The Secret Origin of Direwolf - part 3 "...Not a cape!"
by Direwolf

On most Saturday afternoons, the three young men who comprised the denizens of The Brain Trust would be doing one of four things, working on school assignments, playing pick-up soft ball at the University field, discussing the latest batch of female undergrads in their study sections, or dealing with any household chores that had reached the critical stage. This Saturday, they had another project. They were gathered in the living room eating a late pizza lunch (or early pizza dinner) and discussing what had happened to Jason.

"Ok," Skip said around a mouthful of combination pizza, "let's go over what we know first."

He flipped open his notebook. As a graduate student in the life sciences program, Skip had access to the University laboratory and medical sections. The three of them had spent most of the morning and afternoon there testing Jason, trying to figure out just what the flair of purple energy had done to him.

"To start with, you are far stronger then you were. At a best guess, about six times the strength of a 'normal' man. This is all extrapolation from our tests; the equipment isn't exactly set up to deal with someone who can bench press a few tons. And your reflexes are off scale as well. I swear your leg twitched before the mallet even moved and if I had been standing in front, I'd be singing soprano."

"Speaking as the person with the room next to the shower who has to listen to your morning renditions of Elvis songs, that might not have been a bad thing," Devon said, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"Shut up, gear head," Skip countered. "In any case, I'd hazard a guess your stamina is up there as well based on your treadmill readings. You can run fast, probably around 30 miles an hour and keep it up for a quite a while. You're not like Bullet, but you got endurance.

"The interesting part of all of this is that none of it seems associated with any biochemical changes I can find. As best I can tell, you biological processes are still the same, just way more efficient."

"Yeah," Jason said, draining the dregs of a can of Black Star beer. "I can see how that all fits together. But what about my sudden weight gain?"

"Now that I actually understand better. Look at these X-rays. See how your bones look completely white? These are normal high resolution X-rays, the bones are kind of gray since you get some penetration of x-rays through bones. Now look at this."

Skip held up a set of x-rays of a human leg. The bones looked the same as in the normal x-ray, but there were some irregular white chunks around the knee.

"What are those?" Jason asked.

"X-rays of someone who was in a motorcycle accident. The bones are fine but we needed to see where the gravel was imbedded under his skin. As a geologist, I thought you'd recognize rocks no matter where they are. So based on this, I think we can guess what happened to the fossil skeleton. Some how, that burst of purple light melded it with you. You've got solid stone bones.

"And your flesh is denser as well, not as solid as your bones, good thing or you'd be a statue. That explains how you can squeeze metal without turning your fingers into paste. Can you get me another beer while you are up?"

"Sure," Jason answered. He needed a moment to assimilate what Skip just told him. As he reached for the door to the fridge, he paused, realizing he could just as easily tear the door of its hinges, or carry the whole thing back to the living room.

"It's all about control," he thought. "There is so much I'm going to have to simply re-learn so I'm not dangerous to everything and everyone around me."

"So what else did you find?" Devon asked once Jason was back and the cold cans opened.

"Like that isn't enough? Ok, yeah, there's more. Along with the amped reflexes, increased strength and resistance, near unbreakable bones, and off-scale senses, you heal at an amazingly accelerated rate. I was able to get a needle into your shoulder with effort to draw blood, but I swear the skin was trying to seal around the needle. In seconds after it was out, your skin was unmarked. But it's not retroactive, your tonsils are still missing and I suspect anything that happened to you before this change won't re-grow."

"Good thing, I'd hate to have that impacted tooth try to come back."

Skip nodded absently and went back to his notes. "Two other odd things I noticed. The first is associated with your heightened senses. You pick up sub-audible clues, faint changes in odor and flicks of movement, things like that. I suspect your mind processes this data faster then you're aware, making you almost precognitive to threats."

"In English, for non-bio majors, please?" Devon asked.

"It's not really seeing the future, more like sensing danger as it's about to happen."

"I'm still not getting it," the engineering major said, turning his beer can in his hands. Jason looked over to Devon and agreed, this was very confusing.

With out warning, his right hand shot up, snatching a three quarters full can of beer that had been speeding towards the back of his head. Skip had thrown it while he wasn't looking. Beer sloshed out, drenching his arm and splattering on the worn wooden floor.

"See what I mean?" Skip said proudly, "No way you could have seen me throw that, but you still caught it."

"Nice demo," Jason admitted, "but a waste of drinkable beer. Now can I have a towel please?"

"Just like a super hero, ordering around the peons," Skip joked as he fetched a seldom-used dishtowel from the kitchen. "I can see a real down-side to this. If your sense of taste works the same way, you'll never go near my Spam and eggs surprise again."

"How is that a down side? Seems more like a survival reflex."

"You said there were two other things?" Jason prompted.

"Yeah, the other," Skip laid claim to the last slice of pizza, balancing it on his knee before continuing. "There's some sort of odd fluctuation in your weight. Since your volume doesn't change, even a engineering major can see that..."

Skip deftly dodged the hurled ball of wadded paper napkins, "... your density has to be shifting. Maybe this has something to do with the process that fused the fossil with you body. You know, you New England types have always had an affinity for rocks. In any case, at times you seem to weigh no more then a normal person, at others, far more, which is why you trashed your bed. You seem most stable around three hundred and ten pounds, so I'd suggest you lay of the between meal snacks. If you can figure out how to use this, then I'll bet you would make one hell of a high jumper."

"Way cool," Devon offered.

Jason simply nodded. The light in the room was fading as dusk stole over the city.

"Any thing else you have noticed?" Skip asked.

"Only this growing hunger for hearts, raw and bloody, preferably still beating."

Twin looks of horror stole over his friends' faces and Jason was startled to realize that he could smell fear suddenly rising from their bodies.

"Just kidding, guys," he said, "lighten up."

Devon and Skip laughed, though Jason thought the laughter sounded a bit nervous.

"So, you have this cool set of powers that all make sense and seem related, way better then having the ability to make roses bloom, control traffic lights, or decrypt my thermodynamics note book." Devon tossed his empty can in the general direction of the trashcan. "You aren't going the bad guy route, so, we have a major task ahead of us, one of earth shaking importance that can not be underestimated..."

He paused dramatically as Jason and Skip watched him. "Got to have a super hero name."

"What about Mighty Man?" Skip offered.

"Nah, way too close to Mighty Mouse. The Huntsman?" Devon countered.

"The NRA would love that, what about Ullur?"

"Who the hell is that?" Jason asked.

"One of the lesser known Norse gods, ok, bad idea," Skip said.

As dusk gave way to night, the ideas came fast and furious. And as more beer was consumed, they got more...eclectic as well.

"Stoner!"

"No, I've got it! Wolfman!"

"People will think he's Lon Channey with out the makeup. How about Hunting Dog?"

"Junk Yard Dog!"

"Super DogMan!"

"The Wonder Mutt, Mutt of Steel!"

"Wonder Wolfhound!"

"The Human Hound!"

"The Peerless-Pounding Poodle!"

"Stop it, stop it," Jason roared, tears of laughter streaming down his face. "If someone suggests 'the leader of the pack' I'm going to make you two pack puppies."

"That's not bad," Devon said.

"No, I think there's an easy answer. Direwolf. It's sort of what I am after all."

"Makes sense," Skip admitted, "though I think you are ignoring a lot of comic possibilities. But Direwolf works and the press can't mangle it too bad. Geez, remember what they did with Mentor? I was sure he was going to be stuck with 'The Meteor' or 'The Moderator'. "

"I'll bet those morons over at The Herald call him Dark Wolf or something like that."

"Direwolf," Jason said softly. "It feels right."

"Well, now that that's settled, we come to the big issue..." Devon paused for another beer, "you need a snazzy costume to strike fear in the hearts of evil doers, hide your secret identity, and look good on magazine covers. That middle one is real important so you super villain nemesis don't come after your friends and family, in particular, us."

"Ok, that makes sense, as much as any thing you say ever makes sense. But one absolute rule, I will not put on anything with spandex, end of story."

"We, the public, admire your resolve and willingness to buck tradition. But I think your yet-to-be-found legions of female admires would curse this decision of yours. So, what do we use?" Skip asked.

"I wonder where the folks in Freedom Force came up with theirs? Bet they have a special supply."

"Well, the wolf skeleton didn't drop a hero guide book at my feet. It was too busy trying to tear off my arm at the time."

Devon scratched his chin. "Well, in my miss-spent youth, i.e., high school, I was in the drama club. And with our lack of funding, we had to be quite creative on all parts of our shows, including costuming. You'd be amazed what you can do with junked clothes, glue and electrical tape. Let's see what we can come up with from around here."

Shadows choked the ally. A few feet past the entrance, the darkness was so thick even vague forms were lost. Despite the hour, there were still some people afoot. The Heights, as it was known, was one of Patriot City's most prestigious areas, full of small boutiques, ridiculously expensive restaurants, and high rise apartment buildings. The very rich called this area home.

A limousine drove by, the splash of it's headlight momentarily shining down the ally way. But even in the light, one area, a sphere nearly seven feet in diameter, remained mysteriously dark. The light vanished as the limo passed. And the sphere was lost in the night.

She stood in the center of the Orb of the Night, amazed by what she had created. The scarab in her hand showed her how, as well as so much more. She clenched her hand, feeling the carved silver press into her palm.

"Wings of Apesh," she murmured. Gravity lost its grip on her and she floated up, allowing the cloaking sphere to fade. She rose thirty-two stories to level of the penthouse apartment then over the balcony rail. This was the residence of Steven Archer, globe trotting photographer and collector of antiquities. The bracelet and scarab had been a gift from him to the Patriot City museum.

"Slaves willing hands." The balcony doors swung silently inward and she walked past the oddly silent alarms. She found herself in the posh living room of the luxurious apartment. Photographs of ancient ruins from around the world decorated the walls and gray leather and chrome furniture worth more then a luxury car sat on the thick shag carpets. The black haired woman scanned the room, her eyes locking on a glass fronted cabinet. The scarab told her what she needed was there, the scrolls of Isis. As she touched the cabinet, the lights snapped on.

"I knew you'd come," Steven Archer said from the doorway to his bedroom. "When I read about the theft at the museum, it wasn't hard to guess I'd be next."

Steven stepped into the room. A vigorous man in his late fifties, Archer was dressed in an embroidered smoking jacket and silk pajamas. The heavy revolver in his hand was unwavering, centered on the intruder.

"I'm not to surprised to learn your identity, Carlene Siller, the high flying daughter of one of Patriot City's finest. I'm sure your father doesn't know how you afford your extravagant life. Well, maybe that doesn't need to change if we can reach some agreement, Ms. Siller. Or should I use the name the news papers coined after your first string of high society burglaries, Shadow Thief?"

"Neither," the young woman said, her eyes seeming to be lit by black fire, "you can call me Silver Scarab, or you can call me death. Venom Bolt!"

The final two words were spoken in a ciphered form of ancient Egyptian, a form known to those who practiced sorcery and the power of true names. A flair of silver light blazed from her, smashing into the startled man. The force knocked him back into the bedroom and scattered silver sparks that condensed in to opaque liquid that smoked and sizzled on what ever it touched, including living flesh. Steven Archer screamed and thrashed in agony as the acidic poison ate through his skin. The screams faded into a bubbling moan that ended in a macabre death rattle.

Silver Scarab ignored the dying man. She calmly opened the cabinet and took out the crumbling papyrus scroll. Then, since she could, she gathered the rest of the treasures in the cabinet. Even a reborn sorceress needed spending money.

"So, what do you think?" Devon asked.

Jason examined his reflection. As costumes went, it wasn't too flashy but he could live with that. He wore a pair of old motorcycle boots and denim jeans. A simple black T-shirt covered his chest and a pair of leather gloves protected his hands and kept him from leaving incriminating fingerprints. Devon's real creation had been the mask. An old leather jacket provided raw materials. Jason had insisted on having his ears exposed so he could hear clearly and his mouth and nose clear so he could breath and use his sense of smell. Devon came up with something that looked like a topless cut away ski mask. Jason's dark blond hair was exposed since the mask started just below his hairline. There was plenty of space to see out of and the mask crested half way over his nose and closed under his chin, offering some protection across his throat. And looking in the mirror, he had to admit it effectively changed his look. He doubted even his mother would recognize him.

"Close, but it needs something." Devon ran from the room.

"Not a cape!" Jason shouted

"Nah, better then that, remember the coat I got at the rummage sale last year? It was too big even for you then, now..."

Devon came back with a long, chocolate brown leather coat. It was a wonderful piece, dating back to the 1930's and styled after a World War One aviators coat. The leather was thick, double stitched and had been treated with paraffin or wax to waterproof it. Devon held it up while Jason put it on.

"Yes!" Skip declared.

Jason turned back to the mirror. The long coat hung to well below his knees and further obscured his outline. He saw at once how the shape and color would blend well in the darkness and his powerful muscles wouldn't even feel it's weight. He swung his shoulders and saw how the coat moved, not quite a cape but close in effect.

Jason grinned like a kid with a new toy. "This is great, Dev, but you bought this for yourself."

"Yeah, and it will never fit. On you it looks right, scarily right like it was always meant for Direwolf. You can give me five bucks for it, if you want. But for me, I'll just clip the first picture of you in it that makes the front page and be happy with that."

Jason was suddenly struck by a vision of himself standing on a rooftop, looking over the street below while the coat blew in the wind, a full moon behind him. It was an image of the world he was about to enter.

"Now, let's go find a bad guy for you to womp on!" Skip insisted.

"The last time I was in a fight was in the third grade when Kathy Miller beat me up."

"Things have changed," Skip insisted. "I'll bet now you could take her, best two out of three at least."

Jason snorted a laugh. "Not tonight, it's nearly midnight and we all have assignments to complete before school on Monday, I've got a stack of geo 101 papers to grade for Doctor Atwater. No arguments. I'll make my debut as a masked crime fighter tomorrow night."

Skip and Devon protested but Jason was resolute. Their threats to 'go start without him' didn't convince him. At last, they packed up the scraps of leather, pizza boxes and empty beer cans. Within an hour, all was quite. Then Jason slipped out of his room.

Moving with superhuman grace, he went out the back door and climbed the ladder to the roof of the brownstone. He moved across the roof to a small wooden platform built by a former tenant of the building who used it to study astronomy. Jason had no intention of going back on his word. He would start his new career as a costumed crime fighter tomorrow night. But his mind was whirling to fast to let him sleep. Something seemed to be calling him into the surrounding darkness.

Dressed only in a pair of cut off sweat pants, Jason lay back on the rough platform and looked up. The grain of the weathered wooden planks dug into his skin and a fait breeze ruffled his dark blond hair. Most of the stars were lost to the city lights but a few still sparkled. The moon lay just above the rooftops, it's silver light slanting over him. Jason breathed deeply, listening to the sound of his own breath and the pulse of his heart.

As a boy growing up in Dexter, Maine he remembered the night sky as being full of stars. When camping in the woods, he'd always find time away from the fire to simply look up and marvel. It always made him feel sort of small and insignificant, yet somehow connected to a greater presence, a small fragment in a vast, mysterious creation. Everything seemed small when viewed from that perspective. And everything seemed to have the same relative importance.

Now, confronted by the massive change that he was only beginning to understand, Jason returned to what he knew would remind him of what really mattered. The night sky would be his touchstone. If he began to feel all-powerful or infallible, the sky would bring him back, show him the truth, and ward of hubris. The night would be his hunting ground, the sky his consciences.

With a deep sigh, Jason relaxed, folded his hands behind his head and began to count the stars his enhanced vision discerned. He fell asleep amid memories of the past and questions of the future.

To be continued...