Direwolf: Cold Iron & Hot Steel - part 7 "Time to stand up, or shut up..."
by Direwolf
The hot water cascaded across Jason's face, washing away crusted dust and blood. It seemed to carry away some of the tension as well. Through the pounding water, Jason could almost feel the phantom touch of the black leather mask as if the feel of it were imprinted on his skin, as if Direwolf's mask was part of him now.
"So, can you give us a little more information then ‘Freedom Force kicked my butt'?" a voice from outside the shower asked.
"That covered the basics, guys," Jason answered. "Bullet and I got into a tussle right after I lost track of that Cold Iron character. Then El Diablo, Order, Microwave and AlcheMiss pitched in and dropped a building on me. They thought I had something to do with Nuclear Winter breaking out and hauled me back to the Freedom Fortress for questioning. When they figured out I didn't, they let me walk out. That's the Cliff Notes version, I'll tell you more when I'm really awake. Towel please."
Someone pitched a sort of clean towel over the shower curtain. Jason caught it and began drying off. "Thanks."
"That's why heroes always have sidekicks, or butlers or something like that," Skip said from the bathroom door. "They need flunkies to help with the little chores."
"You two are not flunkies!" Jason protested, sticking his head out of the shower curtain. His wet hair rose in a maze of short, dark blond spikes. "In fact, your flash grenade worked like a charm tonight!"
Devon, leaning on the sink, grinned. "Thought they would. Tell me what happened!"
"In the morning guys! I am beat, figuratively as well as literally!" Jason wrapped the towel around himself and stepped out of the shower. "I'm going to bed!"
True to his word. Jason walked past them and headed for his room by the back of the house. Skip and Devon watched him go.
"He's holding a lot back," Devon said.
"No kidding," Skip answered. "Look at his clothes."
Jason's Direwolf costume lay in a heap by the bathroom door. The jeans and shirt he had worn were tattered ruins, ripped in countless places, scorched or frozen in others. His boots were scuffed and tattered, even his mask was stiff with dry blood. They looked like they had been dragged through a war zone. But Skip noticed something odd. The long, dark brown coat that Devon had found last year at a church rummage sale here in Patriot City was intact, not even particularly dusty.
"Devon, take a look at this." Skip pulled the heavy coat up and shook it out.
"It's his coat, I've seen it before you know..."
Skip sighed. "I know what it is, you engineering major you. Leave it to an engineer to fixate on the bark of one tree and not notice he was in a forest. Look at it, it's not even damaged."
Devon took a closer look. "Damn you're right. What is going on with that?"
Jason slept late. His eyes finally opened shortly before ten in the morning. For a while, he simply lay in bed and let his mind wander, thinking of nothing, then he pulled himself out of beg and dragged on a pair of old City U sweat pants. He smelled coffee.
"Good morning," he called as he walked into the kitchen and headed for the coffee pot on the lime green stove. He considered drinking it straight from the pot but thought that would be bad form. "Hope you guys found some decent parties last night."
He realized no one was talking even though his heightened senses told him Skip and Devon were both seated at the kitchen table. Then he caught another odor under the smells of the kitchen. Newsprint.
"Ah, hell!" Jason suddenly remembered the flashes of light during the battle with Freedom force. "How bad is it?"
"Pretty bad," Skip answered.
Jason crossed to the table and got a look at the front page of the morning edition of the Patriot City Herald. ‘Direwolf Battles Freedom Force' the headline screamed. The rest of the page was taken up with a harsh, black and white photo. It showed Direwolf atop a heap rubble, the slack form of Bullet over his shoulder while a fiery steak showed El Diablo burning in.
"There's more inside."
Jason opened the paper. The by-line was for Jenny Weathers. And her article was a very clear explanation of what happened, how Direwolf had fought members of Freedom Force in the Devil's Kitchen and been taken into custody after a savage battle. The prose was clean and clear, covering the battle without being lurid. But the photos told a darker tale.
After the cover photo came a shot of Direwolf tumbling through the air, the bright flare of an exploding fireball behind him. Then came a shot of Diablo hurled back from a chunk of thrown rubble. Below was a picture of Direwolf and Order, standing toe to toe engaged in a massive slugging contest while Microwave circled in. The next page opened with Direwolf erupting from the rubble of the building while the three members of Freedom Force stood obviously rooted in surprise. Then came Order's downfall under the massive steel beam, then a horrific shot of Direwolf atop a fallen concrete support, his arm raised in what was nearly a German salute and the sparking body of Microwave impaled on his arm. Then they showed him stalking towards AlcheMiss who cringed back in fear. In the final picture, Direwolf was down and the exhausted AlcheMiss stood by, head bowed.
Without a word, Jason shut the paper and walked out into the weed-choked back yard.
Devon started up to follow him.
"No," Skip said, "I think he needs to work through this on his own."
Devon hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Wouldn't you?"
Slowly Devon sat back down.
Outside, Jason stared with out seeing at the Patriot City skyline. The paper had painted him as a monster, something so dangerous that he had nearly destroyed five of the city's beloved heroes. It was a damming accusation. The only problem was, Jason wondered if it wasn't at least partly true.
His memory of the battles last night, first with Cold Iron then with Freedom Force, was fragmented. And he remembered the blinding rage that boiled up from within that wiped out chunks of his memory in a wash of blood red. There was no denying that he had lost control several times during the fight. The Norse had a word for it, berserk, the legendary battle fury. It seemed he'd picked up a case of that from the fossil wolf along with the stone-like body.
Jason saw a rusty steel bar nearly two inches thick buried in the wiry grass. He picked it up and twisted. The metal bent double, then snapped. He dropped it and red flecks of rust dusted his hands.
"It could happen again," He murmured. "It will happen again and then I may well kill someone. Maybe I did last night. Maybe whoever was in the suite of black armor crawled off somewhere to die."
Jason dusted off his hands on his sweat pants. The flecks of rust looked uncomfortably like dry blood.
"Do I have the right to take that risk? What do I do now?"
Around him, the city bustled with activity as countless men and women pursued their own lives. How many of them would ever face a decision like this, Jason wondered. Perhaps a handful such as doctors, solders or police officers would ever have to consider that a mistake they made could end lives. And how many of them controlled so much destructive power as he did? Having that sort of power carried a weight of responsibility. If it was to be used...
"It still isn't too late," an inner voice hissed. "You can turn away from this all."
"Perhaps," he whispered, "but if I did so, could I live with myself?"
Shoulders back and head held high, Jason walked back into the house to wash his hands. It was only rust after all.
Joey the Jackal walked through the collapsing metal fence around the old Federated Metals Reprocessing facility on 15th Street, two sacks of food in hand. With this as their seemingly permanent base, the Red Skorpions had scouted the area for resources. There was a grocery store a few blocks north and now, they made regular runs there for food and drink.
On his way towards the main building where the Skorpion's bedded down, Joey noticed one of the other gang members seated cross-legged on the cracked asphalt. It was Jim Everest, now called Bugs. And the pavement around him seemed in motion. Joey went a little closer. Then he realized what was going on. Hundreds of roaches swarmed around Jim, moving in a complex, almost hypnotic pattern, their caprices glossy brown-black in the afternoon sun. Jackal felt queasy at the sight.
"They won' hurt you," Bugs called, "not unless I tell them to."
In the days when the Red Skorpoins had just been an gang of outlaw bikers, Everest had been the low man on the pecking order. Smaller and weaker then everyone else, everyone picked on Jim and he took it, seeming to think that any attention was worth having. Things had changed. Now, Jim kept to himself and everyone like it that way. And everyone has stopped picking on him.
"I'm getting better," Jim said, "more and more come when I call and do what ever I tell them. And watch this!"
One of the roaches took wing. It buzzed over to a clump of weeds poking up through the pavement and landed, rock still as at attention. Then, nearly hand sized gray wolf spider leapt from the weeds and pounced on the roach. Bugs laughed.
"Spiders are the toughest so far. They have strong wills. And trying to run one of them and keep the bugs going is tough. But I'm getting better."
The spider moved across the asphalt and the roaches parted like a living tide, allowing the eight-legged hunter to climb up on to Bugs' leg. It climbed all the way to his shoulder and stopped, then reared back and brushed the man's ear with its forelegs as if in greeting or worship.
Bugs looked up suddenly locking eyes with Jackal. Joey had the disconcerting sensation of falling into Bugs' muddy brown eyes and felt as if his skin was trying to crawl off his body.
"Freedom Force has a guy called The Ant you know!" Jim said excitedly. "I wonder how his mind would feel?"
Joey pulled his gaze away and shuddered. "I'm sure you'll find out."
He walked away from Jim Everest and his private horde. For the first time, he pondered just what Silver Scarab had done to them all, and what it might have cost them.
It was a good two hours before sundown and Direwolf was moving over the rooftops of the Devil's Kitchen. In the process of going over last evening's events with Devon and Skip, Jason had realized that there was a large piece of the puzzle still missing. It all revolved around what Cold Iron had said before he attacked. Jason knew that he had to find out what was going on. That meant finding Cold Iron.
"Great theory, but how to make it work?"
Direwolf dropped to the ground besides the ruined building where he had fought last night. Yellow caution tape had sprung up around the collapsed part of the front but already the two-legged scavengers had been in sifting the rubble for anything that might be worth selling. Direwolf ignored their activity and moved around to the back of the building, to the metal fire door beside a gaping hole. If he was right, Cold Iron had come out that door last night.
He crouched down, nearly touching his nose to the cement stairs and breathed in, concentrating. There was a complex play of odors. One at a time, he tried to isolate them and identify each. Some were easy; the smell of the asphalt from the street, or spilled soda. Others were more tenuous and defied simple description. But he found one that brought to mind metal and lubricating oil with a suggestion of plastic and ozone. It was quite distinctive and strong by the door.
Direwolf stepped into the building and tried again. Once more, he found that same fresh complex odor. The same scent lingered outside the door as well, moving away.
"Good thing it didn't rain last night."
He followed the scent through the Devil's Kitchen. On a Sunday evening, the streets were far from deserted but those that saw him got out of his way. Most of them moved quickly in abject fear. Direwolf was known in this place. Even the street gangs wisely avoided him.
The trail brought him to an abandoned building overlooking the inner harbor. Two blocks to the north, the waterfront district officially began with the working docks that brought so much commerce to Patriot City. But this was still the slum. The building was an old, three-story brownstone with boarded up windows and a faded, caved in roof. Drifts of trash cluttered the cracked front walk and the brick stairs leading up to the front door were shattered in places. Layers of graffiti covered the walls, faded by sun and rain. One bright blue slogan proclaimed "Cold Iron Rulz".
"We'll see about that!" Direwolf stepped up to the door and took a closer look. Behind the appearance of decrepit age, someone had reinforced the entryway. Several deadbolts secured the door that was actually painted steel rather the aged wood. In fact, the whole house was a shell around a fortress like interior.
Direwolf decided to try the polite approach first and rapped the door with his gloved knuckles. Silence was the only answer. He knocked harder and still nothing.
"Ok, time for some breaking and entering." Direwolf reared back and kicked the door as hard as he could. The dead bolts sheered off and the door flew away from its hinges.
"Hey, Lucy, I'm home!" Direwolf stepped into the dark hall, his eyes quickly adapting to the dim light.
The entry hall extended past a couple of open doorways and a run down flight of stairs leading up. One of the back walls had been torn out, exposing the kitchen. There, the floor had been partially replaced by a thick steel hatch like you would find on a modern bomb shelter. The hatch was closed. The armored form of Cold Iron, hammer in hand stood halfway down the hall, blocking access to the hatchway.
Direwolf examined the person who had attacked him yesterday evening. The armor was the same, but he spotted signs of damage. The black metal was dented and cracked in places. Interestingly, some of the cracks seemed partially annealed, as if something had been used to repair the metal seamlessly. Direwolf wasn't sure what that meant and at the moment was more interested in the hammer. It glowed with a soft nimbus of blue white light and he felt chill radiating from the weapon.
"Get out of my house!" Cold Iron's voice echoed from inside his helmet.
"I only came by to talk."
"I'm not in a talkative mood!"
This time, Direwolf listened when his sense told him Cold Iron was about to swing. He dodged back, out of the radius, and then closed too quickly for Cold Iron to counter. The hammer smashed into the wall, freezing the plaster on impact and shattering it. Direwolf simply grabbed Iron's arm and shoved it into the hole, effectively pinning the armored man.
"Will you stop that?" Direwolf growled, leaning into Cold Iron to keep him pinned. "I just want to ask you a couple of questions."
Cold Iron answered by back-fisting Direwolf in the face. Jason's head snapped back blood filled his mouth. He spat red. Now he was mad, but he held his temper in check. Since he had the advantage of leverage, he used that in conjunction with his massive strength. He picked up Cold Iron and tossed him out the door.
Cold Iron shouted in surprise then hit the ground with a great crash. The already abused pavement cracked on impact. He scrambled to his feet while Direwolf stalked out the door.
"Two choices, talk to me or fight back while I peal that tin suit off your hide, then talk to me!" Direwolf settled back into a fighting stance, fists cocked and ready.
Cold Iron hesitated. He knew his armor was still damaged from the last fight and as far as he could tell, Direwolf was uninjured. And the last battle had shown that though they were about matched in strength, Direwolf was a lot faster. In all it didn't seem worth the risk, at least, not yet.
"What do you want to know?"
Direwolf relaxed marginally but kept his guard up. "Before we fought, you said something that confused me, something about how I was squeezing cops who were squeezing the locals. What did you mean?"
Cold Iron barked a harsh laugh. "The same old story. You shake down Sergeant Joe Joe, he demands more from the beat cops, and they squeeze it out of the folks in the Kitchen who can't afford to pay. Story never changes."
"You mean the 16th is on the take and Sergeant Wojoesky is running it? And they want more because of me?"
"That's what I said, ain't it?"
Direwolf stepped back a pace. "For what it's worth, this is all news to me."
Cold Iron fingered his hammer. "You mean you ain't skimming from the 16th?"
"No, it's as simple as that."
The man in the armor wasn't sure why, but he was inclined to believe Direwolf. "Then one of two things is going on. Either the cops are collected more, saying it's for you, or the locals decided they didn't want you snooping in the ‘hood and sicced me on your butt. I don't much like either."
"Look, for what it's worth, we both want to figure out what's going on. Let's work this out between us."
Cold Iron laughed. "Then what? You going to bust a whole station full of crooked cops to help the downtrodden here in The Kitchen? I don't think so."
"I don't know what I'm going to do, and won't until I know what's going on. So let's find out."
Cold Iron considered as the sky darkened towards dusk. "Ok, for now. But one thing needs to be clear. I only care about what happens in the Kitchen. The rest of the city don't give a damn about us. No reason I should give a damn about them."
"You have made that clear. So now what?"
"We find Two-card and Shades and have us a little face to face..."
Two-card and Shades were squatting in an empty lot near the recently ruined building. Come dawn, they had discovered that the damage wrought in the three-way battle had exposed a lot of pipe and wiring, a veritable bounty of copper. They had spent the day stripping out armloads and carrying them a few blocks via shopping cart to a metal reprocessing business on the waterfront. They figured they had a real cash cow so long as the metal held out.
"With the dough we got today, we should like get an old truck or something, that way we can really make a haul!" Shades stirred the can of beef stew that was heating in a small, scrap wood fire.
Two-card nodded. "Not a bad idea, but we'd have trouble keeping it from getting boosted. Let's find a second cart in the morning. Double the profit at no more cost!"
"In a couple of days, we'll have enough to get clear of this hell hole, maybe head south."
Two-card laughed. "Yeah, all we have to do is hold on to it, rather then pay it all in protection."
"Funny you boys should mention protection," a deep voice echoed.
Both Shades and Two-card leapt to their feet in alarm. The firelight glinted dully on Cold Iron's black armor. Direwolf stood beside him, arms folded over his chest.
"Why'd you bring him here, man?" Shades gasped, pointed at Direwolf, "We thought you was on our side!"
"I am, but I need to know the truth. You said the cops were squeezing you for more to pay him off. Now, tell me the whole story."
"It's true!" Two-card insisted. "Juarez and Thomas told us last week. It was a quarter more since Direwolf was shaking down the Sergeant and bad news rolls down hill. Honest, Iron, we wouldn't bull you."
"I think they are telling the truth," Direwolf said. He could smell the fear coiling around them and figured they were too scared to lie.
"We can prove it!" Shades offered. "Juarez and Thomas will be by soon to collect their take. They always come on Sunday at around seven."
Cold Iron looked to Direwolf. "What do you think?"
"I think we should stay out of sight and listen to what the good officers have to say," Direwolf suggested. "Do you think you can convince them to tell the full story?"
Shades grinned, showing off a silver tooth. "I think we can make ‘em talk for you two fine gentlemen."
Right around seven, a squad car pulled up and two Patriot City Police officers got out. Neither of them noticed Cold Iron and Direwolf hiding within the torn open building. Like men walking to their own execution, Two-card and Shades abandoned their small fire and walked over to the two officers leaning against the car, hands rested on the butts of their guns with casual unconcern.
"Good evening officers Juarez and Thomas," they said in chorus.
"Good evening, boys," one of the cops said. "Glad to see you remembered it was pay day today."
Two-card took a handful of bills from his grubby jeans. "This is all we got. Can't you give us another week to find some more?"
The cop nearest shook his head. "No can do, boys. Sergeant Joe insists we hang tough. Otherwise it would set a bad precedent."
"Still don't see why it's skin off our noses?" Shades whined.
The other officer sighed. "I explained it to you boys. New player in town squeezes the Sergeant. He squeezes us. Nothing for us to do but squeeze you. It's the law of the jungle, man."
Two-card handed over the money. "But I heard Direwolf got nabbed by Freedom Force, right over there in fact!"
The cop with the money shrugged. "Yeah, but they kicked him loose. I'll bet Freedom Force shook him down, so he'll be looking for more. And you know what that will mean?"
Two-card and Shades studied their own feet.
"Come on, Thomas," One of the offers said, "no point trying to teach these bums economics."
They left in the patrol car. Once they were gone the two young men looked up and smiled.
"Told you we could do it", Shades said as Direwolf and Cold Iron emerged form the building.
"That you did," Direwolf said looking in the direction the car vanished, back towards the 16th Street precinct house. "Now what?"
"Time to stand up, or shut up." Cold Iron shifted his grip on his hammer. "Looks to me like we just saw a crime committed. So what are you going to do about it, Mr. Superhero?"
Direwolf looked up to the sky, hoping to find an answer in the first evening stars.
To be continued...
