar short curly hair and dark eyes, Lydia assumed she was Barrett’s daughter. That was where the similarities ended. The girl had hair as black as oil, a deep tan complexion, and larger eyes that made Lydia think she took after the father.
A golden wedding ring, hanging from the chain around her neck, slipped through the folds of her coat as she leaned over the microscope. When Lydia stepped in, Barrett beckoned her over. “Be right with you,” she said. Barrett folded the ring back under her coat. “Take a seat.”
“What are you looking at?” Lydia asked, sitting down.
“The SN91 cure,” Barrett said. “I asked Sylvia to get me a sample.” Lydia deduced that was what had been in the vial. Barrett sat back and puffed on her cigarette, swiveling her chair away from Lydia.
“Why not ask for the cure?”
Barrett put out her cigarette. “Tried that. Rooke didn’t want to share. But we need to be able to manufacture this stuff in an emergency.” She took the sample slide off and put away the microscope. “Problem is how he fits the SN91 and this thing together. The process of their recipes keeps eluding me. He’s made a good puzzle out of this one. I’ll give him that. It’s especially taxing that each new cure is different from the last. On the bright side, we did get some more information about how the disease acts after your little brawl. Might be able to make a cure of our own soon.” She took out her box of cigarettes, but put it away. “Alright. We had better get going.”
Lydia was taken to a laboratory. Brentle, the technician, was pouring over Lydia’s crushed braces. To Lydia he seemed frazzled. He lifted one up, moaning as if he were lamenting a dead pet. “My Mighty Mitts,” he said. He dropped the brace, letting it roll off the table.
He seemed so pitiful. Lydia reached out to him, but Barrett turned her away. “Stop being so melodramatic, Scott.”
As if those were the secret words, all trace of depression was erased from his sobbing eyes. He ran to another table excitedly, fumbling around with a sheet covering on it. “You’re right! You’re absolutely right! Those Mighty Mitts were crude, unworthy! Their durability was laughable! How could I send you out in those?” He paused, waiting for an answer. When he received none, he cleared his throat. “Anyway, we have here another part of your skeletal design!” He yanked off the sheet. On the table were two more braces, chalk white, and conformed to the shape of a leg. Other than the expanded size and openings for the foot, they were not much different from Lydia’s arm braces.
Brentle hefted one of the braces. “While working on the skeletal design, I found a material to give it more durability. Yes, sir!” He knocked on the kneecap of the brace. “These babies should be able to take quite a punch and reduce a little more of your bone stress! Try them on! Try them on!”
It was odd, like putting on a torn pair of pants. Brentle asked Lydia to walk around and acclimatize herself to the braces. “I call them—are you ready? The Iron Legs!” Brentle said, adding a rumble to his voice. He whistled to one of the other technicians to bring in several soccer balls. Brentle set the balls in front of Lydia as the other technician held up what appeared to be a radar gun.
“Go on!” he urged Lydia. “Kick them!”
Lydia walked up to one of the balls and kicked. It flew wildly into the air, bouncing off the corner of the room. One of the technicians caught the ball.
“Excellent! Another! Another!” Brentle said, cheering her on.
She revved her foot up and aimed at the wall. Kicking harder, the soccer ball smashed against the wall, then careened to the side. The technicians dove behind their equipment, covering their heads as the ball zipped by. Lydia tried to catch it, but the ball was too fast for her. Everyone hid and waited for the ball to lose momentum. It came to a halt under a table.
Setting aside the soccer balls, Brentle brought out a tire-sized medicine ball. “Okay,” he said, setting the ball up and then moving to a safe distance. “You should be able to kick this without damaging your foot.”
Barrett piped up. “Scott, I don’t think this is the best idea.” He laughed her off, so Barrett stood near the exit.
The medicine ball had to have been about Lydia’s weight. Yet she kicked it effortlessly. Like its lighter brethren, the medicine ball gravitated toward the technicians after hitting the wall. Fortunately, Lydia was able to outrun the ball. She caught it before it tumbled into their equipment.
Throughout the rest of the testing, Brentle asked Lydia to use her feet for more demanding tasks. Kicking heavier objects, pushing against surfaces with her legs, or anything he thought could test bone stress. She accomplished many of the tasks with little to no pain. When he was finished, he allowed Lydia to keep the leg braces as well. “Don’t go smashing those!” he said jokingly. “We’ll update your Iron Arms—yes, Mighty Mitts wasn’t doing it for me—and the rest of your skeletal suit. With any luck, it should be done within the month.”
Lydia thanked him and Barrett took her downstairs. “I’d hate to be facing you in any sports game,” Barrett said.
Or in a fight, Lydia thought. She gave a little kick.
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Halfway Heroes Page 69