CITY OF HEROES - LIBERTY SERVER'S
The SOLUS Foundation
Excerpts from
"Heroes - The Rebuilding
of Statesman's Camelot"
Chapter 83 - Daring
Defeats - Martin Jeffries AKA PUSH
As a spectator, one would almost be awed
by the spotless, immaculate polish that coated the fairly simple looking
room inside the decrepit building in Crey’s Folly. Blue, florescent
lights lit the few computer consoles that hummed in their station.
The tiles on the floor were spotless, the walls were scrubbed and clean,
and not even the forklift – prepped and ready to haul crates of unmarked
supplies – left tracks to tarnish the wholesome scenery.
Martin
Jeffries wasn’t lucky enough to see the ironically quaint room.
He was too busy being thrown through a wall. From a third person’s
point of view, it seemed almost comical: a white and teal spandex
clad figure hurdled through solid concrete, bounced on the ground once,
twice, three times, before rolling into a computer desk and putting a sizeable
dent in the obviously expensive machinery.
Martin was a little too preoccupied with
his concussion to be worried about how much of a mess he had made.
“Oh, son of a…third freakin’ time this
week,” he muttered, as he tore the ripped remains of his black latex mask
off his dust-covered face. Barely managing to stand, he heaved himself
upward and, with tremendous effort, steadied himself. “Things aren’t
cheap, y’know, big guy,” he called, blinking the spirit gum residue from
his eyes. “The way I see it, you owe me a mask!” The only response
was a hum of energy and a pink-purple glow that clashed horribly with the
shining florescent light that was already giving him a headache.
“Oh, fu-”
For what seemed like the thousandth time
in twenty minutes, Martin crashed against something heavy. It didn’t
really matter what it was, at this point. He was sick and tired of
wishing he’d put a bottle of Advil in his utility belt. As he stood
– again – he vaguely considered tossing out another glib response to the
bolt of energy that had just struck him squarely in the chest. The
words might’ve come, but he stopped short as his assailant took a triumphant
step through the gigantic hole that Martin’s body had punched in the wall.
The Paragon Protector stood, seven feet
tall and muscular beyond all human comprehension, in the smoldering remains
of a wall that appeared to be a divider between a boiler room and a research
facility. As the pink glow faded from its fists, the Protector took
a step toward the battered hero.
The city classified Martin, the hero, as
“Push.” A former-C-list-hero-then-A-list-hero-then-retired-then-back-
to-C-lister, Push was a decorated champion
in his own right: a master of technology that had allowed him to create
and effectively use a number of devices - most prominently, his Anti-Grav
gloves - to play twister with the laws of physics. The city classified
his assailant as a “Power Pattern” Paragon Protector, about six class-levels
too dangerous for a hero like Push to tackle on his own. Regardless,
Push had stepped into this facility determined to clear out a final leg
of the Revenant Hero case. Had almost succeeded. That is, until
the last ten minutes, where his city ranked title had apparently been switched
from “hero” to “tackle dummy” without his knowledge.
“That all you got, chuckles?” Push
taunted, spitting out a bloodied tooth. “C’mon, I’m still seein’
straight, you moron, so you haven’t hit me nearly hard enou-”
Once again, Push’s sentence was cut short
by a ball of energy that cracked him right in the jaw. Martin reeled,
but kept his footing, and was aware enough to see the Protector charging.
Great, he thought. Melee
attacks, charging in at roughly forty-five degrees for an uppercut, which
means I should probably put my grav-field right…With a neural twitch,
Push lifted the Protector in the air and brought him smashing to the ground.
Lifting him up once again, he caught the blue-and-yellow monstrosity on
the side with a punch that might have made Statesman flinch, sending his
enemy back through the wall he’d recently remodeled. Time to finish
this, he thought, and wound up for another gravity-fueled punch.
This time, the Protector was ready. Seizing the moment, the Protector
landed two simultaneous punches into Push’s gloves with its glowing fists.
Martin cried out and reeled from the crackling energy that emanated from
his hands.
Add two broken wrists to the list of
injuries. Whatever, suck it up, Martin, put this sucker down and
get home before Sportscenter is over. You can do it, loser, you can
do it. Another glowing punch caught Martin in the jaw, and the
Protector whirled around to plant a roundhouse kick to the chest.
Push didn’t so much recoil as crumple, and he hit the ground – hard.
If the Protector had any mercy in its eyes,
it was impossible to tell. The sleek, one-way glass that covered
its helmet was just as spotless as the room should’ve been, save for a
fleck or two of Push’s blood that had managed to land on the villain’s
visor. Slowly raising its hand, the Protector readied a final bolt
of energy that would mediport Push back to the Brickstown infirmary.
Can’t let that happen, Push thought,
barely able to form a coherent sentence in his own, throbbing head.
With surreal movement, movement that barely seemed like his own, Martin
flicked off his automated mediport response unit, and clicked his SOLUS
Foundation distress beacon. I’m finishing this case. Finishing…this…
CASE!”
With a considerable amount of effort, Martin
thrust his arms forward, sending his useless gloves into the Protector’s
face. The left missed, but the right found home, shattering the yellow
veil that ensured the villain’s anonymity. Grunting, the Protector
clutched his face with one hand, and readied an energy blast with another.
Push staggered, crumpled, and struggled again to stand. His
legs protested, but he had to stand. His head was throbbing, he was
running on empty, his vision was clouded, and, he had to admit, it really
looked like the end. Damnit, did I leave the stove on?
The world around him erupted without sound.
There was only light, a brief, point-blank flash of light between one man’s
fist and another man’s face, and then Martin didn’t feel much of anything
anymore. He flew back, again, making a third hole in the wall.
Landing on his back, Martin wondered why
the familiar fluorescents were fading. Didn’t they make them more
consistent than that? The white dimmed to gray, and the entire
world seemed to slip out from under him. He was vaguely aware of
being kicked in the side. He was less aware of a yellow and blue
boot stomping down on the side of his head, cracking the tiling beneath
him, and even less aware of another bolt of energy that connected with
his chest, sliding him across the floor.
All the while, the white lights faded to
gray…to brown….to black.
Had Martin remained conscious for another
ten seconds, he would’ve been just as confused as the Protector of the
events that happened next. The door was kicked in, obviously by a
being of immense strength, and the Protector crumpled after being shot
by a high-velocity round at point-blank range from an obviously super-modified
assault rifle. Doubling over, it readied an energy bolt that fired
and bounced harmlessly off a gold and white blur that raced forward, landing
a solid punch to the head that sent the Power Pattern stumbling backwards.
A flash of steel and a hum of magic energy was the only evidence of the
blade that tripped the feet out from under the Protector – and then a pummel
of bare fists at super speed was the last thing that it remembered.
As the Protector fell, the room settled,
and it was the small, blue skinned woman that noticed Push’s body first.
“Cap –” she started, but the enormous
gold and white man cut her off.
“Yes, I see him. Van,
get him to the hospital. Now, please.”
A young man nodded, and in a flash of dark
energy, the crimson clad figure picked Martin up off the ground and whisked
him out of the building before anyone could even blink. As Captain
Superior and Azure Noir
stood in quiet confirmation of the last moments, the man with the sword
stepped over the hole in the wall with ease.
“There aren’t any others, Cap. Martin
got ‘em all except this one, here.” Black
Whirlwind’s pleasant, cultured voice seemed out of place in the midst
of all the chaos. As he walked toward the pair, he jabbed the hilt
of his sword into the Protector’s gut. “Let’s get back to Brickstown.”
The other two nodded, and with a whoosh of capes and a clank of armor,
the three were off.
If James Henally noticed the door open
and shut, he gave absolutely no indication. Kyle Van Amburgh crept
quietly into the hospital room, which was silly, James thought, given that
there wasn’t anyone in the room that would be bothered by a little extra
noise. And even if Martin did wake up, it certainly wouldn’t be a
bad thing.
“Any change?” James barely grunted
a response to Kyle’s inquiry. Martin had been comatose for nearly
fifteen days, ever since “Push” had lost the fight in the Folly.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” James’
pleasant voice seemed tired, nearly as weary as his eyes looked.
The magic connected to his spirit kept him youthful in appearance – he
didn’t even have to shave – but the consistent two week vigil he’d kept
at Martin’s bedside had left him as run down as any epic battle he’d ever
been in.
“Uh, yeah.”
“And why aren’t you there now?” James’
gaze never left Martin.
“Well, I left when I read the papers today.
Cap and Azure got ‘em, James. They closed that Revenant Hero case.
They said they’re going after the Countess Crey next.” James’ response
was another barely audible grunt, almost completely lost in the droning
beep of heart-rate monitor and hiss of compression chambers that filled
the already cramped hospital room. “I’d head back, but, well, y’know,
I took two cabs and the Green Line to get here, and since the city won’t
let me use my powers since I resigned…” He paused. James didn’t move.
“It’s not every day I can make it out to Bricks, alright? Besides,”
he started.
“Let me guess, you’re ‘only missing history
class?’” For the first time in what seemed like days, James’ gaze shifted
from the bedside to Kyle.
It seemed strange to Kyle, but even without
the sword, and without the armor, “Black Whirlwind” still had a regally
heroic aura about him. Even in the typical civilian dress shirt,
tie, and slacks, he was here, clinging to every shred of hope that he could
for the sake of his best friend. Kyle shrugged, and let the soft
humming of the compression chamber fill the room. It was so strange,
seeing two of the strongest men he knew – his former mentor, and former
team mate – so broken, so helpless. Kyle turned to leave, but stopped
short. He was tempted to say goodbye to both of them, just in case…
He pushed the thought out of his head.
“Hey, listen, James?”
“Yeah, kid.” Henally’s gaze drifted
back toward Martin.
“If you want, I can stay with him.
I mean, I remember reading somewhere that doctors said that if you filled
a room with, I dunno, music or laughter or whatever, the patient might
wake up or something. So if you need a rest, man…”
“I’m not leaving, Kyle.”
Kyle pivoted on his feet and leaned against
the door. He let his backpack slump down his shoulder to the ground.
Funny, the same backpack he’d so often used to hide his costume, now held
books. Papers. Graded tests. This is what life was like
back on civilian side. He had nearly forgotten, and it had only been
two weeks since “Van Hero” gave up being a vigilante. Sighing, he
collected his things and straightened his maroon jacket. “I guess
I’ll be seeing you later, then?”
James didn’t move. Taking the hint,
Kyle slid soundlessly out of the door, gingerly closing it behind him.
It was lunch break at the hospital, and the nurses and doctors were few
and far between. The emptiness gave the long hallway back to the
front entrance an ominous, vacant feeling that gave Kyle a chill.
Without glancing back, the former sidekick left the building, stepped out
onto the sidewalk, and hailed a cab. |
