by Mathy, Scott
“Your commitment to the stability of our society is commendable, Mr. Knolls. Do not mistake my reputation and methods as an indication of my intentions. We want the same thing: to protect those who cannot protect themselves.” He waited for an answer.
His boss’s words felt like a boulder in the pit of his stomach, “Whatever you say, Wulf. You know where to find me.”
“We’ll be in touch soon, then. I have so many wonderful plans for you.” Wulf ended the call, leaving Dwight to contemplate how long it would be before another Associate appeared at his door, bringing a new briefcase and a new target.
For now, he had to find a pizza place and a ride home.
Six
Dwight spent the next three days living in as close to quiet relaxation as he could in his hectic world. Ian kept him company, going as far as to invite him to play some of his most recent purchases. The hitman politely declined, seeing some of his more famous jobs still included in the roster of the games.
Once the funds for the Sierra Grande mission came through, Dwight followed his traditional methods of celebrating: he bought several high-end meals and a treasure trove of new toys for his spoiled pet. His most recent venture, a wildly decadent steak at the top chophouse in the city, found him watching the nightly news. He sat at the bar, mostly due to the inescapable fact that he would never look like the kind of person who could frequent this restaurant. On the television screen, he saw smoke rising from the Guild’s tower.
He caught the bartender’s attention and pointed at the television, “Can you turn it up?”
The bartender, a middle-aged woman with fading blonde hair, obliged him, adjusting the volume with nothing more than a flick of her wrist. She watched Dwight’s reaction, “We can’t all be heroes. Some of us just got parlor tricks.” He guessed she’d used the explanation many times before; it was probably a good way to make extra tips.
“At least you don’t have to find the remote,” he said, smiling pleasantly over his drink. He looked up to the news report.
He caught up to the anchor’s voice, “…an explosion at the Justice Guild’s tower has ravaged the lower levels. Senior Guild members and fire crews are struggling to put out the blaze and evacuate the building. No information yet on the cause of the blast. We are live at the scene for further coverage.”
The shot cut away to Midas in flight carrying two wounded Capes from the burning building. Dwight recognized one of the fallen as Ar-Marie. Outside of her suit, the young Cape was as vulnerable as anyone else. Paramedics rushed to take the bleeding and burned teen from Midas’s arms as he drifted down beside the waiting ambulances. At the back of his mind, Dwight hoped she was alive. Regardless of the violence of their last encounter, she had been doing her job, and Dwight couldn’t fault her.
Dwight finished his meal as the footage continued, countless Capes racing to pull survivors from the inferno. By the time he was ready to leave, the entirety of the bar was watching along with him in silence. For many, it wasn’t the spectacle of so many heroes struggling to save their comrades; it was the familiar memory of the Powers’ battles that had torn their city apart. Dwight knew that a very real war might lay just over the horizon. This time, it wouldn’t be a matter of defeating one man to end it. Adams was smarter and more charismatic than Bernard. His followers wouldn’t back down, even if he was defeated.
Dwight paid his exorbitant bill and left the stunned room. As he walked home, he heard sirens wailing in the distance. Searchlights and flames lit the darkness around the Guild’s tower. Beyond the commotion downtown, the streets were empty. The entire populace of New Haven seemed to be glued to their screens, watching their heroes fight for their lives. As Dwight approached his apartment from the street, he noticed that the glass of their patio window was broken. The curtains blew in the evening breeze as the interior lights cast their glow into the street.
His first thought was to trigger the serum capsule in his arm and fly to the window, but he was interrupted by the knowledge of how precious the compound had become. He couldn’t afford to waste the dose if there really would never be more. Instead, he sprinted for the apartment entrance on foot, racing up the stairway and down the hall to the door. Trying the knob, he found the door locked.
“Ian!” he called, hoping his roommate would answer – that there had simply been an accident, and everything behind the door was alright.
There was no response.
Taking out his keys, he put them into the deadbolt, only to have the door swing open and pull his hand with it into the apartment. The crowbar found his face before he could regain his balance. Dwight spiraled down, crashing against the linoleum of his apartment’s entrance. At once, several rough hands grabbed his shoulders, dragging him into the unit and tossing him against the opposite wall.
His vision spinning, he looked around, trying to find his assailants. The neon patterns were the first things his unfocused eyes could register.
“Not so fast there, murderer,” a familiar voice said. The skull-faced Power lashed out with the crowbar again, striking Dwight in his ribs. The hitman slumped to the ground.
Across the room, Dwight could make out Jade, her emerald flames dancing across her arms and back, holding Ian down by the neck. She knelt over his roommate, pinning his shoulders with her knees. He couldn’t see Molly, but somewhere nearby, he heard her muffled barking.
“Hold still and watch, little man,” Jade growled at Ian, her nose fixed with a splint. She looked over to Dwight, “You’re going to die for what you did, scum.”
Their third colleague – the one who had never spoken, never stood out – stepped over Dwight’s prone form. For the first time, Dwight took note of the man’s neutral-toned bodysuit. The half-mask he wore was embellished with dark swirls, his limp black hair hanging over his eyes. More importantly, he carried an aluminum baseball bat firmly with both clenched fists. As Dwight crawled to his knees, the Power swung, catching Dwight across the jaw and launching him to the right. Blood burst from his shattered mouth.
The leader laughed, “I don’t think Shade likes you. Can’t blame him, can we?”
The silent Power dragged Dwight to his feet, planting him against the wall of the living room. He jammed the bat against Dwight’s collar bone, forcing his victim upright.
Dwight spat, blood oozing from his mouth. “Neat power; you mask yourself from the mind. Wish I had that. It’d make killing shitheads like you much easier.”
The annoyed punk reached back and brought his weapon savagely down on Dwight’s shoulder. Dwight collapsed, convinced the joint was shattered. Both men stepped over Dwight and swung repeatedly with their weapons. The hitman felt an impact against his knee, fracturing the bone. Another – the bat, he imagined – shattered his remaining hand against the floor. In the background, he could hear the woman’s malicious laughter. Finally, as his vision began to fade, they stopped.
“Dwight!” Ian cried out, trying impotently to push the burning Power off of him. For his effort, Jade slammed his face against the threadbare carpet.
Skull-face stepped into Dwight’s reeling vision. He picked up Dwight by his throat, once more leaning him against the wall. “Do it, you fuck. Use your poison if you want to live. I want to break you before we kill you.”
Dwight’s mind searched frantically, trying to figure out what his attacker was referring to. He finally realized Skull-face must have meant the serum. Somehow, they knew about the Doc’s formula in his artificial forearm.
Dwight matched the punk’s mocking gaze, staring hateful defiance through his battered, swollen eyes, “Fine. You want to go, we can do this.” He triggered the full dose, and instantly felt his ruined limbs mending. The flood of energy knitted his joints back together and restored his bruised flesh. Dwight straightened, feeling the rush of violence building in his veins.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Skull-face caught Dwight with a punch that sent the world once again flailing sideways. He crashed against the floor, mind st
ruggling to catch up to the ferocity of the hit. All three of his assailants began cackling like hyenas.
Skull-face kicked him viciously across the ridge of his brow. Dwight’s healing factor struggled to keep up with the assault. “Do you know what my power is, fucker?”
“Poor life decisions?” Dwight answered weakly from the floor, his face still stitching itself back together. “Who the fuck gets a neon skull tattooed on their face?”
The frustrated Power reached down and yanked Dwight’s right arm into the air. He wrenched up on the prosthetic and pulled. The Doc’s sturdy craftsmanship groaned, holding together briefly before crumpling in the furious Power’s hands. He yanked sharply, tearing the ruined limb free of its connection and flinging it out the open window. Dwight screamed in agony as the artificial pain receptors fired, then disconnected with the arm.
“No, I can match any Power I get close to. No matter how strong your little drug makes you, I’m better. Take all you want. We’re going to kill you tonight. We’re going to teach Wulf that his little empire doesn’t stand a chance. First, we’re gonna string up his little guard dog and show this city they have nothing to fear – certainly not a pathetic little shithead with some stolen powers.”
By now, Dwight’s body had finished fixing his broken bones. He pushed himself up with his remaining limb, his enhanced muscles springing him forward at the gloating leader. His opponent, regrettably, was just as fast, stopping Dwight and pressing him back into the wall. At this angle, there was no way for Dwight to free himself with his single arm.
Skull-face laughed, “Come on, killer; is this really the best you can manage? I’ve scrapped with teenage Powers who put up more of a fight. Tell you what: how about we step up your game, make this more interesting?”
He reached into Dwight’s jacket, taking the three metal cylinders from his inner pocket. He held them in front of the hitman’s straining face while pressing forcefully against his throat. “Come on; let’s see what this shit can really do.”
Cracking the vials in his fist, Skull-face shifted his arm to wrench Dwight’s head back and squeeze open his fighting jaws. The concentrated liquid poured through the Power’s fingers and down Dwight’s throat. When the fluid was gone, the leader flung Dwight to the ground, waiting for the chemical to run its course.
It didn’t take long. All at once, a burning like he had never experienced before overtook him. The surge of power flooding every cell of his body felt as if he was going to burst. He strained to hold together against the rush of energy. Dwight’s eyes shot wide open, an unnatural radiance overtaking them and shining out into the room.
Skull-face must have been experiencing the same overwhelming sensation; he quivered with the newfound abilities joining his own. While Dwight rolled on the floor, struggling to regain control of his seizing muscles, his attacker reveled in his amplified powers.
From the ruined stump of Dwight’s right arm, an eruption of twisted flesh ripped apart the connection of his former prosthetic. The mangled flesh tried to form into a singular arm and hand, but the surge of regenerative tissues swam over each other, as if three separate sets were fighting for position. The new-formed limb was a useless tangle of grotesque bone and skin, interlaced with the cracked metal and wiring of Ellis’s technology.
The three young Powers were stunned by the tortured hitman’s reaction to the overdose; even Skull-face was distracted from his power-fueled high. Dwight let out a blood-curdling scream. From his eyes, a blast of crimson light ripped twin holes through the walls of the apartment and out into the city street. The adjacent building ignited, business signs tearing from the concrete wall.
Jade reacted first, jumping up from Ian’s pinned, weeping body to throw green fire at the screaming Dwight. “Kill him!” she screeched.
Her flames seared away Dwight’s jacket in an instant; the flesh underneath, however, was impervious to the attack. Dwight turned, his gaze annihilating the young Power in a cloud of ashes. The beams from his eyes flickered out just as the last remnants of Jade blew out the open window and into the night sky.
Shade rushed forward, attempting to bring his bat over Dwight’s head. The weapon rolled off the crown of his skull and settled on his shoulder. The stunned Power glanced to his instrument before looking back into the glowing eyes of the furious killer.
In a flash, Dwight wrenched the bat from Shade’s grip, the man’s wrists shattering as he ripped it free. The black-clad Power fell to his knees, staring at his trembling, broken hands.
Across the room, Ian cried, “Dwight! Stop, they’re done! Stop!”
The berserk hitman could not hear his roommate’s desperate plea, or reason, or feel any mercy for the terrified Powers. Dwight was gone, lost in a rolling maelstrom of pain and violence.
The being that remained in Dwight’s overcharged body looked down at the whimpering Power. It cracked a malicious smile as it tore the aluminum bat in two. Shade had just enough time to look up at the vision of death in front of him, before Dwight slammed the sharp tube of metal through his skull and out the other side. His body dropped, twitching uncontrollably, a slowly-spreading pool of gore soaking into the carpet.
Skull-face, no longer adrift in his sensory overload, finally beheld the horror of what he had unleashed; his consciousness returned as Dwight discarded the other half of the bat. Whatever was left of Dwight, now a contorted mask of suffering and hate, turned to face the stunned leader.
Skull-face responded by wetting himself. He raised the crowbar, attempting to land a hit across Dwight’s neck; the increased strength in both their muscles caused the weapon to break in two against the hitman’s skin. Dwight stepped closer as the terrified Power backed away. Finally encountering the nearest wall, Skull-face pressed himself against its surface, shrinking away from the advancing monster.
“Please, no,” he begged, face awash in sweat and tears.
Dwight raised a hand to the Power’s neck, as if testing the enhanced skin with his fingers. He gently drew a line across the leader’s throat, studying his victim’s response. The dim glow behind his eyes brightened with energy, then he clamped down on the young man’s windpipe. He dragged the terrified Power off his feet and swung him around. Held effortlessly in a single arm, all Skull-face could do was scratch against the cruel limb that held him aloft.
Finally, when the clawing stopped and the Power hung limply in his clutches, Dwight hurled him at the floor, breaking the boards beneath. He removed his hand from the young man’s airway, and began pummeling his face. The brilliant neon was instantly lost under a geyser of blood. Wet thuds echoed through the apartment. In the distance, the sirens surrounding the Guild Headquarters droned on.
Dwight wondered what that sound was. Every few seconds, a noise like meat being thrown at a wall echoed in his ears. He regained focus slowly, his brain clouded and wrought with stabbing pain. The thumping stopped. Across the room, he could make out the shape of his roommate balled up in the corner, his hands pointing at Dwight, shaking. When the blurriness faded, Dwight could see that he was pointing the laser at him, with his finger trembling on the trigger. The first rays of light were beginning to shine into the living room. He felt something wet against his leg.
Looking down, he could see only red. There was little left of the young Power, only meat and blood. Dwight’s fist – and whatever his other arm had become – were slick with the man’s viscera.
Dwight stood on quaking legs, his body barely responding to his commands. Ian’s weapon followed him, the frail man’s arm shaking as much as Dwight’s legs.
“Ian, get help,” he moaned. It was all Dwight could manage before the crash took him to the floor, joining the matted gore from his rampage.
Seven
Dwight awoke to blinding pain tearing at every nerve in his body. A million stabbing sensations exploded in his spine, igniting his brain and opening his eyes. The overhead lights glared like the desert sun. A head appeared over him, shining a penlight into his e
yes as rough hands tugged at his face. At last, his vision adjusted, and he recognized the Doc’s worried expression.
“Say something,” she ordered, watching his response.
“Is Molly okay?” he managed. It was the only thing that could fight through the hangover.
The Doc sighed heavily, “Your dog is fine, idiot. Ian said your attackers locked her in the office after they broke in through the window. Hold still.”
She continued the examination as he lay in silence. The details of the event were a muddled blur that only occasionally cleared. His clothes were gone, his skin bare against the cool air of the Doc’s lab. He could feel the loose cloth of his boxers, but his bloodied shirt and pants were probably lying at the bottom of a trash bin. The occasional tugging at his side eventually caught his attention; there was something different about the feeling in his right arm.
Looking down, he didn’t recognize the flesh of his shoulder. He tried to lift it, but found it completely unresponsive. At the point where shoulder met torso, he realized that it wasn’t his arm at all. There was no connection between the metallic limb sitting beside him and the port installed at his side.
“There wasn’t enough left to save. Whatever the overdose of the serum did, the hyper-regenerated flesh wasn’t right. I had to remove the entire thing.” She placed a hand on his head as tears filled his eyes, “I’m so sorry, Dwight.”
Somewhere in the room, he heard faint laughter. It was a throaty, obnoxious laugh that felt familiar, but he couldn’t place. For now, the throbbing pain in his back and limbs pulled his thoughts elsewhere.
Checking the other arm, he discovered a metal frame running the length of the limb; it continued across his back and down his spine. His legs were fixed with the same skeleton. Pins dug into his flesh to connect it to his bones.
Lia sat quietly at the corner of the lab, her eyes closed, wincing with the occasional jolt of suffering.