Last edited 02 Dec 2001 02:45 PM

ToC
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

That had been before weeks and months of very difficult and painful rehab. They'd all been very supportive -- frequent visits (when not off doing Big Heroes stuff), pep talks (something Victor was very, very good at), and the like.

Tommy had been hoping that it was some sort of -- well, assume his teleportation actually caused him to pass through another dimension of some sort, a medium that flexed and touched our reality but which could be bent to make any two points in our reality actually touch. Basic hyperspace theory. So maybe, somehow, his legs were still out there, still "attached." He could feel his legs, often, though the docs said it was phantom pain, a common occurrence in amputees.

They'd never found the legs in the collapse of the building. Not that it had been likely they could have. And Tommy had never voiced his hope, which he knew was stupid.

So Victor came by and gave pep talks, talked about the brave soldiers he'd know, people who had given limbs in the defense of their nation and gone on to proud, useful service. Which usually left Tommy feeling pretty good about himself, for at least a few hours, until the gloom moved back in like fog over the San Francisco skyline. I like San Francisco. Maybe I'll move there. I'm sure California has some sort of affirmative action plan for making sure that crippled superheroes get a fair shake.

Rococo -- Donato -- had come by more than once, too, while he was in the hospital. He was a good card player, and even though sometimes Tommy felt a little bit weird about Donato's being gay, he knew his team mate was a good guy, and that in the end was all that really mattered.

Tiger had visited a few times, usually ending up talking about how to pick up women ("They really love the sympathetic hero, kid. Play that for all it's worth."). There had been one visit where, in the middle of the conversation, the feline hero had looked at him, his face suddenly very serious, and said, "Tommy, I know exactly how you feel. I've been there. Don't let it get to you." Of course, he'd then gone into a long, ribald story about what had happened the night before at one or another of New York's trendy night spots.

Some of the other heroes in the city had visited too, the ones who knew him and had been told. The Mystic had told him that he could restore his legs, and he'd been sorely tempted.

* * *

"No. But -- thanks."

The Mystic frowned. "My healing powers are not limitless, else that is the calling I would take. I cannot heal all, so to heal some, picking and choosing who is worthy, would lead to a karmic imbalance I dare not face. But for you, so grievously injured in the line of duty, saving innocents -- it would be only justice."

It took a lot of strength, but Tommy shook his head. "It was my own mess-up. And even if it wasn't -- I couldn't take that favor. There are too many others who could use it rather than me, and I'd feel guilty every time I saw one. Uh, that would give me a karmic imbalance."

The Mystic had stroked his beard, and nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Thomas Mayerik. And I know that there will be times when you regret that decision, but do not. It is a sign that you remain a hero."

He'd regretted the decision ever since, but he didn't have the Mystic's phone number (assuming he had one), and he wouldn't have dared call him even if he had. He still had that much pride.

* * *

Plenty of visitors. Except Wild Iris. She hadn't come, not even once.

There hadn't been any press coverage. They'd asked him first, and he'd been adamant about it. No press. He knew he'd have to face it sooner or later. If he ever decided to return to the public eye. The team had merely announced that he was off on a mission, but would be back soon. Most of me, anyway. The press seemed happy enough with that. And they hadn't brought in anyone full-time as a replacement, though various folks had come and gone to fill in where necessary. Deep Blue on that Atlantis thing, for example.

Once he was out of the hospital, the visits had dropped off. He'd gone to the HQ a couple of times, invited in by Victor and the others on cases. He hadn't gone into the field. As he'd said, jokingly (it was no joke, of course), "So what am I gonna do, run them over with my wheelchair?"

They'd all gone out of their way to try to make him comfortable. Can I get that for you? Here, let me bring that over. You feeling okay? Boy, bet you could get going pretty fast in that thing, if you put jet engines on it.

All except Iris. She was nice, but she wouldn't look at him. And she'd excused her self early from the meetings, each time.

Yeah, like she really wants to sit around looking at me.

But few folks called him, or called on him, these days. He'd gone back to tinkering, to writing, and to thinking. He didn't like thinking. It kept conjuring up images of the fire, and what had followed. So he tinkered. And he wrote.

* * *

The alleyway was long, black, and smelled like every rain storm that passed through New York bypassed it in favor of one whose stench would be actually cleaned by a good downpour. On the left, the back door of Chow Lin's Chinese Restaurant, not to mention the biggest opium den on the east coast. On the right, the back of a set of flop houses, rife with prostitution, corruption, and disease.

Dash Chandliss narrowed his steely grey eyes as he stared down the alleyway. He'd followed the Big Man's flunky all the way here, and a little stink wasn't going to stop him now. The Big Man had gotten Dash thrown off the force, had gotten his partner killed, and had turned his girl against him. He was going down. Hard.

He stepped into the alley, listening the grime and garbage of the city grinding under his feet. It was cold in New York, and the fetid steam rose from the manhole covers like an evil spirit from the Arabian Nights. Chandliss stopped, feeling eyes upon him. The eyes of the city, or the eyes of one of the Big Man's killers?

Well, if death was in the cards for him tonight, so be it. He'd play that hand, and still win the pot, because he had the Ace of Spades ready to trump anything the Big Man could deal to him.

He reached into the pocket of his trench coat, felt the comforting cold steel of his .45 slip into his hand like a lover's neck. If that's the way the Big Man wanted to play, he could play that way, too.

Well, if that's what Victor wanted, fine. He'd go to lunch, meet the "exchange students" as Tiger had called them. He had to admit, he did want to see Copper -- the technology involved in his battle armor sounded pretty interesting. And the way Tiger had been talking about Zebra -- well, now that he considered, he didn't want to miss that.

And if Iris was there … well, even if she couldn't stand the sight of him, he still wanted to see her. If only to consider what he had lost that night six months ago.

He called a cab, suspended any experiments at the work bench that would cause problems for the next few hours, and then wheeled himself down the hall to the elevator.

Interlude

The man behind the desk looked out the window. If he looked right, he could see the Magnificent Six shuttle arriving in town, setting down on the rooftop of the Big Heroes HQ. Bright colors, tight-fitting costumes, and self-important human hearts. He enjoyed all three, especially when he was ready to destroy them.

He was pleased. He usually had a number of projects simmering, often long-term. Very long-term. But it was rare that his adversaries made it so easy for him. They had weakened themselves, just at a time when other matters were coming to a head. The result would be his return to power, and their desolation.

A low chime came from the telephone. He nodded, and the speaker came to life. "Sir, your eleven-thirty is here."

"Very good. Send him down."

His eleven-thirty would take his instructions and relay them. The group the appointment ultimately represented had been waiting for such a long time to act -- a long time in their terms, at least -- it would be like handing a bone to a starving dog. He enjoyed their desperation and disgust with the wait, as much as he enjoyed what they would be let loose to do. And so, through a long, untraceable chain of contacts, this particular project would move into a more active phase. All without his adversaries ever knowing it was coming.

He was particularly pleased about that part. And they had only themselves to blame.

He had many years of humiliation to make up for. Watching their humiliation would be a good appetizer.

"Dabble with fire," he murmured, continuing to look out the window, "you're liable to get burned."

* * *

Sam stood in darkness. Six pictures hung on the red velvet wall, in wooden frames and glare-resistant glass, spotlighted from above. A seventh picture hung to the side, slightly lower, slightly to the right. When they were all together, it would be hung with the others.

This would work. It must work. He was self-aware enough to know that his ego was wrapped up in this, which had never been a problem in the past. Or not a problem for very long. But since they had set out on this course, it was a weakness he'd become more and more cognizant of.

Ella would not understand. This was war. She had never, fully understood that. She was more interested in the process than in the results. She worried about collateral damage. That was how she was, how she served the Purpose.

Even Bob, though this was his plan (he was much more in tune with the forces they had to rally) didn't fully understand. This was war. If Sam had to sacrifice them all in order to achieve the Purpose, that's what he would do, gladly. Even if it meant his own destruction. Indeed, that was how he was, how he served the Purpose, and had for so very long.

He sometimes wondered about that. And wondered if that was why he had been willing to go along with this plan. He wondered if that impulse to sacrifice to even his own ending was what he really wanted to avoid.

He shook his head. Everything was ready. This new gambit would succeed, and bring an end to the conflict. Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way.

And nothing would. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, could go wrong.