Dylan was preparing to leap over the desk when Kasha sighed and waved his hand dismissively.
“What do you want from me? Was beating me up and foiling my plans not enough for you? Have you come for round two? Maybe to extort or threaten me?”
Dylan’s panic stricken mind didn’t even register the words he had just heard for a good few seconds. When they did, the adrenaline kept most of the confusion at bay. It was only when Kasha spoke again that Dylan started to pay attention.
“What will it be, hero? Hmm, or maybe I should call you a villain? Your little escapade doesn’t seem to have been taken too kindly by the powers that be. Did playing the hero not work out?”
What? Why was Kasha not attacking him? Was that not the purpose of this whole charade? To ambush him, take revenge for what Dylan had done? He couldn’t think of any other reason why Kasha would bring him here, even after knowing who he was.
“If you’re going to attack me, just get on with it already, Kasha. You better hope that you manage to kill me before my drone can blast you to bits. It’s the same one that I used to kill Dynamis.”
With his piece said, Dylan settled back into an uneasy silence, waiting. He tried to reach the connection he had with his drone. It was there, but muted, somehow. Instead of the increasingly familiar connection that he had come to appreciate, it felt tenuous. It wasn’t absent, per se, but it wasn’t all there, either. It took a great deal of effort for Dylan to force any command through, and when the drone responded, it felt extremely sluggish.
What was going on? Were his injuries interfering with his powers? Had the blood loss started to catch up to him? Or was it something that Kasha was doing? Did he have another power, one that Dylan wasn’t aware of? If so, why hadn’t he used it in their fight? Was he keeping it a secret, waiting till he was in the position to use it, sealing his opponents powers away, before killing them? Or, perhaps he had developed it after the last fight? A super getting another power was very rare, but not unheard of. Or, perhaps, it was the building they were in. Dylan thought he remembered hearing something about materials that could block certain types of powers. Maybe Kasha had lined his office with something like that.
If that were the case, then as soon as he saw Kasha start to make any sort of threatening movement, he would lunge backwards, trying to throw himself through the door. If he were able to get out of the office fast enough, Dylan felt that he should be able to use his drone to kill Kasha. Of course, this plan would only work if it was only this one room that blocked his powers. If it was the entire building, or, even worse, something else, like Kasha himself, then Dylan was in for a much harder time. Maybe, if it were just the building, he could get himself out fast enough to survive, although even that seemed risky. If it were truly Kasha suppressing his powers, then Dylan was done for.
As Dylan tensed further, preparing to spring away at a moment's notice, Kasha’s eyebrows steadily rose up his forehead.
“You’re really very young, aren’t you? I hadn’t noticed it earlier, as I was rather distracted by the whole situation, but, what, you can’t be older than 15, can you? And I’d certainly place you as younger even than that.”
He peered at Dylan for a second longer, before deciding to respond to what the teen had said.
“And no, I’m not going to attack you, unless you decide to attack me first. You can relax. I would get nothing out of it. I don’t like harming children, regardless. And before you ask, or make the assumption, I’m not particularly interested in revenge. The whole thing seems to be far more trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me.”
Dylan tried not to let his guard down, but his injuries and exhaustion ensured that he couldn’t keep up this tense state for long. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his system started to fade away, and he once again noticed just how exhausted he was, just how much everything hurt, and just how dizzy the blood loss was making him. He settled himself down into a chair, careful not to put any pressure on his back.
Kasha, meanwhile, was muttering to himself.
“Beaten by two teens, one of which was barely that. I suppose that I'm second rate for a reason.”
Dylan surmised that he wasn’t supposed to hear that, and opted to keep quiet. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had made it out in the first place.
Kasha looked back up at him, seemingly returning to the moment.
“Now, I believe that I’ve answered the most pressing of your questions. I’d like you to answer mine. While I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not exactly thrilled that you’re here, either.”
Dylan took a moment to study the villain. Now that he had calmed down slightly, it was obvious to see that Kasha wasn’t in a much better state than he was. His suit was unbuttoned, likely to avoid putting too much pressure on whatever wound the bandages wrapped around his torso covered.
Kasha’s face was bruised, and there were several cuts and nicks on it as well. When he moved his arms, he did so slowly, almost tenderly, as if he was afraid of aggravating his injuries. He had an ice pack strapped to his neck, and there were several discarded ones sitting on his desk, ready to be recooled.
Overall, it looked like the villain had taken a beating. Which, Dylan supposed, he had. That first blow, the one Kasha took from Puncher, was still clear as day in Dylan’s mind. He didn’t think he could survive such an attack, super suit or not.
It also confirmed that Kasha had some access to the medical care that Dylan was seeking, however. While anybody could buy ice packs at the store, the bandages that covered the Villain looked too well wrapped to have been done by an amateur. While Dylan supposed that the villain could have wrapped them himself, he didn’t think it was likely. No, it was far more plausible that he had somebody do it for him. Trying to fix and set your own wounds when you were injured just seemed like a recipe for disaster.
Dylan had to ask about that, but before he did, he had a burning question on his mind. Just how did Kasha escape? The last time Dylan had seen the villain, it had been when he had punted Kasha’s unconscious head into a wall. In fact, police surrounded the entire building.
Dylan leaned forwards, opening his mouth.
“How did you-”
Kasha shot him a glare, causing Dylan to drop silent.
“I’m going to need you to answer my questions, first off.”
Dylan begrudgingly let out a breath, quietly trying to figure out how he could say what he was looking for without appearing too weak. Kasha had seemed honest every time Dylan had spoken to him, but that was only twice. Plus, it would be unwise to expect honesty from a villain.
After a few seconds, Dylan looked back up at Kasha.
“After my encounter with Dynamis, I’ve sustained some injuries. I’m looking for medical attention, as I don’t have my own.”
As he said that, the last of the adrenaline in his body was starting to fade. A wave of exhaustion swept over him again. Dylan nearly missed what the villain said next.
“Ahh, you’re fairly new, of course you don’t have any experiences in situations like this. You were trying to be a hero, so you probably expected that they’d just let you walk into any hospital for treatment. Everything’s falling apart, hmm? Well, I do know where you can get medical treatment.”
Dylan felt a faint thread of hope. He was eager to be free of his wounds.They probably wouldn’t kill him, but he would be weak for months if they remained untreated.
Kasha gave a dry smile.
“But, before I tell you how to access it, I do have one condition.”
Dylan felt the hope disappearing. Chances were, he would be unable to meet this condition. Either it would be something he was incapable of doing, like retrieving a valuable object, or something he was unwilling to do, like kidnapping civilians. Either way, he felt his chances of getting help were rapidly dropping down into non-existence.
“What are they?”
Dylan waited, with bated breath, for the answer, one that he simultaneously couldn’t wait to hear and at the same time dreaded.
“I’m going to need you to not interfere with me again. You caused me a lot of trouble, and my reputation and finances have taken a hit, because of your actions. You’re certainly not esteemed right now, but even if you’re always considered a villain, you’ll always have the potential to be a thorn in my side. And that potential will grow even more if you find a way to re-enter the folds of society. I can’t afford to have you keep mucking up my plans. Promise me that you’ll stay out of my business.”
The offer wasn’t one that Dylan had expected. He had figured it would have been something harder to agree with. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, to be honest. It seemed fairly innocuous, on the surface. Coriolis would likely be returning from whatever emergency was occupying the heroes at the moment fairly soon, and he alone would likely be more than powerful enough to handle Kasha.
It was exactly because the deal seemed to be so good that Dylan distrusted it. Villains, as far as he knew, always seemed to have an angle. They certainly weren’t a group known for their honesty.
Did Kasha want Dylan out of the picture because he was planning something? Was there going to be a huge operation soon? With Dylan out of the picture, it would be the best timing that a villain could get for a while. Dynamis was probably dead, Coriolis wasn’t back yet, and with foreknowledge of his abilities, Kasha could probably deal with Puncher in a one on one fight.
The villain was certainly injured, but was he injured enough that such a thing wouldn’t be possible? Dylan had his doubts about that. Almost all supers healed faster, and Kasha wasn’t an ordinary super. He was experienced. He had been fighting for years. Dylan wouldn’t be surprised if he healed several times faster than the average person. Hell, on the higher end, it could be possible for Kasha to be back up at full strength within the week.
But how likely was that? Dylan could honestly say he disliked Kasha very much. But, in all their dealings, the Villain seemed cautious. Would he even know the extent of Dynamis’ injuries? Local law enforcement would certainly do their best to keep it a secret, that was for sure. And it was certain that Kasha didn’t want to fight Dynamis. He had waited for the rookie hero to be occupied before making his move for a reason.
Plus, it wasn’t like Dylan really had a choice. Sure, if the offer Kasha had made was too horrible for him to bear, he would have refused it, and tried to ride out his injuries on his own. But that was only for the worst case scenario, and Dylan didn’t really think that this was it.
No, it seemed far more likely that Kasha just wanted Dylan out of his hair. Like the villain had said, Dylan was certainly a great nuisance. One that would make Kasha’s life far harder, if he kept interfering. Plus, it made sense in a way, that he wouldn’t want to help somebody recover if that somebody was going to turn around and immediately attack him.
Ultimately, Dylan couldn’t say what caused him to make up his mind. It was probably a combination of factors. The pain, the fact that he knew that recovering from his injuries all by himself would be a whole ‘nother bitch, or the fact that he would have to hide this from his parents, something that would be a lot harder to do if his recovery took two weeks instead of two days.
Dylan took a deep breath, wincing as it aggravated his wounds, before looking back up at the villain in front of him.
“Alright Kasha. You have a deal. I’ll stay out of your business, if you get me to somewhere I can get treatment. But, I have a condition of my own. I’ll only respect my end of the bargain if you don’t do anything too crazy. Take more hostages, or start killing people, or something like that, and I won’t hesitate to come after you again, got it?”
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The villain looked thoughtful. He started off, gazing into space for a few seconds, before seeming to come to a decision. His vacant expression firmed, and he looked directly into Dylan’s eyes with a penetrating gaze.
“That is acceptable. There is a clinic, a few blocks back. I have a deal with its owner. You’ll have to be the one to convince him to treat you, but he won’t report you to the authorities.”
A cold look swept across the villain's face.
“Or I’ll deal with him, personally”.
Despite himself, Dylan found himself leaning back. He had felt the sting of Kasha's claws once, and was not eager to do so again.
“Anyways, Mechanical boy, the clinic is almost directly straight from here. Go two blocks behind this building, turn right, and it will be right in front of you.”
Dylan grunted in affirmation, before mustering up his will. He pushed himself to his feet with some difficulty. Kasha gave him a slight nod, gesturing towards the door.
“I can’t say I’ve enjoyed knowing you. To be honest, I’d think I’d rather never meet you. You understand why, of course. But, I will say that I’m glad that you're a reasonable person, when you’re not dead set on smashing my skull in. Hopefully this is our final meeting, machine boy, but I can’t imagine fate being so kind to either of us.”
Dylan didn’t respond, instead repeating the directions he had been given in his head, again and again. He couldn’t forget them. If he ended up lost, or going the wrong way, it would make this whole process that much worse. Dylan wasn’t sure that he could travel more than a few more blocks before he passed out again.
Two blocks back, turn right. Two blocks back, turn right. It became his mantra as he stumbled ever closer to his goal. He basically ignored the guard at the front desk, practically battering down the front door of Kasha’s office on his way to the street.
Dylan got more concerned glances this time. He was staggering about, obviously injured. People were right to be concerned. There were two common things that happened when supers died: Nothing, or something very, very bad. The people around Dylan didn’t know which category he would fall into. Many supers didn’t know which of the two they themselves were. Maybe when Dylan kicked the bucket, whatever warped the laws of reality, allowing him to create such fantastical devices, would peter out, releasing some sort of massive explosion as the physical universe tried to right itself. Or maybe he would just slump over, and some two-bit criminal would come and take his stuff. Nobody on the street knew, and they weren’t exactly eager to find out.
This, in a sense, worked out in Dylan’s favor. He really didn’t need anybody getting in his way right now, in his condition. He would have been happy to encounter nobody on the path to his destination. Fate, or whatever series of coincidences that passed for, seemed to have other plans in mind, however.
A young man, in a tight leather jacket stepped in front of Dylan, nearly a block away from Kasha’s office. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
“Hey, buddy in the armor. Why don’t you-”
The young thug never got to finish his sentence, as it was interrupted by Dylan’s fist crashing into his ribs, eliciting a series of sharp cracks and a pained grunt from the fellow as he collapsed onto the concrete, holding his injured midsection. Dylan didn’t spare him another glance.
It started to rain as Dylan walked. What was at first a light drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. Water started to accumulate on the streets, the neglected drainage systems unable to handle the sudden deluge of water. Thunder cracked in the sky. Despite his exhaustion, Dylan felt nervous. He didn’t think that a large, metal suit of armor was the best thing to be out in during a thunderstorm. The rain dripped through the cracks on his armor, sending lances of white-hot pain down his spine when they came into contact with his wounds.
His pace almost glacial, Dylan kept at it, putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly, the buildings went by. The area wasn’t as nice here as it was around Kasha’s office. It was certainly better off than other locations like it in this part of the city, but it was still more rundown than any “respectable” neighborhood.
Two blocks back, one block right. Two Blocks back, one block right.
Dylan repeated the directions in his head one final time, as he rounded the corner. His destination lay in front of him, a squat building with flickering lights out front. The poorly maintained sign read: “Baughman’s clinic”.
The sight reassured Dylan. He hadn’t come all of this way for nothing. Help was just around the corner. It felt like forever since he had last been pain free, and that blissful normality was something that he couldn’t wait to return too.
He staggered towards the front door as quickly as he could, a smile crossing his face. Maybe everything would work out, after all.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Winnie jumped when she heard the crack of thunder outside, then frowned. It wasn’t supposed to storm today. The drains around here were too clogged up to handle all the water, which meant that everything would be wet for at least a week. She sighed. Winnie greatly looked forward to school starting. She had been happy, when she had graduated middle school, but her father had put an end to any plans of a joyful, carefree summer, when he had told her that he was expecting her to start helping out around the clinic.
It had been far more work than she imagined possible. Winnie could admit, now, that perhaps, having never had a job before, her expectations about her unwillingly gained position might have been a bit too optimistic. She wouldn’t say that she was overworked, per se. She did get two days off a week, although which of the two days that was varied depending on how busy they found themselves. Any, often enough, she still ended up helping out on her days off. Her father tried to avoid that, but he would often end up so busy that she would have no choice in the matter.
It wasn’t his entirely his fault that it got this way, either. Her father, Dr. Baughman, had originally opened up his clinic here years ago, back when this wasn’t such a bad part of town. It had certainly been poorer than the rest of the city, but that was perfect for a doctor looking to provide affordable care to the less fortunate.
What Dr. Baughman had failed to predict, however, was how the area would decline. Some years back, city officials had apparently decided that, rather than trying to fix the area, it would be far more convenient to dump all the crime into one spot, a spot that they would thereafter neglect.
Slowly, Dr. Baughman’s staff moved on. He couldn’t afford to offer them large salaries, after all, and while virtue had originally let them power through their rather mediocre pay, the rise in crime around the area meant that working at the clinic would draw more and more risk, all the while its income continued to fall.
Soon enough, it was only Dr. Baughman, and his daughter. His wife was no longer in the picture, having died in a car crash a few years earlier. At first, he had maintained the clinic himself. But as he got older, it got harder and harder. Harder to work the long hours, and harder to handle the unruly malcontents who would often show up, looking for free treatment, treatment he couldn’t afford to provide.
Normally, when Dr. Baughman told these unruly men and women that he couldn’t help him, they would glare at him, or scream insults, before storming off. Sometimes, however, they weren’t as willing to take no for an answer. Sometimes, they got violent.
For all of his life, Dr. Baughman had been in great shape. When he was in highschool, he was even a champion in the local boxing circuit. That meant that, generally, when conflict ensued, He could handle himself well enough that nobody ever thought about trying to bring violence into his clinic again.
However, if you did something often enough, you were bound to get a bad result eventually, no matter how skilled you were. At first, the consequences of these fights were minor. A few bruises, or a cut on the face or hand. Occasionally, his attackers would land a really solid kick on his ribs or legs, and he would be walking around with a limp for a few weeks. Winnie still remembered him chuckling and rubbing her hair when she expressed concern for him, saying that they were his “victory trophies”. The proof that he had gotten through something difficult, a mark to be proud off. It was a optimistic attitude, one that he tried to instill into Winnie as well, often with the same speech, when she had done something that gave her a bruise when she was younger. She still remembered the kind look in his eyes as she ran to him, crying, after falling off of her bike. He had taken the time to explain to her that learning to ride a bike was difficult, and to embrace the failures and difficulties, rather than be upset at them. Of course, Winnie hadn’t understood at the time, but as she got older she found herself agreeing with the mindset more and more.
Winnie’s attitude towards the injuries had changed after her father had taken a knife to the leg in one of the scuffles. It had missed all of his major arteries, luckily enough, and he had been able to drive his assailants back. Still, she remembered sitting there, shocked, as he stumbled back into the clinic, face white, sweat beading on his brow.
He had shouted at Winnie, then, (one of the only times in her life she remembered her father raising his voice at her) telling her to get help. She had sat there, frozen, unable to move, and unable to comprehend the situation that was going on in front of her.
Luckily enough, there had been another employee in the clinic that day. He sprinted out from the back of the clinic when he heard the commotion, and removed the knife from her fathers leg, before suturing and bandaging it. Had he not been there, her father would probably have never been able to walk again. After saving the leg, the man had handed in his resignation.
And even with this timely intervention, Dr. Baughman had retained a limp that never seemed to go away. Often, he walked with a cane, his good leg unable to support his weight all day.
Everything had gone downhill from there. The thugs that showed up to the clinic got more and more bold as the Dr’s ability to defend himself got worse and worse. In addition to the limp, he had gotten a near constant collection of bruises and fractures as he had to get into more and more fights.
It got so bad, one time, that Dr. Baughman had called the police. That had been a mistake. In the 40 minutes it took for them to arrive, he had been beaten within an inch of his life.
Winnie’s father was never the same, even after he recovered. He was a skinner, more forgetful, more timid version of himself. That drive, the fire he had possessed in his youth, the spark of life behind his eyes, was gone now.
After that incident, her father had done something to get the attacks to stop, however. She remembered some sharp eyed man in a business suit surveying the clinic, before walking into her fathers office.
When the man emerged, hours later, he strode out the door, ignoring everything else around him. Winnie’s father had walked out of the office, looking tired. When he saw her, he gave her a gentle smile.
“We won’t have to worry about thugs and hooligans ever again, my dear. I’ve made sure of it.”
Despite the good news, Winnie felt that her father looked distinctly unhappy. After that point, he never seemed to be as worried about money as before. She saw some of his old passion return when she watched him help members of the community, people who had nowhere else to go. It felt like she had her father back.
Those good feelings fled, however, when those men would come in. She didn’t really have a name for them, but they reminded her of the thugs that used to assail the clinic. Unlike their previous attackers, however, they wouldn’t say anything. Instead, they would walk into the lobby and sit down, silently waiting, until Dr. Baughmen would wander out to see who had walked in. When he saw those people, his face would deaden, and any trace of life that Winnie had thought she had seen behind his eyes would disappear. He would wave them towards one of the treatment rooms, before following them, stumbling down the hallway in a manner that almost seemed lethargic. Those were the bad days. Even after whatever person who had caused his attitude to plummet had left, Dr. Baughman would remain in that far off place for the rest of the day, leaving Winnie to handle almost everything else by herself. She hated those days.
It had been especially bad yesterday. The man in the suit, the one who had first negotiated with her father, had walked in, seemingly badly injured. After he had left, Winnie’s father had sat in his office, head in his hands, muttering quietly to himself.
Luckily, a good night's rest seemed to have returned some of his earlier optimism. Today was a good day, even. Winnie had gotten to see her fathers beaming face when he had informed one of the ladies who lived nearby that the reason she was feeling so bizarre was because she was pregnant. In fact, today was probably the best day of the whole month!
Despite hating all the work she had to do, Winnie was determined to bear it for her dad. You would never hear her complain. Her father had enough to deal with already, and Winnie had promised herself that she wouldn’t make it any more difficult. That being said, you wouldn’t catch her volunteering to, say, take inventory, like she was doing now. Winnie liked working with people. Checking supplies, not so much.
Winnie felt relieved when she heard the electronic chime that went off when the front doors opened. It was probably somebody wandering in to give a brief hello, or a new neighbor coming to check out the clinic, but regardless of whatever this new person was here to do, it represented something far better in Winnie’s mind: A chance for a break. Cheerfully, she set down her clipboard, and started towards the front lobby, almost skipping.
Unconsciously, she found a big grin stretching across her face. Winnie couldn’t help it, and most of their patients loved it. She just had a way with people that most others didn’t.
Winnie found her smile slipping off of her face when she saw who was at the door, however. It was a tall, dark silhouette, one that didn’t look human. She got a better view of the figure when a bolt of lightning flashed in the sky outside.
It was a man, in bulky, dull metal armor, covered in cracks. It looked almost familiar, although Winnie was certain that she had never seen it before. With the faint whining of servos, the Super, for that was what it had to be, stepped into the lobby, allowing the light to reveal his full form.
The armor was tall, nearly as tall as her father. It looked simple and brutish, as if it only had one purpose in mind: Violence. As Winnie gazed over the super, she felt her heart stop when she saw the blood coating its fists. And it wasn’t a little blood, either. Some was the deep brown of long dried blood, but some was fresher, redder. And indeed,on a second glance, Winnie spotted more blood, splattered all over the armor.
Winnie felt her heart trying to beat out of her chest. W-why was this person here? Who was this super? Why did they look so familiar?
Suddenly, it hit her. She had seen this armor on the news. It was the unidentified villain who had been involved in the hostage situation. The one who had put Dynamis in critical condition. Standing in front of her was a full blow super-
“villian”.
Winnie’s eyes widened as she realized that she had said the last part out loud. Drawing air into her lungs as forcefully as she was able, Winnie managed to let out a piercing scream.
“Dad, help me!”
And then there was silence.