A hammer impact across my chest.
BLAM! BLAM!
And two more to keep it company.
I'm struck, rather incongruously and not for the first time, by how much louder guns are in real life than in movies.
I suppose now would be a good time to bring up my two "superpowers." I couldn't quaff a super-soldier serum or anything like that, not without being transformed, probably into something without libriomancy. But that doesn't mean I can't carry at least some magic with me all the time. In the books my powers first came from, there was a sci-fi author and libriomancer who gave himself several cyborg parts, all while complaining about his inability to use his own, in his mind far more interesting, works.
Nothing so extreme for me, but there are two spells that are always with me, but aren't precisely a part of me. First is the humble Babel Fish, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a telepathic creature that lives in my ear and translates any language for me. As an added benefit, sharing my head with a creature that lives off psychic energy provides some small resistance to telepathy. Not enough to stop, say, My Favorite Martian if he were serious, but plenty enough to hide from most casual scans and keep Vinny out of my darkest secrets. It also reportedly can, in some circumstances, make God disappear in a puff of logic, but I haven't been able to test that use as of yet.
My second permanent enhancement, and one my lieutenants share, is Mo Fuqian "Demon Skin" from a moderately obscure RPG splatbook for RIFTS, Heroes of the Celestial Court. It is, effectively, a layer of false skin over my true epidermis, threaded through with nanotech-made fibers of a kind of advanced Kevlar. In game terms, for a tiny reduction in tactile sensation it grants 45 MDC and can regenerate. Er, in RIFTS there's a human scale Standard Damage Capacity, where for instance a pocket-knife does 1d6 SD, and a Mega Damage Capacity. For reference, a max roll from a M1A1 Abrams Tank's main gun would do 4 MD. In real world terms, this doesn't mean I can walk through an artillery range, there's a world of difference between what it takes to puncture my skin and what it takes to pulp the soft flesh and organs beneath.
Bullets and normal blades driven by merely human strength can't penetrate my hide. They can, however, still hurt like hell.
The average handgun imparts as much kinetic energy into a bullet as a major league pitcher's best fastball, it doesn't matter if you have impenetrable skin or a kevlar vest, unless you have super-strength or are really good at bracing yourself, you will be knocked on your ass, which happens to me. Unless you're a major badass, it'll probably be a minute or two before you feel like getting up. This is a design feature, supposedly instituted in the Spanish-American War when men would shoot their pistols dry into a guy with a machete, who would still live just long enough to stumble over and end them.
I've seen Batman go down to bullets before, twice. And seen him pop right back up the moment people got close to check on the 'body' or relaxed their guard.
I'm not Batman though, nowhere close in the physical feats department. So it's a minute before I lever myself up to a sitting position.
The man, something Herrera, is still here, weeping. He's some twenty feet further from me then he was, and Freddie is retrieving his gun, a sword having appeared in his off hand. Guess he Pushed the man and gun both away.
Tactical situation is resolved. Unfortunate, because if he was still up and firing I'd at least know what to do.
Okay, identify a problem, solve it, and move on. I beckon to Freddie who hastens over and, kneeling offers me a small sip from a flask he pulls from his jacket. It's well known in some circles I keep minions with healing potions nearby, the Mo Fuqian is less well known, and I'd rather keep it that way. The less people know bullets won't kill me, the fewer minds are looking for more creative alternatives. Also it helps me get back on my feet a bit faster and will spare me some aches.
People are like that, they'll go for an easy, proven solution to problems about ninety-five percent of the time, over wondering at alternatives. It's good, it's useful, most of the time it spares a lot of wasted effort and time that wouldn't really be productive or come up with a better solution. And it's a tendency I game as hard as I can whenever I get the chance.
Alright, next problem, the weeping assassin over there.
I don't recognize him, at all. I can't think of anyone I ever hurt who resembles him, but I've long passed the point of being able to put a face to every corpse I've made. Probably that says bad things about me as a person. Then again, I'm pretty sure my bodycount is still far south of Paul Tibbets' and I've never heard of anyone ever giving him grief over it, even when he said he never lost a night's sleep. Perhaps the context and motivations matter more there, I don't know.
Curious, and not entirely certain this isn't some kind of put up job, I get up and ask him. "Tell me about your son."
He looks up and wow, he is an ugly crier. Could still be a fake, but I'm leaning towards him being the genuine article. "My... son?"
I'm sure this is a deeply emotional time for him, so with difficulty I wrestle down my impulse to snap impatiently. But seriously, the guy shot me on behalf of his dead son, he should damn well know who I'm talking about!
Patience. The man who blurts out the first witticism to come to mind, who wears his heart on his sleeve, is a fool. Who keeps his own counsel shows mastery of self, and thus his surroundings.
"Your son." I try for warmth and can only hope I stuck the landing. He shot me, it's understandable to be irked. But James is right, I can't let other people see when things get to me. "The one who died. Please. What can you tell me about him?" I crouch down to nearly his level.
"My little Matias? He was a good boy, went to church, helped his neighbors and rarely complained. Volunteered with the church group and played the guitar. He- when he got out of the college he couldn't find work and owed so much... he got a paid internship at the Spartoi Corporation and one night-" He sobbed "One night last year he was working late, and you burned a hole right through his chest with some raygun. He deserved so much better!"
I'm... increasingly skeptical on that last point, but I'm not gonna say anything. Spartoi is one of several shell companies Nigma, Cobblepot and I threw together back in the day so the more responsible members of our community could provide our henchmen with medical insurance, and revenue they could put on the tax forms. Though I think between them all we've successfully dragged down the work-safety record for the entire state of Jersey, with all the exotic accidental injuries. Then again, at least none of them is Stagg Industries. Spartoi... Spartoi... I think that's... mostly Two-Face, Scarface, Crane and a handful of the minor names, I don't know, officially Freddie is a manager at the Ace Tomato company, which actually exists and has a packing plant in East End. Never had any kind of turf-war or grudge with Scarecrow, a couple with the Ventriloquist, and a whole bunch with ol' Harv. If that guy's not the worst, it's only because he's in Gotham.
...
I've still got nothing. I now believe he's telling the truth but... even with a cause and approximate time of death, and a decent idea who he was working for... still need it narrowed down more. That's probably a bad sign. Well, it doesn't really matter at this point, only what we do now. And if this isn't a frame job... I'm still really angry because, and I feel I haven't stressed this enough, he shot me!
Ahem.
Right, self-control. What looks the best?
My crouch becomes a one-knee kneel so I can look Mr. Herrera in the eye, and I grip his shoulders. If you squint your eyes just right, it's easier when you're tired, they'll tear up just a little.
"Sir, I'm terribly sorry for the death of your son, more than I can say. I've lost people too, and I know that never entirely goes away. A son... I can't even imagine how that must feel. So... I am sorry, really and true. I know that can't make it better, and doesn't really change anything, but I can't change what happened. The only thing I can change about the situation- is me. And I am trying to change, to do better for everyone. I don't know what more to say, I-" I pulled him into a hug.
I've always had trouble feeling the things I'm supposed to, exactly when I'm supposed to, and James was no help in that. He was, however, an expert in faking the emotions expected of him in any given situation. I know that real reconciliation is a long process that takes... well, entirely more time and effort than I'm willing to put into this. But it made, I'm sure a great picture, a touching image of forgiveness and redemption as fake tears trickled slowly down my cheek and the grown man in my arms broke down and cried.
Not to say he won't rethink all this and go back to trying to kill me tomorrow. But least I'll be on the lookout for him.
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When the cops came, I made it very clear I had no interest in pressing charges. The city still might, they take exception to people shooting others in their town, and I didn't exactly have the pull with Gordon or the new DA to just get the charges dropped. Not yet, anyways. Doesn't seem they can get him on an illegal firearm though, Mr. Herrera brought the gun legally, having apparently gotten a license and practiced religiously for the last year. I'm gonna assume he's a widower or divorced then.
The next few days were a whirlwind of public appearances, calls and old-fashioned local community-politicking, intermingled with trips to the hospital to stab someone who'd gotten infected.
The news that first night had neglected to mention my heroic efforts to save the dying in favor of the attack and using it to segue into my extensive criminal history. Chumps.
One of the hardest hurdles to a beginning politician is getting their name out there, so voters don't get a ballot and say "who is this?" and this is doubly true of local politics. If I'm not already a household name in Gotham, I will be shortly, and all this coverage of the absurdity of my running can only help me.
And too many people have seen me healing others. Word of mouth will spread the story, and people may well wonder at it's exclusion. I can certainly help that process along.
Amusingly, I am required to visit a parole officer once a week and discuss my employment and how I'm integrating into society. That provided some entertainment, but also helped me order my thoughts.
Jonathan wished us to make a weekly 'podcast' to discuss the campaign and the eventual governance of the city, under the name 'Fireside Chat' to evoke some politician or other. Fortunately, he had the good sense to let me do the talking. Self-aggrandizment without appearing vainglorious is a difficult mix I could hardly trust him to execute.
"... And so I wish to thank STAR Labs and the Batman for their efforts in curing this disease, the "Clench." it should free up a great deal of my time. I trust this demonstrates the uses of magic, not as a replacement for modern medicine, but a supplement and a means of helping those people who would otherwise be incurable. I hope to continue my rounds of Gotham's hospitals, not to combat this new form of Ebola, but to cure the blind, the crippled, and to empty the children's, and adult's, cancer ward. At the moment, there is still some question of authorization without a large contagious threat and the imminent loss of so many lives, but my lawyers are even now looking into the precedents. It would be madness to allow lives to be lost to satisfy procedures."
Though no one could see me, I was sitting in my study, in full dress to better convey the tone of a loving patriarch dispensing wisdom.
"If you have any questions, or suggestions, regarding the capability of my particular brand of magic and what it can do for our great city, please direct them to..." I listed off an online address "I look forward to hearing from you. Thank you all, and good night."
With the evenings chore completed, I fished out a tattered paperback, lacking a cover but identified by a small yellow note as School of Magic.
I took the reigns again and set myself to a point about a third in, when the heroine remembers how she was first given a crystal to allow Dreamwalking, after losing myself in the scene, I reached in and snatched it from her hand. Then brushed my teeth, stripped down and went to bed with the crystal stuck to my forehead and muttering a name to myself over and over.
In dreams, I wandered a luxurious manor house, with claw marks on the floor and walls, upturned furniture and a quantity of blood-spatter that would be considered excessive in a horror film. I was happily well aware this was a dream, and not my own, so I wandered forward until, with inexorable dream logic, I reached a great hall with a pentacle drawi in blood on the floor, and marked with candles. There were a number of bodies on the floor, one was talking to a tall blond man. No trenchcoat or Silk Cuts in this dream, but I knew him and crossed the space between us without seeming to to grip his shoulder.
"Huh? Binder?"
"It's a dream, John, just a dream. I'm using it to speak with you."
"Couldn't have chosen a nicer venue?"
"It's your skull."
"Fair point, mate. Well if it's a dream..." The woman on the ground vanished, or maybe I just forgot her, and John Constantine had a lit cigarette in his mouth. "What do you want?"
"Consultation, and maybe a favor."
"I though we weren't doing each other favors."
"If we're lucky, we still aren't. Maybe this can't even be done, I know I can't do it."
"You may as well just shoot."
"Something you said the last time stuck in my head a bit. You said the city was cursed and it would take a better wizard than either of us knows to contain the powers of Hell and various sealed evils that leaks there." John made a 'go on' motion with his hand. "Well, I was wondering. Could you maybe dial it up?"
"What? What would ever possess you to do that!"
So in that bloody hall I explained to John about luring back Capricorn, whom he already knew about since I sent out the word to everyone I could when my doppleganger went off the rails, and how I was pretty sure he was steeped in dark energies, at least this is my main theory for what happened and was probably drawing power from the Pit. If I can't cut it off, irregularly empowering it might at least destabilize his extra powers and maybe mess up his ability to summon support. John called me crazy thrice more before declaring it was possible, and better he could set up the whole thing to be quickly and easily dismantled when I didn't want it anymore. He said he might, might be coming to the States in a couple of weeks anyways, depending on some things, and I gave him my phone number.
So I finally pulled the gem off my forehead in the dream, deactivating it in the real world and settled in to sleep, content that I had the beginnings of the plan, that I was being responsible and had done all I reasonably could, and that increasing the infernal powers surrounding Gotham couldn't possibly have terrible unintended repercussions or bite me in the ass later.
Ah sweet, sweet denial. How could I ever get to sleep without you?
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