Direwolf: Cold Iron & Hot Steel - part 9 "Where the hell did he come from..."
by Direwolf
Monday morning meant classes. Normally, Jason enjoyed the start of a school week. The Monday class load was light and included a Paleontology lab as well as a Structural Geology study session, two of his favorite subjects. But today, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Jason knew the reason; he had something important to take care of tonight. There was a certain auto-dismantling yard he had an appointment with after dusk.
Over lunch, Jason took the time to read through the city papers. The Herald was running more of the pictures from his battle with Freedom Force, but they lacked the visceral impact they had when he first saw them and without any new material, they had fallen from the front page. He did spot a small article towards the back page on how a former Sergeant from the 16th Avenue was being charged with attempted murder. Jason grinned without humor at that one.
The grin faded when he reached the editorial page.
John James Jagger was the editor of the Patriot City Herald. Jagger was known for his scathing editorials of anything that caught his ire be it government corruption, the prevalence of pot holes in certain city streets, the dismal performance of the Patriot City hockey team the Gulls, or even a restaurant that served bad coffee. They were all fair game to Jagger's razor keyed typewriter. And no one denied that Jagger was a very good writer. His columns were always widely read and discussed. This time, he tackled the issue of "Super powered vigilantes".
Equal Under the Law?
by John James Jagger
America has faced many perils in her proud history, and as Abraham Lincoln said the greatest threats have always come from within. A new class is arising in America, a class that stands both above and outside the laws of the land. These people are being granted the right to pass judgments upon their fellow citizens, to ignore the constitutional protections of the Bill of Rights, and to remain cloaked in absolute secrecy while they carry out their frightening mandate. A modern Star Chamber, potentially heralding the end of democracy itself.
I am referring, of course, to the "super powered" vigilantes that so many in the public seem to have embraced without a second thought. Perhaps this isn't to be wondered at. Mussolini and Hitler had the same effect on their adoring publics, and the witch-burners of Salem had no end of willing followers. But isn't it time that we stopped to think about what we're allowing to happen, and where it will lead us?
Vigilantes have been around forever. When the law can't be counted on to protect the people then citizens will band together to take it into their own hands. And every time that happens, however noble the original purpose, the eventual result is either mob rule or dictatorship. The purpose of the law is to guarantee the rights of everyone, and once a handful of citizens decide that they can ignore the law for the greater purpose of justice they will eventually realize that they might just as well ignore it for personal gain. A vigilante is nothing but a criminal in training.
What has led to this modern vigilantism? Their supporters would argue that it is the rise of their opposite number, the "supervillains," that has led to the emergence of the law-bending and -breaking "superheroes." But that is overly simplistic. It is not the supervillains that are responsible, it is the failure of traditional law-enforcement to deal with them that had allowed the public to accept the apparent necessity of an opposing force, however illegal and un-American it may be. And it isn't to be wondered at that those super-powered individuals with the desire to stand above the law, as well as a thirst for adulation, have taken advantage of the opportunity. Just as a businessman, however honest, will be tempted by the chance to gain a huge fortune through illegal, but completely untraceable, means, so these people have been seduced by the opportunity to act as their whims dictate without any of the legal restraints that constrain other citizens.
It is the responsibility of the government, and of the citizens who vote them into office, to ensure that our democracy does not fall to this threat, that our form of government does not vanish from the earth, to be replaced by a "superocracy" in which only those with special powers have any real rights, and due process of law gives way to the resolution of all disagreements by fist, energy blast, and mental domination. What is the place of a normal human in such a world?
I do not deny that extraordinary threats require extraordinary measures. Freedom Force has done good work, and they are to be applauded for the fact that up to now they have managed to resist the temptations that their special status has given them. It is time for them to become a formalized part of the government, answerable to the public, so that such temptations will not be a problem for them in the future. I call upon the Mayor to make Freedom Force a part of the Department of Public Safety, to make their identities known, and to institute a proper system of oversight and public accountability.
It is equally important that something be done about super-powered rogues who answer to no one but themselves. Whether they are obvious criminals, or whether they call themselves vigilantes, their actions are much the same. We have already seen serious damage caused by these people, damage to property, damage to individuals, and damage to the rights and privileges we enjoy as American citizens. The situation will only get worse if something is not done about it immediately. The police should begin immediate investigations of the crimes that have been committed by these people, a long list of crimes including the destruction of public property, reckless endangerment, criminal trespass, and contributing to the delinquency of minors.
It is not too late, if we act immediately.
"Well, it's clear that none of us are getting Christmas cards from the Herald," Jason muttered. "Next thing you know he'll be telling people to melt tar and collect feathers."
He folded up the paper and set it aside, He didn't taste much of his lunch as he ate his sandwich and banana. His mind was elsewhere, weighing everything that had happened to him since assuming the identity of Direwolf.
The logical thing to do was obvious. He should toss the back leather mask in the trash and just go back to a normal life of school work, paying his bills and looking for a good party to blow off steam on the weekends. This hero stuff was for fools. In the last two weeks, he had been shot nearly to death, had a building fall on him, gotten pounded unconscious by Freedom Force, been chained to a wall, and now was being lambasted by the press and branded the greatest menace to the city since World War Two. In the process, he was falling behind in his studies and seemed to have abandoned the idea of a social life that didn't include hiding behind a mask and hitting people.
"And I haven't really done much good have I?"
But was that really true? He remembered the look on the woman's face when he rescued her from the muggers, or the sound of metal tearing in his hands as he freed that person from their wrecked car. And he, Sergeant Joe and Cold Iron had made a real start cleaning up one problem that plagued the Devil's Kitchen. Was that enough?
"It has to be for now." Jason pitched his trash into the wastebasket in the student lounge and walked out without looking back.
That evening, back at The Brain Trust, he filled Skip and Devon in on what happen the night before. Both of them had also read Jagger's editorial.
"Don't give it too much thought." Skip sat back in his chair at the kitchen table and popped open a can of cola. "He's just trying to sell papers by taking an easy shot. He knows you aren't going to respond."
"I could always find him and a have a little chat in a dark ally," Jason growled. "Make him see reason."
Skip choked on his soda.
"I'm kidding!" Jason said. "Freedom of the press and all that. You guys need to lighten up."
Skip cleaned up the soda while Devon chuckled dryly.
"So, I assume you are going to check out that auto wreckers tonight?" Devon asked.
"You bet. I want to see if it's the same guys who left me for dead with a couple of gunshot wounds."
"Well, before you go, can we take a look at your coat? Skip noticed something odd about it."
"Sure." Puzzled, Jason went to his room and brought back the object in question. He laid the heavy brown coat on the table. "What's up?"
Skip picked up a magnifying glass and began examining the slightly glossy leather. He looked over to Devon.
"Yeah, we were right," Skip announced.
"Right about what?"
"Take a look." Skip handed Jason the lens. Between it and his hyper-acute vision, the coat looked fine.
"There's nothing there, guys." Jason insisted.
"Exactly," Skip said. "And doesn't it strike you as odd that with everything you have been through in the last week and a half, nothing has happened to it? Not a scuff, not a tear, not even a bloodstain. You came out from under a fallen building and this thing isn't even dirty."
"You're right. And it had to be nearly thirty years old when Devon found it at the rummage sale, but this thing is in perfect condition!"
"Let me try something." Devon took the coat and spread it on his lap, then took a kitchen knife and ran it along the lower flap. The leather didn't mark. "Tough sucker."
He pressed harder. Still nothing. Then he really bore down. A faint scratch developed.
"Well, it's not invulnerable" Devon said, passing it back to Jason. "But it's a lot tougher than leather should be."
"You know, it feels like oiled leather but maybe it isn't. Skip, think you can take a look at a bit of it in the lab tomorrow?"
"Should be able to, let's get a scraping." Skip took a role of waxed paper out and tore off a square. "May as well use the place Devon scratched."
They set the lower panel over the piece of waxed paper. There was no scratch.
"Must be the other side," Skip said.
"No," Devon insisted. "I scratched the left side. The scratch is gone like it healed itself."
"Weird," Skip said. Then he scrapped with the knife, with a lot of effort, a few shreds of dark brown material fell on to the paper. "That should be enough. Jason, you even been through the pockets of this thing?"
Jason shook his head. "No, I figured Devon had after he bought it."
"Nope," Devon said, "lets' see what we find."
The first thing they discovered was the coat had a lot of pockets, some of them seeming to have been hidden in places where small objects could have been concealed. There was even an internal holster that looked like it could accommodate a heavy automatic pistol. A small tag by the back collar in what looked like aged silk bore the initials ‘JC' in gothic script.
"Very weird," Devon noted, "those are your initials."
The many pockets yielded three objects. The first was an 1882 Morgan silver dollar with an odd dent in the center that looked like a bullet mark. The second was a long piece of thin steel with a hook in one end that came from a seam in the belt. Devon said it had to be a lock pick. The fourth was a small wooden box about the size of a pack of cards. Inside was a maze of fine wires and miniature tubes along with a couple of tiny, obviously hand made batteries that were slightly corroded. Four small dials were attached to the top of the case. It was a complete mystery though Devon appropriated it, saying he would take a look at it over the next few days and see if he could figure out what the thing was or did.
Jason quickly changed clothes, donning his Direwolf costume then returned to the kitchen. He picked up the odd coat and pulled it on. It felt just the same. He took the silver dollar and slipped it into an inner pocket.
"Maybe it's a good luck charm," he said.
"Well, it can't hurt," Devon said, "oh, and here you go. I made a couple more flash bombs for you as well as these two black ones, that should give you a nice cloud of smoke after the flash."
Jason slipped them into his pockets, making sure the flash bombs and the smokes bombs were in different locations. The coat made that sort of thing easy. "I'll let you know how they work, and thanks again. One more thing..."
Jason grabbed a chunk of hard salami and a couple of oranges that also vanished into his coat pockets.
"I've been getting real hungry, particularly after a fight," He explained.
Skip nodded. "It would make sense, your body heals very fast but has to use raw materials to do so. So after you take a pounding, you get hungry."
Jason made sure his mask was snug. "Don't wait up, we all have morning classes Tuesday!"
"Don't remind me!" Devon lamented. But Direwolf didn't answer; he was already on his way.
The sun had set in a welter of crimson and gold by the time Direwolf reached the Sunrise Dismantlers auto yard on the western edge of Patriot City. The facility was located near the water front and on the edge of the Devil's Kitchen in the shadow of one of the massive bridges that linked the island to New York state. The auto yard was quite large, occupying a long rectangular block. A twelve-foot high slat fence topped with coils of barbed wire surrounded it. None of the nearby buildings offered much of a view over the fence besides showing a maze of stacked wrecked cars and a few scattered pieces of equipment in not much better repair.
He did spot a muddy pathway snaking from the front gate and running between the rusting hulks that seemed to lead in towards the center of the lot. Jason figured that had to be where the offices were located.
Direwolf circled the lot a few times checking for any hidden observers. As best he could tell, the place was deserted or anyone inside was keeping a low profile. Rather then walking in the front, he decided to try a slightly more cautious approach. By the back corner, he crouched low then jumped, catapulting over the fence. He'd judged it right and landed in a clear patch between the wrecked cars.
It was dark between the stacks of flattened hulks and the air smelled thickly of rust, scorched metal and spilled oil. Jason paused in a low crouch, hidden in the shadows, listening to the night. He heard the hiss of traffic over the bridge above him, the soft sigh of the breeze and an occasional groan of shifting metal. Nothing else. The wrecking yard was still.
"Hope they don't have any dogs," Direwolf muttered under his breath as he began to pick his way through the maze of junked cars. Moonrise was coming up and that would help him find his way.
The moon was just starting to tint the eastern sky silver as the limousine pulled to a stop at the foot of an overgrown hill that had once been a park in Pinewood Heights. Two men got out, each carrying a tommy gun, and scanned the area. They spotted a bald man in motorcycle leathers watching them, as well as another vehicle that looked like an odd cross between a midget submarine and old auto-gyro that was grounded on the pavement nearby. Everything looked reasonably safe so one of the men tapped on a window, which rolled down a crack.
"Coast is clear, boss."
The door opened and the massive figure of the crime lord known as Pinstripe got out. Pinstripe wore a natty double-breasted suit complete with fedora that accentuated his broad shoulders and thick arms. His purple skin made a striking contrast to the fabric. He shouldered his signature Tommy gun and looked dubiously towards the hill. The figure in leathers walked towards him.
"Good evening, sir," the man said, "If you will follow me, Silver Scarab is waiting."
"And who might youse be?" Pinstripe growled around the stub of a smoldering cigar, "and how do I know this isn't some kind of ambush?"
The man smiled, showing off very pointed teeth. "I'm called Croc, I work for Silver Scarab. And if this were an ambush, we could have attacked your car on the way. It would have been much easier then waiting for now when you and your men are mobile and armed."
Pinstripe laughed. "Yeah, I thought of that on da way over. Just wondered what youse would say. Lead da way, Croc, I want to see what this Scarab dame has to say for herself."
"She's up on the crest of hill, if you'll follow me, sir."
"In for a penny, in for a pound," Pinstripe muttered as he followed Croc to the top of the hill.
There were three people atop the hill, as well as half dozen or so of the guys in biker clothing hanging back like security guards. One of the figures was a slender woman in a black and silver costume with a large gold and carnelian bracelet on one wrist. Her face was half covered by a mask of shadows. She matched the description of the woman who grabbed his merchandise. The next figure he recognized from the newspapers. It was the Russian agent called Nuclear Winter, standing with his arms crossed, as immobile as if he were carved from ice. Even from ten feet away, Pinstripe felt the cold radiating off the once human figure. The last looked like a man dressed in some sort of odd armor, seemingly comprised of a deep-sea diver's rig with a Roman breastplate and medieval gauntlets and greaves. He leaned on a large trident that had a number of odd attachments. Pinstripe couldn't be sure but it looked as if the helmet was filled with water.
"Excellent, "the woman said, "Thank you all for coming. I believe Mr. Rigotta and Mr. Sukhov know each other by reputation?"
"I read about the mook in the papers," Pinstripe growled.
Nuclear Winter simply nodded once and said, "Da."
"Then let me introduce our fourth, Captain Kraken who I became aware of recently and thought would be a valued addition to our company."
The armored figure bowed slightly. A slightly distorted voice came from a box mounted on his chest, "And what would that be? I haven't got all night you know!"
"Yes, we all have plans to implement, don't we," Silver Scarab said. "But two of our number have already had their plans countered by a collection of heroes known as Freedom Force. For now, I have moved in the shadows but have no doubt these heroes will be a thorn in my side as well. And my good Captain, I suspect you will find them meddling in your plans for such is their nature.
"As Pinstripe and Nuclear Winter have found out, they are a formidable collection, each on their own is powerful and together they have proven unstoppable, so far. And the reason for this is they work as a team. While singly, I suspect each of us is more then a match for any of them, they do not operate singly. We, while we each have our associates, operate on our own. That makes us more vulnerable. What I propose is an alliance."
She held up her hand to still the storm of protest. "I not proposing anything near as structured as what Freedom Force operates under. I suspect we each have our own agendas and are hardly apt to see eye to eye on plans and priorities. What I am proposing is much more free form, a mutual support network in which we can come to each other for help when we want it but are under no obligation to work for each other. In this way, we all gain allies and better chance at success but none are subservient."
"I ain't going to work with no commie trying to destroy this country!" Pinstripe roared.
"Bah, as if I would ally myself with a capitalist fool such as yourself," Nuclear Winter countered.
Both men squared off ready to fight.
"Come now, Mister Rigotta," Silver Scarab's voice echoed inside Pinstripes mind. "Surely you have considered the benefit of knowing Nuclear Winter's plans. If we know what he is doing, we can make sure he doesn't succeed in doing any real damage to the nation, or Patriot City. We can use his strengths and make sure he is.... controlled in his rage."
At the same moment, Nuclear Winter heard Silver Scarab within his own mind whisper, "Now, doesn't your dialectic tell you that communism must overwhelm capitalism as surely as the tide will overtake a beach? And if you refuse to work with Pinstripe, aren't you denying yourself access to his resources? Resources that could aid your political struggle."
"Good point," Pinstripe muttered.
"Da," Sukhov growled.
"And you, Captain, have you nothing to say on this proposal?"
The armored man shrugged. "You can have the dry land, I'll lord over the sea. I'll be happy to have any of you lubbers with me, rather than against me and will lend you a hand so long as you pay this old salt for his troubles."
His laughter gurgled from within his helmet.
"Sounds jake to me, for now then. But we're under no obligations, right?" Pinstripe insisted.
"Quite true, we can simply ask for aid as we wish, so long as we keep each other apprised of our activates. This way, we don't interfere with each other."
"I agree, woman," Nuclear Winter said. "But we must have a chairman, even for as loose a confederation as ours. One who can settle disputes should they arrive. Otherwise, too great is the possibility that we shall fight among ourselves."
The three men eyed each other suspiciously. Scarab remained aloof.
"The Ruskie's right," Pinstripe growled around his cigar. "But who?"
Kraken folded his arms. "The best way to decide would be to fight for it. Let the strongest lead."
Sukhov clenched his fists and the aura of cold around him intensified. "Hah, fine sport it sounds!"
"I can live with that." Pinstripe blew a smoke ring and smiled.
Scarab's expression was unreadable. "Then let us draw lots to see who shall tilt against whom in the first round."
Jason examined the building from the shadows of a wrecked city bus. The moon was up, giving him enough light to clearly make out the one story tall wood and metal structure that comprised the office and shops of the wrecking yard. If Sergeant Wojoesky was right, this was also the place the stolen cars were stripped for parts.
Light shown through the pebbled glass windows and from the murmur of conversations, too faint even for Direwolf's hearing, he knew there were a number of men inside the building. And there was a Mama Luna's Cookies truck parked in front. It looked just like the one he saw outside the antique store last weekend. But was it the same one? He wasn't sure, he hadn't spotted the license plate number.
So the question was, how to make sure this really was his quarry? By the soft glow along the rooftop, Jason figured there were a number of skylights. That seemed a good place to try.
As silent as a shadow, Direwolf ran across the muddy ground to the edge of the building. A surge of his legs took him to the roof where he landed lightly in a crouch. He froze, sensing the night. There were no signs of alarm.
Jason crept to the nearest skylight and peered in through the grimy panes. He could make out a number of blurry figures in the light below. But their voices were clear.
".... A good start I tell you, but we are going to need more, a lot more if we are going to amount to hill of beans in this town," someone said.
"Well, Techmaster has it, all we need to do is come up with the scratch. And the more we get hold of, the more we buy and so, we can go out and knock over even bigger targets!"
A third voice joined in. "I say enough smash and grab. Let's head into Jersey and knock over a bank. We can be in and out in no time, and no Freedom Force to get in the way."
"Maybe we should look at that body armor as well, not just the hardware...."
Jason figured he's heard enough. Even if these weren't the same men he'd fought last week, then they were still lawbreakers. Sergeant Joe had mentioned the issue of criminal conspiracy. That was enough for Direwolf. He readied himself to drop though the skylight.
As Skip had deduced some time ago, whatever had happened to Jason when the purple light fused the wolf fossil with his body had affected his density. And his density had become variable, sometimes fluctuating when he wasn't paying attention. It made sitting on any chair or bench an exercise in the unknown. And Jason had discovered he could to some extent control the fluctuations, that was how he could jump such phenomenal distances. But he wasn't very good at it yet. Just as he was considering on how best to stage his landing, he felt the roof give way under his feet.
"Ah, cra...." He managed to snarl as he tumbled towards the floor.
On the way down, he did get a look at the interior of the building. Like he suspected, he was over a service bay that held three cars in various states of disassembly. There were at least a dozen men in the room, most of them clustered around a table near the center of the room that held four odd looking, bulky rifles or shot guns. All of the men in the room seemed to be armed. Jason was sure he recognized some of them from the robbery. One of them was the rifleman who shot him.
Direwolf landed awkwardly, on his side amid a rain of debris. A burst of pain seared through his left shoulder but faded almost as quickly.
"Where the hell did he come from?" One of the crooks shouted as Direwolf clambered to his feet.
"Wait a sec, I recognize him. It's that Direwolf bozo like in the papers. I shot him last week!" The rifleman exclaimed.
"Didn't do a good enough job, blast him, boy!"
The room erupted with gunfire. Direwolf was hit at least a half dozen times in a matter of seconds. Nothing made it past his stone-like skin but the stinging impacts drove him to his knees. But Jason knew that it was a matter of moments before they hit him with bigger guns. He grabbed a flash grenade, pressed the trigger and tossed it towards the concentration of men by the table. The grenade made a mushy pop and fizzled out, a dud.
But it drew their attention long enough for Jason to make a rolling dive for one of the cars on the cement floor. Bullets chased him, kicking up sprays of cement and thunking into the car frames. Jason ducked under the car and tried to think of what to do next.
"This is the perfect time to see if we got our money's worth! Let's give these fancy heaters a try!"
"Huh?" Jason muttered. He decided that no matter what they were discussing, he didn't want to be an easy target. Right now, the idea of some room to maneuver seemed like the best tactical option. If he could lead them out into the maze of junked cars, his hyper acute sense would give him a real advantage. So he rolled out from under the car and raced for the door. He heard an odd humming sound behind him, like an electrical engine warming up then something between and a bolt of lighting and a protracted explosion seared into his back. The crackling impact lifted him from his feet and flung him into the wall.
To be continued...
[Authors Note: The section "Equal Under The Law?" was written by my Editor, James Myers, the original creator of J.J. Jagger, the editor of "Vortex" magazine....]
