Testament

"He's nuts," Chronos said. Nothing else was said for a long time. A list of demands sat in front of them. Remove the Blue and Red. Cease the slander against the Righteous. Cut all ties with the military and the government. Formally apologize for leading people into sin. It went on.

Mercy leaned sideways. They talked endlessly and they had no answers. In one day, he'd go to the papers. He'd go on Barry Reinhart. He'd speak on talk radio. The arrangements were made and the public wanted to hear his voice, see his face, read his words.

The damage was done. Blue and Red, ruined. Kid Kosmos warned them that Harmless was all about the violence. He used violence, he responded to violence, and only violence would stop him. The only option was deadly force.

President Dubois proposed special forces, a quiet end to the nonsense. Kosmos had another idea.

"I can take him," he said. "Set it up and get all the national networks to cover it. He likes a certain type of bait. Offer it."

Pros and cons were discussed. Kid Kosmos held them in his sway. Chronos seconded the idea. Mercy opposed. Everyone else fell in line.

Harmless. Old. Weak. Slow. Injured for life. It wasn't possible for him to survive. On screen, a final glorious stand for the old veteran and Pontificate. His last stand. A Struggle and a quiet arrest. A tragic death in prison. Endgame.

A few eyes narrowed at the prospect. President Dubois reminded them that global peace was at hand, and an obstacle like The Harmless Man with his inflammatory rhetoric stood in the way. It had to be done for the greater good.

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Old

Wounds healed slowly. Mornings meant pain and pain killers. His job almosy done, Harmless let go of secrecy. He spoke openly. His mask was donated to charity. He wore a business suit.

When he ventured out to combat evil, he wore economical lycra suits with padding. He wore gold and white, the colors of redemption. His face looked like a surgeon's mistake. His body angled oddly in places, but he could still move. He donned a cape. It was a decorative risk, but an ingenious tear away neck fastener eased any worry it caused. It was, by all standards, the best designed suit money could buy.

His crime fighting was limited, some said staged. His message mattered. Everything else supported that message. Dubois must be stopped, he told the public. Dubois socialist, relativistic brand of justice encouraged criminals to revert. True justice allowed no chance for repeat offenders, he preached.

Peace is deadly. It is complacent. It mocks sacrifice. The wicked must suffer. He struggled on. He struggled alone. He begged for help from the young.

He fought as always, fists and boots. Only his suit had changed.

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Hunted

Of course the suit worked perfectly. He designed suits for Heroes across the globe. It was flexible, puncture resistant, impact resistant, practically bullet proof. He made suits. He fixed things, too. One problem always plagued him. One thing he could not fix until he made the suit.

It was rare for one man ro request a suit an another man to request a modification to it. He didn't care. The modification was small, easy to hide and harmless. Perfect. A harmless solution to his long standing problem.

Solutions often presented themselves. Mercy wanted to save a man he wanted destroyed. If he destroyed this man, she would hate him. Adding an RFID tag to a suit was hardly destroying a man. Someone could track him, that's all. No killing. They said nothing about killing him.

He had no illusions that she would turn to him in grief. Part of him wanted her to suffer like him. Mostly, he wanted his problem fixed. He was fixing a problem, that was all.

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Tinman

Only a fool would get arrested in order to orchestrate a prison break.

One day a man came to Guise looking for a chop job on his face. The policy: don't ask, don't tell. So, this lunatic sits in a chair for five hours and spends weeks with a puffy face all so that he can commit a series of heinous murders in order to get sent to Pelican Bay in the Supermax section.

It begs the question.

There was a man in that prison in need of assistance. Ironically, this man wanted to get out of this prison to kill a man who once was detained in the very same cell of this prison. So, this intelligent man sent a coded message to the craziest man he knew. His friends called him Martin.

Martin used to dress up as a tin soldier and shoot automatic weapons into crowds of drug crazed slaves, ex-cons and costumed freaks. That was before he lost his job as a criminal side kick. He was overjoyed when his former boss invited him back to work. Sure, the pay was awful, but the benefits were more than enough to make up for it.

All he had to do was brutally kill a few tens of people and get caught. It took a damn long time to get caught. The Heroes today just weren't as cunning. The police were no help. He couldn't turn himself in, they'd have him committed.

So, he butchered a couple of newlyweds on vacation and wrote some outrageous slogans on the wall. Tinman. What a guy. He left enough fingerprints and didn't leave town and even held up a convenience store just to get on file.

Once inside one of the many criminal detainment centers, it was a simple matter of politics to get transferred. Stab a guard, take a beating, get sent to s supermax. The man who needed his help did the rest.

Martin had no idea how he would get his boss out. He was just happy to have a job again.

Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fifteen