The Good Fight 4: Homefront

by Ian Thomas Healy

  Will did not see a muscle-bound meta-villain, that walking engine of mass destruction that everyone else saw. He saw a scared girl, a prisoner of fate, a precious person in real pain and confusion. It made no sense, but these things are not required to be reasonable.

  Skorn, looking back, must have seen something in him as well, because she looked startled, thrown off kilter. At that moment, these two unlikely people had built a bridge between them that would stand for a lifetime.

  Then, the moment had passed, and both Will and Skorn shook their heads, dazed. Police were forming up a new line, and Johnny Saturn reappeared atop a cop car. Johnny Saturn looked uninjured and eager to rejoin the battle.

  Will looked at Skorn, and he said “Run! Go through the restaurant! Out the back! Run!”

  She ran.

  * * *

  Will remembered the first time she came to him. It was later on the same day they met, the day he had helped her escape.

  Will’s apartment was dark, and he sat on his terrace, feeling the night air, listening to the sounds of the city rise from below. He wore a robe, and his bottle of wine was close at hand. His hands were taped up where he had scraped them up on the street. He had a lot to consider.

  The doorbell rang, but he was not surprised. If she wanted to find him, all she had to do was read the report about the battle in the evening edition of the Spire City Gazette, and then look up J. William Medal in the phone book. Will had told the doorman to ring her in, just in case she used the street entrance. Will had known she would come.

  Will opened the door, and there she stood, beyond his threshold: A tall woman in an overcoat, the brim up. She wore dark sunglasses, which obscured some of the tattooed hash marks that reached diagonally across her face, from her chin to her forehead.

  “Hi,” she said, sounding a little hesitant. “I’m Michelle Breemer.”

  “Hi, Michelle, I’m Will. Come in.”

  Will rolled toward the terrace, but she stopped him. “Don’t go into the light,” she said, and she removed her sunglasses. She sat on the couch near him, and their faces were close together. All the air seemed to have gone out of the room as their eyes met again.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” she began. “I couldn’t help it. I . . . This is all wrong.”

  Will leaned in and kissed her, and they did not speak for a long time.

  That night, they were like one person in a single skin, safe in the dark. It was as if they had been alone all their lives, and now they had each other. It was a humbling, frightening experience, and they held each other with all their might and will. There had been other women in Will’s life, but those early experiences did not even rate with this one. Those had been fumbling encounters, dorm rooms liaisons, second dates, laughing awkwardness. This time was different.

  “So, it does work,” said Michelle as her hand cupped his manhood.

  “Like a champ,” said Will, “and reporting for duty.”

  “I thought, with you being in a wheelchair and all, that—”

  “The effects of a spinal injury can vary a lot,” he said.

  Will skipped work the next day. The two of them stayed in his bed, the drapes pulled tight, safe in the gloom and alone with each other.

  “This is all wrong,” Michelle said. “We are from two different worlds. I grew up in a double-wide, under power lines, next to a toxic waste dump. Until recently I shared a bed with two psychopaths, at the same time. I . . . I have tattoos on my face. I’m not like you. . .”

  “Hush,” said Will, trying to subdue her with kisses.

  “My father used me. I hooked and used until the thing that gave me the power happened. I didn’t finish tenth grade—”

  Will listened to her. He did not care about any of that. He was caught in a magnetic field with her. He was mesmerized and obsessed with her, and nothing else mattered.

  “You poor dear,” he said. “Have you ever been happy, even one day in your life?”

  Michelle wept, her sadness overwhelming her.

  “Never once,” she said. “Until now.”

  Will begged her to give it all up, to go away with him. She could not. The police wanted her on innumerable counts, which included scores of first-degree murder, second-degree murder, and manslaughter charges, and a bucket-load of others that included aggravated assault, larceny, resisting arrest, intimidation, vehicular theft, criminal damage to property, and so many more.

  Death was the only way out of the Iron Brigade. No one was allowed to walk away from the organization or Tactical’s rule. Besides, it was not as if a six-foot-six, heavily muscled woman with tattoos could change her name and assume a new identity. She was trapped, well and truly. Michelle Breemer had never had a chance for a normal life. She had never gotten one fair break or even one person willing to take a gamble on her future. Her road had been paved with sharp stones, and her feet were bruised and cut, but it was the only road open to her.

  “This is it,” she announced. “We can’t do this again. We’ll get caught. Tactical will kill me, or you, or worse.”

  “Stay,” pleaded Will. “We can work it out. There’s always a way.”

  Michelle, dressed and ready to leave, touched his face tenderly. “There’s no way, Will. I’m sorry for complicating your life, but this is it. Thank you, and goodbye.”

  With that, she was gone, and Will was more alone than he had ever been in his life. Not since those bitter nights in the Children’s Ward at Spire City General, when he lay alone in the dark, feeling disembodied from his legs, did he feel so at a loss.

  But, it did not end.

  Michelle came back again and again. They could no more avoid each other than a moth could resist a flame. Together, they were spiraling in, getting closer to the fire all the time, and it was only a matter of time until they got burned.

  * * *

  For a while, it all worked like clockwork, and Team Saturn (as they privately called it) became the model of efficiency.

  Greg Buchanan left the police department and got his private investigator’s license, but he often still worked with the police as a hired consultant. In many ways, he worked with his old department more now than when he had been a full-time detective. Will took Greg’s finances, shaped them up, and turned them into a small fortune, just in case the day came when Greg decided he no longer could work both sides of the fence.

  Will and Greg had it all covered.

  The rest of the unofficial team was a colorful band of misfits that included a quantum engineer, a world-class psychic, a surgical nurse, a cyborg super-hacker, and a brilliant materials engineer. To the public, Johnny Saturn was still a lone vigilante, and few people knew that it took a support staff of dedicated experts keep him in the field. It was as if Johnny Saturn were a race car driver, and the others were his pit crew.

  When it came to enemies, the Greg Buchanan incarnation of Johnny Saturn was an overachiever. He had an intense, sometimes manic vendetta against Dr. Victor Wissenschaft, an untouchable old monster who ruled Spire City from his bank accounts, but all that finally ended with the mad scientist’s death. Johnny Saturn also had an ongoing war with Spire City’s crime boss, Tactical, formerly known as Nicholai Demetr. For a long time, Johnny Saturn, Dr. Wissenschaft, and Tactical had made up a three-way hate-fest that boiled like a cracked cauldron, always ready to break and spew burning bile across the city. Wissenschaft was gone, but Tactical was still out there pulling strings and choking Spire City.

  Will’s life had changed, too. He had quit his position at the firm of Gray, Gray, and Gris, despite an offer to become a partner, and he had established his own firm. Will was good at what he did, and soon all the charges and suits filed against Johnny Saturn had been dropped. The statements Will issued to the media brought in a steady stream of positive press for the mystery man, as well.

  Will, by association with Johnny Saturn, now had his share of enemies too, and a bodyguard became a necessity.

  Will hired a metahuman n
amed Nils Zilcher, an ex-con who had found religion during his prison time. Nils, once called Bombastic, was a mountain of grotesque musculature, and he almost was indestructible: he had been augmented in the nineties by Dr. Wissenschaft, and Bombastic had once been a lieutenant for the terrorist, Dr. Horatio Synn. All that had changed since prison, and now Nils was an oversized nerd with a well-thumbed Bible and a taste for comics, B-Movies, and collecting science fiction memorabilia. Nils needed the work because it took a potent (and expensive) cocktail of pharmaceuticals to keep the pain from his implants and modifications at bay, and Will was glad to provide the big man employment.

  Will liked the monstrously outsized man. He had given Nils bonuses on numerous occasions, helped him find an outfitter who could make decent suits for someone so large and bulky and provided him with the apartment next to Will’s. Nils responded with iron-bound loyalty, and the giant bruiser now had saved Will’s life on at least three separate occasions. As an ex-convict, Nils could not legally own a firearm, but he did not need one—his hands and gargantuan strength were plenty. Wherever Will rolled, he did so with his hulking shadow, Nils Zilcher.

  Will and Greg got on well. Will could not manage Greg—that “Dirty Harry” loner instinct was too ingrained in the vigilante—but the attorney could advise and guide the hero at times. When Will needed a private investigator or a mystery man, Greg was there. When Greg needed a lawyer or a financial advisor, Will was there.

  Team Saturn worked like a finely tuned timepiece for a time. Then, it did not. Cogs caught, springs uncoiled, and gears got stuck.

  * * *

  Autumn arrived, yet the year had been too dry, and the leaves turned brown until they broke free in the wind and floated to the earth. No riot of color this year for Spire City.

  Team Saturn had made real inroads into the local crime terrain. Johnny Saturn managed to disrupt human trafficking rings, the illegal arms trade, and he even broke a large crack cocaine ring. He repeatedly had gone toe-to-toe with the local metahuman population, trading blows with Lacerater, the Rogue Statesman, the Scary Men, and more than a dozen other costumed, powered criminals. Johnny Saturn won more of these meta-duels than not, and he never lost outright. The press loved him, and the metahuman community, which had always fostered nothing but dismissiveness, disdain, and contempt for non-powered mystery men, viewed Johnny Saturn with hard-won respect.

  Will, accompanied by his ever-present shadow, Nils, rolled over the threshold into the Rafert Governmental Annex at the Spire City Municipal Complex. As an attorney, Will was able to flash a pass that allowed him immediate entry into the building, bypassing the long lines of resentful, glaring people who stood in the queues waiting for their turn with the metal detectors. Will and Nils approached the elevator terminals, and that is where Will noticed a familiar man.

  The “Coat Man,” as Will called him, was a homeless person who spent his days in the Municipal Complex’s lobby to keep warm. He was a frightening figure, large and broad-shouldered, and made larger yet by the heavy winter coat he wore in the humid lobby. His hood was up and cinched tight, leaving only an oval of his face showing. That face was almost true black, his skin darker than that of most African-Americans, and it framed his eyes in a way that made them seem enormous and intense.

  Will had noticed the Coat Man maybe a dozen times. Will often gave money to homeless people, and he donated money to the local missions annually, yet he had never given money to this man. He had heard from people that worked here that this fellow was mute: something terrible had happened to him overseas while serving in the military, and he had never spoken again. Now, the Coat Man filled his long days by sitting in the lobby and writing poetry in a small notebook. He would stare at people, then write, flip a page, and write more. All in all, it was quite unnerving, and it made people leery.

  Will secretly was ashamed of the apprehension he felt for this man, and today he determined he would do something about it. He turned his wheelchair and rolled into the Coat Man’s line of sight.

  “Morning, sir. I heard you were in the military.”

  The Coat Man looked at Will, and then his gaze fell to his notebook where he quickly wrote something. The Coat Man ripped the page out and handed it to Will.

  “I’m sorry, but this is not going to end well.”

  That was all the note said, nothing more.

  Will regarded the message, and then he folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “You’re right, of course,” Will said to the big man. “I knew that from the beginning. But, what else can you do?” He handed the big man a twenty dollar bill, then turned and rolled away.

  “Boss,” said Nils, “can I ask what that was? What did that guy give you, a stock tip or something?”

  “Yeah,” replied Will, “a stock tip. Come on. We’ve got court.”

  * * *

  Will and Michelle lay in bed, the drapes pulled, with long spears of light lying across them from wherever there was a gap in the drapery. Michelle had introduced Will to the joys of smoking condensed hash, and they took turns drawing in deep lungfuls of the pungent smoke, holding it for a time, and then exhaling. She always had a variety to choose some, because she claimed to “know some people.”

  “When I was a kid,” mused Will, “I used to listen to Patti Smith’s song ‘Horses.’ I would play it again and again, trying to figure out what she was talking about. It made me feel. . . I don’t know. . .”

  “Crazy, alive,” Michelle answered for him. “I had that album too. It was just so out there. I’m not surprised you had it, too.”

  They kissed, but there was a sense of urgency in the room, an air of desperation.

  “Our luck is going to run out anytime,” said Michelle.

  “I know. It can’t go on like this. It’s probably already too late.”

  They lay in silence for a moment, just touching. The rest of the world, all the people beyond the bedroom’s walls, suddenly seemed dangerous, sinister, like coiled things ready to strike and devour their happiness and security. The Sword of Damocles was always out there, waiting to drop and end their fragile happiness. The two of them had stopped talking weeks ago about ending their affair. They knew better. This thing would be the end of them.

  They had been doomed from the start. Michelle’s boss was Tactical, the underworld czar of Spire City. Will’s partner was Johnny Saturn, Tactical’s sworn enemy. Will had shielded Johnny Saturn again and again, and he had used his legal prowess to confound Tactical’s legal team too many times.

  “I’m sorry, but this is not going to end well,” the Coat Man’s note had said. How right he was.

  “Will, I want to try something.”

  “I’ll try anything with you,” replied Will, his handsome face bent in a knowing leer.

  Michelle laughed, and then she sat up. “Not like that, silly. Something else, but you might not like it.”

  “What?” said Will, using the bar installed over his bed to pull himself into a sitting position. This bar, and other handles like it here, in his closet, and in his bathroom, gave Will the leverage to pull himself from bed to the wheelchair, the wheelchair to the toilet, wheelchair to shower, and so forth.

  “I don’t understand the thing that gave me powers,” began Michelle. “It’s like, I don’t know, a green spotlight that crawled in through my mouth. It made me big, strong, and nearly invulnerable. I don’t have any idea where it came from, but . . .” Michelle seemed at a loss for words, trying to explain something outside her vocabulary.

  “You’re its host, is that what you are trying to say?” Will said. “It lives in you, and in return, it gives you the ability to defend yourself and it.”

  “Yeah,” said Michelle, nodding her head. “Well, what if I gave some of it to you—do you think you could walk, then?”

  Will sat for a moment saying nothing, considering his response. If such a thing were even possible, he would refuse. He had no intentions of compromising the thing that made Michel
le distinct. Before he could put this to words, Michelle gently lifted his chin with her hand and kissed him.

  This kiss was not one of passion, but more an open-mouthed sealing of lips and a meeting of skulls. Green energy lighted their cheeks from within, and an intense pulse of power passed from Michelle into Will.

  Will pulled away slowly, marveling at the stinging warmth that passed through him. He should have been angry because Michelle had taken liberty with him without his consent, but he was not. Will pulled off the sheets that half covered his naked body. Green tattoos, much like those that covered Michelle’s body, momentarily flashed across his abdomen, pelvis, and thighs. His legs began to quiver, and painful needle stings stabbed at his legs and feet.

  “Good Lord!” said Will—He had not felt real pain, or anything, for that matter, in his legs and feet for years. He understood phantom pain, and this was no phantom! His first impulse was to draw up his legs, pull his knees under his chin, and hug his legs to him. To his surprise, his limbs, uncoordinated and rubbery after so many years disuse, began to move and shift in response. His lower extremities were not as wasted as they could have been because Will regularly saw a physical therapist who worked the muscles and tendons to keep his legs from shriveling up and freezing.

  Michelle, appearing a bit smaller after having siphoned off some of her power, reached out to help him. A flash of green pulsed when their skin came into contact, and it was all over. All unbidden, the portion of Michelle’s loaned power snapped back into her, and Will’s legs went limp again. Apparently, her metahuman energies had no desire to be divided up.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” moaned Michelle. I, well I—“

  “Don't apologize,” said Will. “Look!”

  They both stared at Will’s feet, but nothing happened.

  Then, his toes moved. Not much, but a little.

  “I did that,” exclaimed Will. “That’s me. Get something sharp—I want you to help me test my reflexes and nerve endings.”

  Will smiled as Michelle ran to the bathroom to find a sharp implement. Maybe the Coat Man was wrong. Maybe things would turn out alright after all.