Dr. Baughman came rushing out of the back of the clinic nearly as soon as he heard his daughters cry for help. He staggered into the lobby, limp nearly forgotten, the gun that he’d bought just after he’d been stabbed clutched tightly in his hand.
Winnie backed away from the super villain as quickly as possible, trying to distance herself from the metal clad figure. She stumbled backwards until she felt her legs collide with one of the many rows of chairs that was spaced out around the lobby. Winnie froze, eyes darting left and right, looking for a way to further distance herself from the menacing figure.
The super continued to stand there, unmoving, silent. His helmet blocked his face, removing any ability to see what expression it bore. Similarly, the armor threw off her impression of how he was standing. Being unable to tell the figure's mood at a glance left Winnie deeply uneasy. At the very least, it was easy to tell what the thugs that used to attack the clinic wanted, as they tended to wear their aggression openly.
Her father had stepped in front of her, gun thrust forwards towards the armored man.
“Do not make any sudden moves. Who are you, and why are you here? You’re going to answer my questions, or I’m going to shoot you. Answer only those two questions.”
While he was speaking, Dr. Baughman used his empty hand to motion Winnie towards the back of the clinic. Slowly, she started moving around the line of chairs that had previously obstructed her.
The super was still unmoving. He stayed silent, staring straight ahead. If the gun frightened him, he wasn’t showing it. In fact, the super hadn’t reacted to anything that had happened in the last minute. Not Winnie screaming, not her father, and not the gun. Was he even aware of his surroundings?
Winnie’s musing questions were quickly answered by the shrieking of metal, and a grunt of pain from her father. The super had shot forwards like a bullet, nearly too fast to see, before grabbing the gun out of her fathers hands, and flinging it into a wall, where it now lay embedded, a twisted, smoking ball of scrap.
Her father clutched at his hand, which was now dripping with blood, as he stumbled backwards, trying to put distance between himself and the angry super that had just appeared in front of his face.
“I-if you hurt us, then Kasha won’t let you go. We’re under his protection, and if he knew what had happened here, he’d kill you in an instant. If you leave now, we won’t tell him what happened. You might think of killing us, but even if you do, he’ll know. The cameras in the clinic, they stream directly to an external database. He’ll check them, if we disappear, and then he’ll know what you did. And with that armor, good luck trying to hide.”
The super made no further movements, instead opting to stare at them for what felt like an eternity longer. Winnie probably could have used that time to run deeper into the clinic, perhaps even out the back door, but she wasn’t willing to leave her father alone, especially after he had been so easily disarmed. She doubted she would do much good here, but it’s not like she could outrun the super, either, if he decided to give chase.
It was then that the super spoke, in a slightly muffled, echo-y voice that was surprisingly child-like. The contrast between the broad, bloody suit of mechanized steel armor, and the youthful voice that emanated out from it created an eerie effect.
“I need medical treatment. I was told that you could provide it.”
The voice was somewhat weak, and the super still wasn’t moving. Had Kasha’s name taken the wind out of his sails? Winnie had heard the name before. He was the most prominent villain in the city, and was rumored to base his operations in this part of town. He had a reputation of fairness, but most who knew of him also said that he was capable of great violence when provoked.
Why would her father mention his name? It’s not like they had connections with him. Unless…
The suited man, the one with the glasses. He had made some sort of deal with her father. Afterwards, various shady looking men would show up at their clinic, with all sorts of violence related injuries.
Winnie had assumed that the suited man was just some ranking member of a local gang, perhaps even the leader of one of the smaller ones. Could he really be Kasha? If it wasn’t, then her father was playing a dangerous game. If the super had some sort of connection to Kasha, then it was very likely that he would be able to call the bluff. If that were to happen… then violence would probably be right back on the table.
Supers usually hated being lied to. Even the above ground, entirely legal ones could often apply great pressures onto normal people, people without powers, people they often considered lesser. And even though the law didn’t make distinctions between the two groups, in practice, supers could often get away with a lot, as long as it wasn’t too egregious.
Villains were often an order of magnitude worse. While they didn’t enjoy the legal protection that registered supers did, unless they were particularly high profile, they could go years without being apprehended. This city, in particular, didn’t have the budget to outfit their law enforcement with equipment that could be reliably used to fight supers. There was a very small unit designed to do so, but they could only be in so many places at once, and the powers that be were reluctant to deploy them. Forget being expensive to purchase, super made equipment was often expensive to operate. Extra work had to be put into making sure it functioned without its creators.
The problem was of particular concern, now that so many heroes, including their city's resident guardian, Coriolis, were occupied on the other side of the globe. Plus, Dynamis was out of commission, defeated, if the news were to be believed, by the super standing right in front of them.
He spoke once more, his disturbing voice making Winnie flinch.
“Kasha came into your clinic a few days prior to my visit. I know this, because I'm the reason that visit occurred. And if you’ve paid attention, I’m the reason that Dynamis is dead. Your threats of violence, of retribution, do not scare me. You have no ability to harm me. I require medical treatment, and if you don’t provide it to me, then I’ll harm you. Do you understand me?”
Winnie watched as her fathers head nodded up and down, slowly. If this were a story, then he would have refused, stood firm to his principals, even in the face of death. Her father would endure whatever the villain threw at him, until the hero swooped in, to save them. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a story. Nobody was coming to save them. If she tried to call for the police, by the time they got here, the super would be long gone, and they’d both be dead.
Winnie understood her fathers choice. It was best for everybody if he just capitulated, gave into the villains demands. That was how the world worked, in some sense. The strong would always have power over the weak, no matter what form that strength took.
But, despite understanding why her father made that choice, Winnie felt resentment start to build up. A little bit at her father, for giving up so easily. She missed the strong, confident man from her youth, the one who wouldn’t compromise on his principals. The side of him that she almost never saw, anymore. Winnie knew it wasn’t fair of her father, to ask him to take all comers, and come out the other side unbroken, but that didn’t stop the spark of anger in her heart.
And the resentment she felt towards her father paled in comparison towards the rage she felt towards the people that had put them in this position. She hated the thugs that had taken the father that she had loved from her, and replaced him with this broken man. She hated Kasha, for taking advantage of his weakness, to use him for the villains own ends. And most of all, she hated the super in front of her, for making her unable to ignore the fucked up situation that she was in. She had been ok with pretending that everything was fine, with looking the other way when her father stumbled, when he couldn’t live up to her expectations. It was why she wouldn’t ever complain. It was why she was ok with sacrificing her summers.
But now, the illusion of normality was being ripped away again. She still felt afraid, but as her anger grew, that fear was becoming more and more diminished.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dylan watched as the young woman that had initially confronted him when he had stepped into the clinic turned and stormed off. The man wearing a white doctors coat, the one who had tried to shoot him, watched her go with a sad look on his face. A father daughter disagreement? Well, to be completely honest, he didn’t really care. He was there only for the treatment. Any drama between them was none of his business, and frankly, he didn’t care to watch it. There were far more important things to be tending too.
Dylan spoke up, intending to snap the man, who he assumed to be Dr. Baughman, out of his reverie.
“Let’s get this over with. The faster you can patch me up, the faster I’ll be out of your hair, and the faster you can deal with whatever that was.”
The man turned to regard Dylan, before starting out down the hallway, gesturing for the teen to follow with a wave of his hand. The doctor adopted a hobbling pace, his prominent limp preventing him from picking up any real speed.
By the time the doctor turned and walked into one of the treatment rooms, Dylan’s vision was starting to fuzz over again, the adrenaline from having a gun pointed at him fading from his system.
Dr. Baughman shut the door behind them, before crossing his arms over his chest, staring deeply at Dylan’s armor.
“I hope you realized that you’re going to have to take that off, right? I can’t treat your wounds with it on. I won’t even be able to diagnose them while you’re wearing that.”
Dylan paused, unsure of how he wanted to proceed. To be completely honest, he hadn’t really thought this far ahead. Mostly, he was just concerned with getting help. He hadn’t expected much pushback upon arriving here. Kasha said the location was trustworthy, but he had threatened their lives. They’d have plenty of opportunity to grab a sample of his DNA, for example.
While Dylan was thinking, Dr. Baughman walked over to the room's counter, pulling something out of it, and wrapping his hand.
Why was he doing that? Ahhh… that was the hand that had been holding the gun. Dylan must have injured it when he took the weapon away from the man.
Well, there was nothing that could be done about it now. Dylan couldn’t change the past. He would have to hope that Kasha was right about Dr. Baughman’s trustworthiness.
“Alright, doctor, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take my armor off, leave the helmet on, and you’re going to treat me as fast as possible. You can report me to your boss, he won’t care. In fact, he’s the reason I’m here. And, I hope for all of our sakes, you don’t try to reveal my identity or harm me in any way.”
Dr. Baughman sighed, and then nodded in agreement.
“You should have just told me that Kasha sent you. Then we wouldn’t have had all of that fuss” Dr. Baughman grumbled as he finished wrapping his hand.
“What was all that about you fighting Kasha? Were you just trying to scare us?”
Dylan grunted noncommittally, before mentally telling his armor to open up. The torso popped open at newly visible seams with a sharp hydraulic hiss. For the first time since his battle with Kasha and Dynamis, Dylan was left unsupported. His armor had been bearing the brunt of his weakness, helping him stay steady and upright. Now, freed from those supports, Dylan’s first step nearly saw him crashing to the ground. Instead, he aimed his collapse sideways, trying to lean onto the padded table in the center of the room.
Dr. Baughman was facing away from Dylan, sliding a pair of latex gloves onto his hands.
“Before we do this, you don’t have any allergies, do you? And are you on any medications?”
Dylan supposed that no matter how shady the place, the important questions remained important.
“No to both questions” he replied.
When Dr. Baughman turned back towards Dylan, he froze, silent, before seemingly shaking off whatever stupor had come over him.
“Can you describe the issues that made you seek treatment?”
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Dylan’s head spun, the effort of keeping himself up too much for him to pull off with any sort of grace in his weakened state.
“The two main things that I’m concerned about are the front and back of my torso. I took a really hard hit to the ribs, and my back was cut open pretty bad,” Dylan managed to choke out.
Dr. Baughman nodded thoughtfully.
“Alright, I’m going to need to take off your shirt so I can examine you. I don’t think we’re going to be able to get it off of you without agitating your wounds and removing your helmet. Because of that, I’m going to cut your shirt off, as carefully as I’m able to. I’ll have to get close to you. If you’re going to have a problem with that, I’ll give you the scissors, and let you try it yourself, but fair warning, judging by the fact that you can’t even stand up by yourself at the moment, I don’t think that it’s going to work out very well for you.”
Dylan nodded weakly, unwilling to waste anymore of his dwindling strength on speaking. He was surprised by just how weak he felt. Dylan knew that he wasn’t in a particularly great state, but his armor had done a lot to compensate for it. He was so much weaker than he realized that he wasn’t sure he would even be able to climb back into his armor unassisted, should the need arise. Dylan felt a frown cross his face.
This was not ideal. He had known that accepting medical care would mean putting himself in a vulnerable position, but he had thought he might at least stand a chance if Dr. Baughman had decided to change his mind. Now, though, Dylan was certain that even if the doctor told him he was going to grab a gun, Dylan still wouldn’t be able to make it into his suit by the time he’d returned. It was a good thing that Kasha vouched for this guy, Dylan supposed. This was about as low risk as it could get, current circumstances considered.
Dr. Baughman pulled a pair of scissors out of one of the drawers, while Dylan watched on in silence. The doctor seemed to interpret the silence as judgment.
“Hey, I know you don’t normally see scissors like this in medical environments, but I can’t afford to use surgical scissors for everything. They’re nearly 16 dollars a piece. These ones are reusable, and we clean them after every use.”
Dylan felt like he should be more concerned by that statement, but he was tired enough that it didn’t bother him.
Dr Baughman walked over slowly.
“Come over to the front of the table you’re leaning on, and I’ll help you get up onto it. It’ll be easier for both of us if you aren’t desperately clutching onto it to avoid falling.”
Dylan started forwards, taking small steps as he did so. There was a small step on the front of the table, and Dylan struggled to get his weight onto it, until he felt a pair of hands under his arms, lifting him. He winced as his wounds were agitated, but eventually managed to get himself situated on the table.
Dr. Baughman made quick work of his shirt, cutting it off in just a few snips of his scissors. Once he was finished, he started to examine Dylan’s torso, frowning as he did a walk around.
“You certainly have a deep laceration on your back. You’re lucky that you’re a super. A normal person with a wound like that would have probably bled out by now. If you leave it untreated, it will probably kill you in a few days. I’ll work on that first, and then we’ll address your other concern.”
Dr. Baughman directed Dylan to turn 90 degrees on the table, so that his legs were hanging off to one side. The doctor went and grabbed something from a drawer behind Dylan.
“I’m going to give you a shot, to numb the pain. Then, I’m going to scan the laceration on your back for any debris. If I find any, I’ll remove it. Then, I’m going to sanitize the wound, and stitch it. You’re lucky Kasha pays for everything I use when I’m treating people under his name, or I’d just use a normal needle on you. Most supers have tougher skin than normal humans, you know? I’d bet you do, if you’ve fought before. I could probably get a normal needle through it, but it’d cause problems. It would also probably be quite painful.”
Dylan heard footsteps. He couldn’t tell whether they were getting closer to, or farther away from him. He heard a voice from right behind him, causing him to jump a little, an action he immediately regretted, as it sent a lance of pain straight down his spine.
“I’m going to numb you now. You might feel a poke as the needle enters your skin. Try not to squirm.”
The doctor's promise soon came true, as Dylan felt a small sting, nearly unnoticeable compared to everything else he was feeling at the moment, in the middle of his back, directly adjacent to where he had gotten cut.
A few seconds after he felt the needle, he heard Br. Baughman mumble something behind him as he drifted into unconsciousness.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Detective Hasborough stared at the prone form, lying in the hospital bed. During his last encounter with the armored super, Dynamis had been severely injured. Hasborough supposed that he should refer to the villain by the codename that the department had issued him. They had decided to call the villain the “Iron Wraith”.
Personally, Hasborough thought it was a load of horseshit. He understood that they couldn’t keep calling the villain “the armored super” or some derivative of that. His problem wasn’t with the use of code names. No, it was the fact that the guys who gave them out seemed to be focused on making them cool.
No good could come out of that, in Hasboroughs opinion. Yeah, a menacing sounding name might get civilians to take them more seriously, but it also glorified villainy in a way that just wasn’t constructive to society. Sure, most villains probably weren’t in it because they got a cool name. But Hasborough would bet his life that a lot of them were in it to cause terror, to feel powerful, to be “important”. Giving them serious codenames would only add to that. Personally, if it were up to Hasborough, codenames would be kept bland. While he’d love to see villains with names that took the piss, that wouldn’t really be practical.
But as much as he’d thought about it, ultimately, it wasn’t up to him. Hasborough sighed. He wished Coriolis was back. It would make this all so much simpler. The Iron Wraith had been rated as a high danger villain. While most supers could be considered high danger, to the average person, the scale accounted for the danger to Heroes.
It started at low, where you’d see common criminals, or villains with incredibly weak powers. At a low threat ranking, the chance of them harming a hero was minimal.
After low came moderate, where you’d see your average low-level villain. This was probably where the Iron Wraith would have been placed, if he just possessed the mechanical suit. It meant that they could be dangerous to rookie Heroes.
After that came the high danger ranking. It was given to villains who could be a great threat to average Heroes. Rookies, like Dynamis, were advised not to take them on alone.
Beyond high, there was the extreme rating. Extreme rated villains could threaten somebody like Coriolis, or some of the other big names. They were few and far between, and encounters with them usually left many dead, a grim tally that often included the villain themself.
And the final danger rating was apocalyptic. These were beings that had the capacity to be dangerous to the strongest of Heroes, like Helion. Whatever was occupying so many of the world's heroes right now was probably an apocalyptic threat. Whenever one would show up, they would cause large scale change. Countries had fallen due to apocalyptic threats before.
The Iron Wraith wouldn’t be rated high, without the drone. From what Puncher had told him, it looked like Dynamis had been handily winning before he’d been shot. But, could haves and should haves didn’t really matter. Ultimately, Dynamis had lost, and nearly paid for it with his life.
The doctors said that he would recover, but while they were waiting on that, the city of Baylorville would be severely underpowered. The only super they had to call on currently was Puncher, who wasn’t even an official hero, just a vigilante. He wasn’t nearly as powerful or experienced as Dynamis had been. If Kasha, or the Wraith, made trouble, then they’d have no choice but to deploy him, an action that would put Puncher’s life in great danger.
The department chief had tried to negotiate with a nearby city, asking if Baylorville could borrow one of their heroes. The negotiations had not been successful. Hasborough himself had gotten on the phone, and tried to plead their case, but the answer was still the same.
Most nearby Heroes were busy running around, trying to deal with the seemingly endless amount of problems that had cropped up in the absence of their colleagues. The ones not constantly busy were on standby. If they were to leave their cities to come to Baylorville, then they would be leaving them in the same situation that Baylorville was currently in: A nearly defenseless state. Naturally, most of them were unwilling to do that, and their superiors wouldn’t have been on board, even if the heroes were.
Which meant, for the time being, they were stuck. Baylorville would just have to ride out this storm, as best they were able to. They might be able to get help if there was an active threat, but it would probably be too little, too late.
Hasborough’s eyes refocused on Dynamis, lying there in the hospital bed. His suit had been removed, to better facilitate the treatment. Without it, he looked much more frail than normal.
A superhero’s suit served many purposes. Obviously, it offered protection to the wearer, aiming to shield them as much as possible, from the many dangers they faced. It also was to differentiate them in a crisis. It was easy to tell who you should look for, in a crisis. The muscular, brightly colored person, the one who showed no fear. It made managing civilians that much easier, allowing hero’s to be identified at a glance, much like the uniform of a police officer allowed them to be quickly picked out of a crowd.
But it had one final purpose, one that wasn’t talked about as much as the other two. That purpose was to make the heroes wearing them more than men. It was part of what made them heroes. They helped hide fear, or uncertainty on the wearer's face. They made one look bigger, stronger, and sometimes, even invincible. They sent out a message, one that proudly proclaimed that everything was going to be ok.
Stripped of his suit, Dynamis looked much smaller. He was still tal, and heavily muscled, but the presence he normally had was gone. Hasborough had known that Dynamis was young, but knowing information, and truly knowing it were different. Now, the detective could see just how young the hero looked. He was probably 24. At that age, most people didn’t even have their lives figured out. Meanwhile, Dynamis was out here, risking life and limb for the public.
And it seemed that he had paid the price for it. And if he continued to be a hero, then this would be far from the only time that he ended up in the hospital, although hopefully it wouldn’t be this critical in the future.
Hasborough respected supers. They put it all on the line, and were the main reason why people could live peacefully. But he hoped, deeply in his heart, that his children would never develop powers. It was simply too dangerous a profession for him to wish for anybody he was close to to partake in it.
Hasborough turned, and started walking away. He couldn’t do anything to help Dynamis, and he had other work to attend to.
He nodded to the plainclothes officers sitting in the hallway. They didn’t stand guard, directly outside of the room, in case of a villain attack. It would make it far too obvious which room the injured hero was in, to have police officers posted at the door. Instead, they blended in, ready to step in if somebody tried to cause trouble. Their best protection would be obscurity.
The elevator ride down to the ground floor was short, as was the car ride back to the station.
Due to Baylorville’s small size, the local Hero Agency shared a building with the police department. That was why, when Hasborough walked in, he was able to locate Puncher pretty quickly. The vigilante was pacing around the Heroes Agency lobby.
Hasborough cleared his throat, before speaking.
“Hey, kid. How are you doing, after everything that’s happened?”
Punch kept pacing, not bothering to look at the detective.
“I’m not a kid. And not great. I should have done more. Should have stopped that snake, before he was able to shoot Dynamis. I can’t believe that I helped him. He played me like a damn fiddle.”
Puncher’s fist lashed out, embedding itself into the wall. Hasborough thought that, were he to try something like that, all he’d end up doing was hurting his hand, but the super seemed not to notice.
“Plus, even though we defeated Kasha, he still got away in the end. Now, he’s hiding who knows where.”
Hasborough didn’t respond immediately, instead choosing to lower himself into a chair before speaking.
“It’s not your fault. We didn’t even know his true colors before then. Personally, I’d thought he was more like you, a vigilante, but lacking control and experience. I told Dynamis as much, and because of that, he went in there to try and talk. If anything, this whole fiasco is my fault. You tried your best. Sometimes, villains just mess everything up. And the Iron Wraith is a villain, a dangerous one, at that.”
Puncher nodded mutely, but Hasborough could tell that he was still upset. Sometimes could only be healed with time.
The vigilante turned to face the detective.
“Are you sure you can’t find out who Wraith is, his real identity?”
Hasborough sighed again.
“Nope. I’m glad you shared what you knew about him, but all we really have is that he sounds young. That’s not exactly an arrow pointing right to our perp. Considering the fact that his face and body are completely hidden, and the fact that he seems to be able to make tech, it's very possible that it’s an adult using a voice changer as well.”
A frustrated expression came over Puncher's face, visible even through his suit.
“Can’t you just follow him, to see where he lives?”
Hasborough shook his head.
“Not really a great option. We don’t have the ability to follow him particularly far right now. That suit makes him fast. Plus, any officer tailing him would be in danger. The only chance we’d have to find out where he lives is if somebody sees him entering a house and decides to call in. And even if that were to happen, we’re in no position to arrest him right now. You’re the only super we have, which means that it would come down to a fight between you and him. And he’s competent up close, and at range. He’s dangerous. With you, and the police force behind you, we could probably take him in. But if we did that, there’s a good chance you would be injured, which we can’t afford to happen right now. And if he called Kasha to help him, or somebody else? We all might end up dead.”
“Plus, those types of villains love to make traps. There’s no telling what sort of nasty stuff Wraith has hidden around his house,” Hasborough added, almost as an afterthought.
Puncher clenched his fists.
“So, what you’re saying is that there’s nothing we can do until Coriolis gets back, sometime in the future. Does the fact that nobody can tell you when he’ll be back not make that plan seem a bit unreliable? He could be out there, doing anything, while we sit here, too afraid to act” Punchers voice had been getting more and more tense as he continued talking.
Hasborough shook his head again.
“Nope. Nothing we can do kid. I understand where you’re coming from. But, allow an old man to share some wisdom with you. Justice is a good thing. But, the best thing we can do isn’t provide justice. It’s to protect people. If we were to take casualties, trying to apprehend the Iron Wraith, simply in the name of justice, we would lose a lot of our ability to protect the public, the innocent people of this city. I know that it’s frustrating, enraging, even, that he just gets to walk free after what he’s done, but trust me, kid, the alternative is worse.”
Puncher huffed and walked away. Hasborough hoped that he wouldn’t do anything stupid.