by Scott Mathy
As they reached a speed that began to tear at Dwight’s joints, Killstreak let go. The centrifugal force shot Dwight away as if he had been launched from a cannon. He wasn’t airborne for long; he collided with the plate glass window of a storefront some sixty feet away. He passed through it, fragments slicing at and lodging themselves in his flesh. He didn’t stop until he slammed heavily into a sturdy sales counter deep within the shop. As he collapsed to the unyielding tile floor, he convulsed, gasping for air. Each breath was crippling agony, the bones of his ribcage having pierced his lungs from the crash. Every exhale brought with it a spray of blood. From his limited knowledge of human anatomy, he guessed that his back, ribs, and skull had been fractured.
Dwight lay on his side, feeling his consciousness wax and wane. From his position, he watched Killstreak slow to a halt. Like some unending nightmare, the Power stormed toward Dwight’s broken body. When he got there, Killstreak gave Dwight a callous kick to the shoulder, knocking him on his back. He grabbed Dwight by the wrist, raising his victim’s right arm off the stained tile. Holding it tightly, he lashed out with his foot, catching Dwight’s elbow with all the force the superhuman was capable of. There was a blinding flash of mind-breaking pain that consumed everything. Dwight’s scream was inhumanly loud. It echoed out of the shattered window, into the city streets for block after block in the otherwise silent night.
Slowly, his failing vision returned to him. The white-hot flare of suffering peeled back to find Killstreak still standing there, glaring at the dying man who had killed his son. Hate burned in his eyes, a fury that would only be quenched when Dwight was beaten to a pulp. He was succeeding.
Something in Killstreak’s grip caught Dwight’s attention. In the foggy remains of his consciousness, he nearly dismissed that the villain was still holding the hunk of flesh that had been his right forearm. He weakly raised his severed limb, wordlessly pleading to put it back. All hope of actually surviving had left him. Any planning or tactical thought was buried underneath the suffering and injury. Dwight was gone; all that was left was meat.
Killstreak placed a knee on the broken husk of Dwight’s chest, pushing down against cracked bone. The sensation of fragments pushing against his punctured lungs fired into what was left of Dwight’s brain. He let out a silent cry. Killstreak smiled the insane, hateful glare of a man whose already questionable sanity had given way to something far worse. Dwight had awakened a terror. The veneer of the thrill-seeking criminal hid a monster with near-infinite power. Dwight’s remaining arm, twitching under the shock of his fading organs reached out for whatever it could find, pathetically trying to grab anything before it finally gave out.
In his flailing spasms, his hand clamped down on the small silver handle the Doc had given him. She had said it was only for emergency use. If this didn’t constitute one, Dwight didn’t know what would. He didn’t care if the untested weapon killed him as well. In his own mind, he was already dead.
Using the last reserves of his strength, Dwight unclasped the device from his belt. He raised what he prayed was the business end toward Killstreak. The Power snatched his wrist and tugged it sharply toward him unaware of the weapon hidden in Dwight’s palm. Before he could get up to repeat the stroke that had taken Dwight’s other arm, he pressed the button.
A single point of light emanated from the hole at the base of the device. The villain’s eyes followed the beam back to the center of his chest. The thin, red ray began to smoke, burn, and finally penetrate. A second later, it punched a clean hole through his torso, shining out the other end and continuing on through the store’s ceiling.
A confused utterance escaped Killstreak’s lips just as the laser opened its lens and the beam widened. Suddenly, the pinpoint dot was a twelve-inch-diameter circle through his body. Instantly, flesh and organs were blasted into nothing, reduced to ashes by the superheated light. Killstreak let out a sharp whine as his brain registered the devastation. The burnt nothing that was his chest, lungs, and heart continued upward through the structure of the building itself. The surprise etched into his features remained in place as he slipped off of Dwight’s prone form, black smoke rolling from his mouth.
Even the effort of drawing the laser and triggering its tiny switch had drained what little life remained in Dwight. Though he was in far too much pain to notice the addition, the heat of the device had burned his digits to the bone. His arm dropped, the weapon rolling out of the blackened remnants.
As he lay there, bleeding out next to the ruin that was Killstreak’s lifeless body, the only question that occurred to him was whether Wulf would forward his payment to his shitty strip mall lawyer.
“Molly,” he mouthed to himself, lungs incapable of drawing enough breath for an actual sound. Darkness descended on Dwight as his tortured consciousness faded. As all of his being gave out, he could swear he heard enormous footsteps running toward him.
Eight
The process of dying was familiar to Dwight. His mind replayed the major events of his life, the choices that brought him here. All of it stemmed back to the late teen with no ambitions and a conversation with a very persuasive recruiter.
As a soldier, his career had been mediocre at best. His training was nothing extraordinary. There were no secret Special Forces programs or super-soldier initiatives for Dwight. He had been a basic infantryman during the last debatable conflict, served his time, and gotten out. Incidentally, Dwight had caused so little of an impression that his own superiors had left him behind on two unrelated missions. The second of these saw him arrested upon his return for desertion, his commanders not wishing to admit their oversight.
Upon his release and dismissal, he settled where the bus had dropped him off: New Haven. In fact, Dwight’s lack of resourcefulness saw him working for over a year at the very convenience store where said bus left him. The meager wages he earned paid for a studio apartment above it.
Opportunity has a wicked sense of humor. For Dwight, the uncharacteristic risk of throwing a sucker punch at a robber who had him at gunpoint was his downfall. This reckless action earned him the attention of Linda Steward, recently introduced to the city as Lock Heart. The beautiful, young Power had been recruited into the Guild’s Shooting Stars program that same week. Seeing the unremarkable yet brave employee stand up to the gunman sparked an interest in Linda, who was the first responder to what she had been told was a hostage situation.
At the time, she saw the crime as an excellent way to earn easy points with her new bosses, as well as some much-needed time with the press. Once the reporters left, she asked the clerk to coffee at the café down the block. Over the course of their impromptu date, she took an unexpected liking to Dwight. Their budding relationship stemmed out of two things: Dwight’s ability to tolerate the insane lifestyle she kept and their mutual love of all things network television.
For a time, they were happy. After a year of seeing each other, Linda proposed. She knew Dwight would never have enough funds to buy even the cheapest ring, let alone a diamond fit for a hero. They were married the next summer, their ceremony attended by a who’s who of the brightest stars in New Haven. Midas, Night Phantom, Umbra Queen, and all the heroes whose names filled every issue of the New Haven Post lined Linda’s side – in addition to the cameras, entourages, and the paparazzi.
On his side, Dwight only had his parents: a small town dentist from outside of New Haven and her long-time assistant. The only other living family member Dwight could claim was his cousin Kevin, who left once the reception ran out of wine. The flashing lights and excited crowds from Linda’s side used most of Dwight’s section as a staging area for the grand display that was their ceremony.
When Molly entered their lives two years later, Dwight was convinced he would never be happier. Everything had been going so perfectly until the night Linda came home late. Over the dinner he prepared, she confessed her affair with Midas. Molly sat and watched as Dwight left the loft the three shared and never came back.
“Don’t move, stupid. You were dead for fifteen minutes,” she said coldly. From the Doc, this would likely be the closest thing to a “welcome back” he would get. “If Bernard hadn’t gotten there when he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’re lucky his healing factor is still as powerful as it is.”
His foggy mind fumbled with the name. Running through a list of the Capes he knew, he came up with nothing. Fighting through the cocktail of painkillers and mixed pile of near-death hallucinations, he instead landed on a letter: B. Were he in a more stable mindset, he might have felt embarrassed he had not thought of it as quickly.
Dwight’s head rolled to the left to find the big guy asleep in the chair at his side. The thin tube extending from Bernard’s arm ran into the vein of Dwight’s remaining limb. He checked his other side; his right arm was wrapped in gauze at the elbow where it now terminated.
The Doc looked on with pity as Dwight took stock of his battered body. Even B’s healing factor wouldn’t be able to undo the results of Killstreak’s brutal assault. Dwight looked away from his destroyed arm and began to sob through his swollen eyes.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll fix you up, Dwight, don’t worry.” She adjusted the dial on the tube attached to his good arm, flooding his system with a wash of potent sedatives. Dwight slept, though not peacefully. Each dream was invaded by the death-stare of the raging Power, tearing him to pieces over and over. Unable to wake himself under the ocean of drugs in his system, Dwight lay trapped in his nightmares.
When he woke again, Bernard was gone. It felt strange to think of his partner as more than a covert letter. The tube that had connected the two men was now attached to a bag of red fluid hung from the stand beside the bed. Bernard’s blood still flowed through his veins, sustaining his otherwise fatally-injured organs. Out of reflex, Dwight attempted to rub his eyes with his dominant hand. He stopped, remembering that the arm had been destroyed, but he was suddenly puzzled by an unfamiliar sensation.
In place of the lower section of his ruined limb, there was a crude metal replica. Its fingers flexed under his command, tiny mechanisms within the steel frame moving to the same orders as his former hand. He held it aloft in front of him, practicing what simplistic motions the limb was capable of. The doorway slid open on automated tracks. Doctor Ellis entered.
“Alice told me you were awake.” She sat down beside the bed, “How are you feeling?”
Though struggling with the exertion of speech, he managed, “Like I died.” His voice was weak and hoarse. “Thanks for the arm.”
She delicately began examining the limb. “It’s just a temporary measure. I’m already working on a full version.” Holding his shoulder, she twisted the replacement. It slid free of the connection point to his humerus with a little pressure. That metal port held the receivers allowing his nervous system to communicate with the prosthetic. The replacement fell limp in her hands as she toyed with the internal components at its base. Testing its capabilities, Dwight tried to flex the wrist of the device. It did as he wanted, snapping forward. The unexpected movement startled the doctor.
“Could you not do that?” She was being stern with him; he must not be dying anymore.
Her tests finished, she returned the limb to its dock. Dwight felt confident that whatever she came up with, it would be better than the original by some significant measure. “You did all that in a few days?” he asked.
She looked concerned. “A few days? Dwight, you’ve been here recovering for almost a month.” She touched his head. “You really don’t have any memory of it?”
He remembered being beaten to a pulp by Killstreak. He remembered seeing Bernard, and the monstrous dreams. Anything else was a murky distortion. “What else happened?”
“You were screaming, at least as much as you could. At one point, I had to medicate you so you wouldn’t hurt yourself any more than you already were.” The doctor moved to her monitors a few feet away from his bed. She studied the readouts.
Dwight tried to lift himself, but found the effort impossible. “I guess B’s blood didn’t agree with me.”
“I didn’t suspect it would; it was a gamble at best. You’re lucky his healing factor is transferrable.” She helped him sit up in bed. “Take it easy. What can I get for you?”
“I need my phone. I have to call Wulf. And my roommate.” He was immediately ashamed he thought to call his boss before someone who would actually be concerned with his safety.
Ellis lowered him back down to his pillow. “Don’t worry about them. I’ve been giving Wulf weekly updates. He says he’ll find you when you’re ready. I doubt he really wants to hear from you until you can work for him again. There was a package sent from his office; I’ll bring it to you later.”
“As for Ian,” she continued, “Bernard brought him by a few days after the incident, after you stabilized. I gave him my email for any questions he might have. He’s been checking in every couple of days.”
Dwight was afraid to ask his next question. “And Linda?” There would not be any response he really wanted to hear. Either way was going to hurt.
“She called a few times right after you got here. I asked Alice to tell her we hadn’t seen you. We haven’t heard anything from her in at least two weeks.” She could see the disappointment in his eyes; not just that Linda had been looking for him, but that she had stopped. “I think you’re currently listed as a missing person.”
For all of her power, even Linda wouldn’t be able to find him here. The only ones that knew about the Doctor’s home office were the sort that didn’t spend much time talking with Capes. Dwight wondered what a person had to do to get themselves “un-missinged.”
The Doc prepared to leave, no doubt returning to her work, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back; there were a few times there I wasn’t sure Bernard’s blood could keep you with us.”
She closed the door, leaving Dwight alone in the stark recovery room. His partner’s blood continued to do its work, slowly repairing the damage of his horrible error. He didn’t think for a second that Wulf would be so easy on him. Nearly getting beaten to death was merciful compared to how the tyrant treated employees who failed him.
To Dwight’s great fortune, however, it seemed that Wulf had not considered this to be a complete failure the way he did. Upon opening the package from Wulf, Dwight was first confronted with a full-page cover story about the deaths of Killstreak and his apprentice, Quickkill. The article reported that the two suffered their ends at the hands of an unidentified new vigilante.
New Haven wasn’t particularly fond of freelance crime fighters for the same reasons as Wulf: they were dangerous, unpredictable, and bad for business. Every time one of them tried to claim a slice of the city for themselves, innocent people got hurt. When the populous was afraid, companies fled town and prospective new opportunities dried up. As it stood, there was a sizable reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer. A bounty on the head of the person who killed a murderous psychopath; Dwight would have found the thought amusing, if it wasn’t on him.
Any mention of the destruction of the Uni-Comm building was buried in the next few pages. It seemed obvious that New Haven would be more obsessed with a new vigilante than a loathed landmark destroyed in a gas explosion. Even the minor miracles that no one had been hurt inside of the structure and that the streets were already empty due to construction closures was an afterthought.
A short stack of money, his bonus, wasn’t so unexpected. The remaining contents of the box were a little more unorthodox for Wulf. Dwight didn’t know what to make of the stack of comic books – a joke from a man with a twisted sense of hu
mor – or the card. The cover illustration, a cat dangling from a clothesline by its paws, he’d seen before. However, it was the hand-drawn red costume, mask, and enormous hole in the animal’s chest cavity that annoyed him. Clearly, Wulf thought he was funny.
On the inside, Wulf had written, or more likely dictated, a message for Dwight. It read: “Not the smoothest job, but well done. Sorry to hear about your unfortunate circumstances. Contact me when you’re on your feet again. ‘Til then, consider these a gift. Best Wishes, W.”
Dwight would have been touched by the kindness, had it not been from Wulf. There must have been something hidden in the meaning of those words. Even the friendly gesture felt like a measure of control coming from him.
Several days passed as Dwight swam in relative awareness beneath the combination of Bernard’s disagreeable blood and the Doc’s painkillers. Every few hours, he was awoken by Ellis. She left Alice on watch the rest of the time. Mostly, the AI kept him asleep by reading her romance novels aloud. Each interruption from the scientist included some new measurement she needed as she tinkered with his replacement arm. Finally, nearly a full week since Dwight’s revival, she was ready to present her masterpiece.
Together, they eased Dwight back to his feet. As unsteady as he was, it seemed that his transfusion had warded off any symptoms of muscle atrophy. Within a few minutes, he was wobbly, but upright under his own power. His hospital gown, which he was reluctant to ask why the Doc had on hand in his size, would have to do. The clothing he was wearing during his last job had been destroyed in the resulting frenzy to save his life. Ellis promised she would get him a new outfit when he departed.
They slowly made their way out of the recovery suite and into to the doctor’s workshop. On the table, a much more complex replacement arm lay on display, pristine metal gleaming in the fluorescent light. Littering the floor around the table were the discarded prototypes that did not pass the Doctor’s evaluations. Were it anyone else, each one of those rejects would likely have been a breakthrough of modern medicine, but Ellis had her own insane standards to contend with. It was part of why Dwight held such respect for her work.
