The Secret Origin of Direwolf - part 6 "I've never seen anything like it!"
by Direwolf

Direwolf lay still as his blood mixed with the rain, a red stain spreading around the bright fragments of shattered glass towards the gutter. As the escaping panel truck rounded a corner, the sign for Mamma Luna's cookies lit by a streetlight, the smiling face of Mamma Luna herself seemed to look back at the unmoving man before she vanished. The rain was growing stronger. Drops splashed on unblinking eyes and beaded off the thick brown leather coat crumpled around him. Then the body convulsed and drew a great shuddering breath.

"Ow," Jason murmured, "that really hurt."

He sat up, swayed for a moment and steadied himself on a "No Parking" sign. The last time he'd felt anything like this was when a horse had kicked him. He remembered the sound of the shot just as a red-hot sledgehammer seemed to hit his chest. There had been a burst of pain and...

"Jeeze, my heart stopped! I felt it happen!"

He looked down at his chest where the bullet hit. His skin was mangled and torn as if something had exploded outward. Beneath the red and gray tissue, he saw an oily brown gleam and realized it had to be one of his ribs that had taken on the appearance of the fossilized wolf. And the torn skin was healing. He could feel the flesh creeping back together as it sealed up. The sensation and sight nearly turned his stomach. He looked up. The rain washed his face. He opened his mouth and tasted the water, fresh but with a slight chemical tang that it must have picked up from the air. It settled his stomach.

With a grunt of effort, Jason pulled himself up with the help of the signpost. As he stood, he discovered that his right leg wasn't working quite right. It felt as if something were stuck in the muscle near the knee, sending a stab of pain through his side with every movement.

"No more jumping on buildings tonight." He took a first tottering step away from the pole and held his balance. He took another and winced. The blood had stopped leaking from his chest and the pain there was fading.

With a sigh, Jason hobbled north. He had a long ways to go and figured it was unlikely a cab would stop for a disheveled, bloodstained man at this hour of the night.

After lurching along for almost half an hour, Jason realized that his chest no longer hurt though his leg still did, that he was ravenously hungry, and The Brain Trust was in sight. Then, a young man in ratty clothes stepped out of an alleyway, knife in hand.

"Give me your wallet or I'll cut you good!"

Jason stared at his would-be assailant for a moment while his fatigued brain tried to process the situation. He was bone tired. His leg ached something fierce. It was late. He was hungry. He was wet. And he'd been shot and left for dead less then an hour ago. He was not in the mood for this.

"Come on! Now!" The mugger waved his switchblade at Jason.

Reflexively, Jason growled, the sound rumbling up from deep in his chest. He took the beginnings of step towards the mugger even as the Hunting Call gathered power in Jason's throat. It broke into a snarl of killing fury. The mugger screamed in panic, threw his knife down and ran as if his life depended on it.

"Nice trick," Jason thought, "need to remember that one."

He staggered the rest of the way home and painfully navigated the stairs to the front door. The door swung open before he reached it, emitting a spill of warmth and light.

"You look like you were hit by a truck," Skip exclaimed as he grabbed one of Jason's shoulders. "Oof, he's heavy, grab the other shoulder, Dev!"

They maneuvered Jason to the sofa that groaned alarmingly under his weight. He shrugged off the coat, stripped off his mask and sat back. "Thanks guys. Got anything to eat?"

"Sure," Devon said, "I'll whip up some fried egg sandwiches. You talk loud enough that I can hear in the kitchen."

"For starters, what happened to your chest?" Skip pointed to the fist-sized hole in his t-shirt, the black fabric sticky with blood.

"That sort of happened at the end of things. Let me start at the top."

While Devon cooked and Skip fussed over him, Jason told them everything that had happened to him that night. They all paused to eat, then Jason continued. When he got to the part when the gunman shot him outside the antique store, Skip had him slow down and asked a lot of questions. When he told about feeling his heart stop and then coming to, Skip asked him to strip off his shirt so he could examine where the bullet hit. After whipping the clotted blood away with a damped towel, he took a look through a magnifying glass.

"There is no sign of any damage," he announced." No scarring, no difference in the skin tone. Nothing."

"Well, I didn't imagine getting shot!"

"Not saying you did, this is just amazing proof of how fast and completely your body heals. I wonder what hit you and what happened."

"I've got a theory," Devon offered. "You said he had some sort of rifle. I'll bet you got hit with a high-powered, fully or semi jacketed round. In essence, a high energy armor piercing bullet."

Skip whistled. Jason winced.

"Then why didn't it just cut through me since it made it past the skin? I felt a pistol bullet flatten on my leg. It was hot, stung like hell, but didn't punch through."

"There's a world of difference between a pistol shot and a hunting rifle. And I think your ribs saved you."

"What?" Jason sat up straighter on the sofa.

"Like I said, you were hit by a high velocity fully jacketed round, a military bullet. I think it penetrated your skin, hit one of your stone ribs and shattered. The fragments blew back like a spray of needles, ripping open part of your chest and making a very impressive exit wound. The shockwave right over your heart made it seize up for a few moments."

Jason went pale. "Wow, that's amazing."

Devon nodded in agreement. "But it sure fits the data. And your shirt looks shredded from a lot of little somethings coming out."

"What if it had hit me in the throat or a little lower, in the abdomen?"

"As your doctor, I have to recommend you not let that happen. Seriously, there has to be some limit to this healing ability of yours, otherwise every blood cell would have sprouted a new you. Wouldn't that be something? Hundreds of Direwolf's running through the city?"

"Very funny," Jason growled.

Skip continued. "If something kills you on the spot, will you recover from it? What about an explosion, or suffocation, or poison? We don't know. And there isn't any safe way to test the limits."

Skip looked over to Devon first, and then continued. "The reality, Jason, is that you're not invulnerable. In essence, you are playing Russian roulette and you don't know how many chambers there are and how many are loaded. But I think we can all agree that sooner or later, the hammer is going to come down on a live round. That's one hell of a risk. I know you want to do what's right, but are you willing to accept that kind of chance? One lucky shot into your eye... A bullet ricocheting off the inside of your skull could be really messy."

Jason closed his eyes and breathed deeply, remembering Sergeant Wojosky's words as well. This was all so much more complicated then he'd thought, and maybe lethal as well. Logic said he should hang up the coat and mask and walk away. But he couldn't.

"I've got to keep trying, guys. I can't even tell you why I need to, I just do."

Devon nodded. "I'm not surprised. Let's see what we can come up with for some sort of external armor. We could rig some sort of full suit, kind of like Man-Bot's, but that would sort of cripple your speed."

"No, not that. I need to be able to move if I'm going to keep trying this."

"Well, I have an idea for a quick fix." Devon raced to his room and came back with some equipment. He stretched one of Jason's black T-shirts across a kitchen table to hold it secure, then set up his airbrush. He sprayed a fine line of white paint on the shirt, then another. With a few deft stokes, he out lined what was obviously the profile of a snarling wolf's head.

Jason was amazed at the artistry. It reminded him of Japanese brush paintings, the white lines defining the wolf's head in black.

"There," Devon announced, adding a final curve that suggested a fang in the open mouth.

"How is that going to help?" Skip asked.

"When he wears it, it will be right in the center of his chest. The perfect target to draw someone's aim. And there, he's got his rib cage to protect what's inside."

"Ow, but it sure beats taking one in the gut," Jason said.

"Like I said, we'll try to come up with something better, but I'd suggest you use this for now."

"Ok. That about covers it. When I came to the truck was gone. I hoofed it back here and scared off a mugger a block away. That's it." He looked at the clock; it was nearly two in the morning. "We should get some sleep."

Jason stood up and winced suddenly as his leg took his weight. He'd forgotten to mention that part. "And I seem to have done something to my leg."

He sat down quickly.

"Let's have a look," Skip insisted. "I really am starting to feel like a personal doctor. I should send you bills. I wonder if the AMA has suggested rates for super heroes?"

"Maybe you should work on your bedside manner."

"Later, right now, off with your pants."

"Yes, doctor."

Clad in just his boxers, Jason sat back on the couch while Skip examined his leg. Devon took the blue jeans and began checking them for damage.

"Huh, look at this gray mark, right here." Skip pointed to a metallic gray smear on Jason's thigh.

"That must be from the pistol shot. I remember it hit there."

"Has to be lead on your skin then. But what's this?" There was a patch of coagulated blood a few inches away on his right thigh.

"I have no idea."

"Look at this, "Devon said, poking fingers through two holes in leg of Jason's jeans a few inches apart. "Looks like you got shot twice in the leg. And this lower one is soaked with blood."

"Humm." Skip tuned Jason's leg. "No exit mark and you have a lump down here by your knee."

He pressed the bump and Jason yelped in pain.

"Yeah, the bullet's still there, bet it's from the rifleman. Now what?" Devon set down the tattered clothing.

"Can't really take this to a hospital without a lot of explanation..."

"Oh no!" Skip protested. "I'm a molecular Bio major, not a doctor! I can't cut into your leg."

"You have to, or I've got to learn to like hobbling. It's not like I'm going to die on the table or anything. Feels like it can't be in more then an inch and a half."

"What if I cut a nerve or something?"

"Then it will regrow. I can feel where part of my chest turned into hamburger and regrew. This is even easier."

It took a little more argument, but at last Skip agreed. They all four went into the kitchen where Devon disinfected the table with a wash of bleach. Skip collected a case of surgical tools used in dissections from his room. When everything was ready, Jason sat on the edge of the table.

"Do you want anything for an anesthetic?" Skip asked nervously.

"No, I'd better get use to pain if I'm going to keep trying this masked hero stuff. Let's go."

"Ok. Dev, use the sponge if we get too much blood. I'll tell you."

With that, Skip ran the scalpel across the bulge on Jason's skin. It left a faint red line that vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

"You've got to press harder," Jason insisted.

Skip took a deep, ragged breath, and pressed down. The blade cut. Blood welled up around the bright steel. "Man, your flesh is tougher to slice than an overcooked nickel steak."

Jason felt the cut and was surprised. It hurt but not near as much as he'd expected.

"There it is," Skip announced. "I can feel the bullet. But the wound's trying to close as I cut. Sponge! Jason, can you help? I don't think I'm strong enough to get forceps in there and pull it out."

Jason nodded. He set his hands on the sides of the wound and pressed down as hard as he could with the tips of his fingers while Skip kept the incision from closing. That hurt. He could feel the bullet shift and pressed harder, in and down. It was moving. Then, like squeezing out a splinter, the bullet popped out with a gout of blood.

"Got it!" Devon shouted as blood splashed over his hands. He dipped the metal fragment in a bowl of water and passed it over to Jason. "Looks like maybe a .30-.30 round, full copper jacket. Talk about your souvenirs."

Skip wiped his hands on a towel and took the bullet, "I've never seen anything like it!"

"It's deformed out of shape. Jason's flesh is so dense, the bullet didn't mushroom out but stretched itself cutting through. It stopped when it ran out of energy and couldn't quite make it out the far side."

"Amazing." Jason took back the bullet. Maybe it would bring him luck. His leg had already stopped bleeding and he felt the wound sealing itself. "Let's clean up and get to bed."

Later, Jason lay on his mattress. Fatigue was dragging him towards sleep. But there was so much running through his mind. The rush of wind as he leapt from rooftops. The sound of the woman's scream. The smell of her fear. The feel of Sergeant Joe Wojosky's hand gripping his. The taste of hot coffee and cold fries. The sharp crack of the rifle and the feel of his heart stopping. So much to take in all for one night.

As his eyes drifted shut, Jason realized that despite everything he had experienced since the flair of purple light engulfed him, he wasn't ready to give up. As soon as he could, he'd put on the mask again, go into the night and hunt across the rooftops looking for those who needed help. This wasn't over. In fact, it was just beginning.

Silver Scarab sat atop the roof of the abandoned building she and her newly transformed associates had commandeered. Located at the edge of the Devil's Kitchen, the small industrial plant had been closed for decades. Only the frames for the massive mills and forge pits remained inside the shell of a building. The Red Skorpions were asleep on the floor. She was alone with her inner voices, oblivious to the rain.

In her mind's eye, she saw the shadowed forms of the Gods of Egypt around her. And past them all was a presence without form that she knew was the voice of the Scarab.

"All goes as planned," it intoned, "but this just marks the beginning. Or perhaps it is an ending. Though can a cycle without end have anything but a now?"

"I don't understand," she said.

The laugh that answered her was as dry as a desert wind and as uncaring. "Of course, but that doesn't matter. All will be as it must. As it has been written since before man. Events move to their conclusion. Water flows downhill, washing with it the salt from the stones. Thus seas are made. Events pile on each other like grains of sand. Enough sand can choke a city you know."

"Now what happens?"

"Conflict. Battle unending. The other is here. The hunter from before cloaked in new flesh but still the same, the wolf of stone loping through the halls of time. He is drawn to the now just as we were and so the cycle continues."

"I will fight him?"

"Oh yes, for that is written in the wind and upon the waves and even, it would seem, between the stars."

"I will crush him!"

"Perhaps. That is one path. There are many others. Time will tell, and the cycle proceeds, unbroken."

Fin