Chapter 2
Investigation

Pete Wisdom was not a good man. He had done a lot in his life, things "that needed doing." He was honest enough with himself to know how messed-up that made him. He was sane enough to know that he was still bothered by that. It was how he knew he was still one of the good guys. People who did "what needed doing" were not one of the good guys. But, he still knew the difference between right and wrong. And, how relative the distinction could be. He was experienced enough to know there lay a gray area in the lives of men such as he. He lived in that gray area.

Breaking into your friend's bedroom? Bad.

Rifling through his knickers because you were afraid he was doing steroids? Good.

Gray area.

He slipped into the room, silent as a thought. No need, really, Cain and the others wouldn't be back from the cinema for another three hours. Ali and TJ wanted to go shopping. Plenty of time to do the deed. But, habits being as they were, he didn't even think about picking the lock, or moving without a sound. He walked in shadows, again without thought, and avoided directly moving passed the windows. Anyone looking in from the street wouldn't see a thing. Anyone looking from above... well, he'd have another set of problems, then wouldn't he? With or without conscious effort, he would be in and out without anyone being the wiser. Except for Tessa. Nothing got passed that woman. Not for long anyway. Pete's eyes categorized everything in the room, noticing changes, analyzing their meanings. A pile of clothes in one corner. Food packages strewn across the floor and furniture. More clothes in another corner. Costume haphazardly tossed about the room-a boot hanging from a lamp. Everything was cataloged, stored. The details you missed were the details that killed you. He needed to make sure of his team. Things were going down. Bad things. Things that needed doing; and his team was fracturing, splintering like Arthur's empire of old.

"Nothing coming from something called Excalibur can ever last," he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. But, damnit, he'd make it last as long as he bloody could!

Juggernaut's helmet dominated the far corner, behind a desk and a rubbish bin, buried beneath several musty smelling trench coats. No wonder the men smelled like a locker room. He directed his search there, first. Nothing about this room gave the air of a once feared and powerful terrorist or of a man on the road to redemption. This room, filled with disarray and filth, reeked of failure and despair. This was the room of a man hanging to hope by the barest of threads. His Dazzler and Lila Cheney CDs-many of them original releases-lay underneath the helmet. A further sign of disillusionment. A muscle in his cheek ticked. If Cain had given up that interest, one of his few real connections to humanity and normalcy, then Cain was closer to snapping than he feared.

He opened the closet next and sighed at the meager clothing the man owned: a few pairs of pants, three shirts, and a couple of coats. Of course, people with his job probably went through clothes like Oprah ran through diets. They all did; really, it went with the job description. People always joked that Wisdom slept in his clothes. And, while for the most part that was true, he did have a full closet of fresh clothes. Thing of it was, they all had full closets. Even TJ who managed to be on the planet for all of a week before popping out again. Cain, for all his wealth, hadn't bought a thing for himself beyond the essentials.

Another splinter.

A trace of powder on the end table, directed him to the boot-bearing lamp. Muscle powders, protein shakes, power bars, and vitamins. Funny, he never took Cain for the health craze. The half-empty bottles seemed tossed about as though they were crudely replaced either in haste or in rage. He noticed cracks in the sides of one of the bottles from where powerful fingers had squeezed with crushing force. Rage, then. The supplements weren't working.

"Cain, tell me you've been hittin' the gym, lad." He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. He could really go for a smoke about now. Capers always made him want for a smoke. Another sigh.

Mattress, next. He cringed and stuck his hand in. You never could tell what you might find under a guy's mattress. Especially a crook's. He pulled out a few magazines-girly and fitness mostly. There were fewer fitness mags, but, he seemed to have used them more. Interesting. Was the porn just for show, or was he just not interested in that sort of thing? He reached back in, and his fingers grazed a long metal container. He sighed again as he opened the box. "I bloody need a cigarette."

It didn't add up, though. A normal needle couldn't pierce the lunk's skin, and a pill would have even less effect given the lad's size and healing factor. Cain was the Juggernaut, after all; unstoppable, unkillable, and invulnerable and all that rot. So, why did Cain turn to steroids? Foolishness and desperation? Perhaps. Habit guided Wisdom to the underwear draw-crooks always hid their dirtiest secrets in the underwear drawer, it was like an unwritten rule. Maybe, it was just the symbolism they found in hiding their shame. He cringed as his hands dove beneath layers of jockstraps and compression shorts. And groaned as he withdrew a cloth wrapped around a flat and decidedly faceted shape. A red-glowing faceted shape.

"Fuck the smoke, what I need is to get bleedin' piss drunk. Why the hell couldn't you just be doing steroids, Cain?"

Which was worse? Your friend and teammate doing drugs for the strength and power to fight evil? Or, your friend and teammate selling his soul for the strength and power to fight evil? Maybe, it was wishing your friend was just doing drugs, and knowing that either way you were going to use him until it was time to put him down. Shades of gray.