My desk is a mess. The spreadsheets I thought might take a few minutes to smooth over have taken me 2 hours already and I'm nowhere near done. Hitmen and henchmen need to be paid but I'm apparently a bit light this month. If I delay paying them again they might do something stupid, like form a union. I need a drink.
It's been raining again. Once it starts it doesn't tend to stop for at least a few days. Droughts hit hard, and the Weather-heads aren't big fans of having a low water supply for weeks at a time. If it keeps going like this, I might have to postpone the bank job. Sure, there would be fewer witnesses, but having a police chase in heavy rain doesn't tend to end well. I would know, because I'm never doing that again. My leg aches just thinking about it.
I go to pour some whiskey for a swig when the motion sensors pick something up. I push the surveillance button under my desk and a lineup of security monitors appear out of the back wall. It's the front door, and it looks like some injured Cape wants my attention.
No, wait, that's MY Cape, and he's bleeding really bad.
I get to the door before he can even lift his hand to knock. His head looks like someone tried to cave it in with a cinderblock, his left eye is black and puffy, his knuckles are ripped to hell, costume torn in several places.
"I..."
He hesitates, clearly trying to think with a swollen brain. Maybe he's trying to say something profound and hero-like, but I just can't stand seeing him like this. A passing thought, it would be customary to make him beg before lifting a finger, but just this once maybe I'll--
"I didn't know where else to go."
And he collapses into my arms.
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What do I do? What should I do? What can I do? Oh my god what do I do? He looks awful. He looks broken. I don't know what to do. He may be close but he isn't exactly human the last I checked, but that was years ago, when I only had one drop of blood to test. I'd say a lack of blood might not be a problem anymore but I'm a bit too preoccupied to focus on the bad guy humor.
There's just so much blood.
How long have I been standing here? I feel frozen. In all the years we've fought I've always known what to do. Henchmen injured? I have a guy at the hospital. Government suit on my paper trail? Cut it off, or them if need be. But this? But him?
A flash of light in the corner of my eye. Red, small, scanning. Even with my genetic eye enhancements I can't quite make it out. I may have eyes like a hawk, but I don't have night vision.
It's getting closer. It's coming for him.
I have to move, I'll improvise.
I pick him up, cradling him in my arms. His head sits limply on my shoulder, and I carry him inside. Before the blast shields even finish engaging, I make a decision that I'm sure will change everything.
He will not die here.
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I place his legs on my desk and swat the spreadsheets onto the floor. Damn the paychecks, they can wait. I lower him slowly, using my coat and a few books to elevate his head. The books were mostly for show anyway. He always asked about them whenever he came by to get information or ask me what my game was. Guess he might see if he wakes up. WHEN he wakes up, I remind myself. He will wake up; I'll make sure of it.
I press the wall revealing one of my many secret wall switches. I've never even pushed this button before, I've never needed to. I hit the wrong one once, twice, and then I find it. A gurney shoots out from beneath the wall monitors and stops at my desk. I only looked away for a moment but his blood is dripping down onto the spreadsheets, soaking them a deep violet. If anyone saw them it would be a dead giveaway. I'd burn them if they would burn, but they're fire resistant now. I'll have to bury them.
I carefully shift his legs and his torso onto the gurney and run us to the elevator. Some guests ask why I have an elevator for a two-story house and a quick motion to the leg usually satisfies them. He was never satisfied. He always wanted to see the basement. Well, here's his chance.
Eye scan, thumb print, physical key, a quick curse wondering why I made this process so long, and finally the glass button glows. I hit it so hard it cracks, and three of my knuckles start to bleed. The wait is agonizingly long, and he looks deathly pale.
We hit the bottom and head straight for the lab. I need to get him in a homeostasis tube so his body can focus purely on healing, which should buy me enough time to analyze his biology and figure out how to--
"Uh...Doc?"
Great. My lab assistant is still here. Fantastic.
"Is that...?" She looks confused and I can't blame her. She knows that what passes as my day job clashes a bit with his.
"Yes... yes, it's Vagabond. Help me get him into the tube." I'm already lifting his shoulders.
"Um... sure thing, Doc..."
Together we get him into the homeostasis tube and she begins the program for a basic scan followed by a more invasive one. We need to know his species' biological preferences of temperature, humidity and atmospheric pressure before getting to any procedures if necessary. I finish sealing the tube and take one last look at his face. I didn't even notice he'd been shivering until he stopped.
YOU ARE READING
Synthetic Violet
General FictionA hero shows up at a villain's doorstep one night. Dazed and bleeding, they look up at the villain, mumble "...I didn't know where else to go," and collapse. This is the story of Phillip and V.
