Grummins and Wylde stood watching Beck as he came around the corner wearing his new suit. It hugged his form more or less, and it was a dark forest green that was almost black. The patterns laid into it drew the eye away, confused his form. The edges of the pattern glittered in the light, so as he moved a shimmer moved across him.
"What the hell is that?" Grummins said.
"It's a polymer," Beck said, "Designed to shrug off piercing and cuts, and to diffuse kinetic energy. The patterns are inlaid metal weave, pretty sharp stuff. So after I spent all the time and energy getting it commissioned and all the time waiting for it, I think it's time to try this sucker out. Come on, boys. Get some clubs and let's see what you can do."
Grummins and Wylde exchanged a look.
"Boys," Beck said patiently. "I was a stunt man for almost ten years before I moved on. You aren't gonna hurt me. Let's do this. I promise to be gentle with you." He walked over to the bench and picked up two scrima sticks. He tossed one to each of them. "Okay," he said, and he settled into a combat stance.
Grummins sighed. "Okay, here goes," he said. He and Wylde moved to flank Beck, then they darted in.
Beck caught the first blow on his forearm, he quickly tugged and the metal patterns of his suit bit into the club and almost tugged it out of Grummins's hand. Wylde hit him square in the back, and he grunted and turned.
"Not bad," he said, facing them. "Didn't hurt. Let's see what you guys got in ya."
Grummins spun, slashing with the stick, and Beck took it on the shoulder and slid a few inches. Wylde lashed down at his leg, and where the stick hit it was shaved, leaving wood splinters sticking off the suit and taking almost a quarter of the stick's thickness off.
"Not bad," Beck said, raising his hand. "That'll do. Tells me what I need to know. The suit should do a number on his knuckles if he wants it to come to that. And I'm able to shrug off your hits. So I'll have some protection."
"Some neat long johns," Wylde said.
"You think that'll let you beat this Parker guy?" Grummins said skeptically.
"No, not by itself," Beck said, walking over to his workbench. The splinters fell off the suit as he moved. Beck picked up the flat pack for the tubing. "Not by itself," he murmured as he glanced over the vials of powder. "But I'm getting closer. Should it come to that."
Monday, November 25
Two in the morning.
Peter dropped the racquetball. Caught it on the rebound. Dropped it again. Sweat beaded and dripped from his forehead, he felt it in slow motion, its surface wobbling as it fell to shatter on the hard floor. He dropped the ball again. Then he threw it up.
He hit the ball with his strength.
His senses felt, saw it flatten as it screamed at the wall, felt the tension go out of his racquet with the hit. Damn near broke it. The ball was to the wall in a split second and rebounding at near bullet speeds. He was barefoot, ready; he sprang into the air twisting out of the way of the ball as it sizzled under him and rebounded before gravity could pull him down enough to reposition. He deflected it from the back wall to the side wall with the racquet as his mind went over his situation. Again.
Aunt May needs an operation.
The hospital won't do the operation without an outlay of cash.
He doesn't have it and doesn't know how to get it.
The hospital is willing to give her medication to make her comfortable until—
And he sprang to the side, the ball whooshed past him making his hair flail; he was faster still. He hit the speeding ball with the racquet from behind to put some extra juice on it. The walls were cracking, the ball nearly burst. Almost but not too much pressure. And the ball screamed on with lethal speed.
He let his eyes lazily drift out of focus as he held his position in the middle of the court and kept the ball in play, racquet whizzing around him to keep that one small space in the racquetball court safe from the relentlessly speeding ball.
Some hero. Can't save his aunt. People throwing money at him, but he won't do what they want even to save his aunt.
He considered, for a moment, surrendering and finding the one who was inevitably behind this and just biding his time before making the offer.
Something deep inside welled up, rebelled, and Peter knew that he couldn't. He let out a hoarse shout and crushed one last hit into the ball, then backflipped and slipped out the door while the ball helplessly thrashed around in the deserted court.
xXx
Peter reflected that he must have been walking for hours. He stood in the park and watched the sun shoulder its way up into the sky. He closed his eyes and breathed, and his senses informed him that it was seven thirty six and forty eight and a half seconds. Atomic time.
"Thank you," he muttered.
His mind was whirling round and round, trying to decide what to do about Aunt May. How to get the money. He was vaguely aware of returning to Aunt May's house, getting books, going to school. He reflexively checked his mailbox in the student center on his way through, and he saw a slip of red paper. He pulled it out and read it.
"No way," he said. "Absolutely no way." He crumpled the paper and ran to the administrative building. In a matter of minutes he was in the financial aid office.
He pushed past three students in line and went straight to the desk. "Excuse me," he said, his voice tense, "what is the meaning of this?" He brandished the red paper.
"That," the woman behind the counter said, "means you should take your place in line." She blinked at him over her glasses, her mouth in a sour pucker.
"Not today, lady, don't push me today," Peter said, struggling to maintain control. "I submitted everything I needed to submit to get my aid package for next semester. So why did I get this thing telling me the deadline is past and I won't get aid?"
She looked at him for a moment, and he met her eyes. "Name?"
"Parker, Peter Parker."
Sniffing with disapproval, she pulled up his file. "We never received your paperwork," she said.
"Never…" he said. "Well can you look again?"
His senses told him that a woman further back in the office was calling security, and it became a full time battle to repress the frustration surging up in him. He felt his temperature rising, his joints loosening. No. No no no. Not here. Not like this. No.
"Mister Parker, we've looked. If you have a problem with this, you can take it up with the Dean of Students. At this point you're holding up the line you interrupted and you are being inexcusably rude. We will do an inquiry if we are instructed to do so by the Dean of Students. Good day."
Peter stood stock still, wrestling with the urge to be more physically persuasive with the financial aid biddy. Stiffly, he dragged himself back and turned and walked out of the office.
He got to the bottom of the stairs when the security guard got to the front door of the building, huffing and puffing. The guard was reaching for the door when Peter pushed it open, perhaps a little harder than he meant to. The guard was caught by the door and tossed over the sidewalk onto the grass, where he landed with a heavy thud.
Peter immediately felt guilt; the guard looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, a smaller man. Peter quickly walked away before the guard could sit up.
"I gotta get control of myself," Peter muttered. "I gotta get a grip. This is not good." But he faced the cold hard fact that he couldn't pay for his last semester of schooling, or Aunt May's operation.
Still his opponent was faceless. He felt his teeth gritting.
Across the quad, from the student union on the third floor, Beck watched the guard pick himself up off the ground. He picked up the phone and called the dean of students.
xXx
Peter walked out to the quad and sat on a bench, hanging his head, his mind spinning. Everything was coming apart at the seams.
"Oh, I can't believe I almost just said that," he said in response to his thoughts. "Things can always get worse."
"Mister Parker?" said a woman's voice. He looked up quickly.
"Hello, Ms. Slade," he said. "Uh, I'm sorry I missed your class. I've been…" He trailed off, no excuse forthcoming, and just shrugged with an apologetic smile. "Around."
Ms. Slade was very pretty and almost beautiful. She tossed her hair back and looked down at him. "Yes, I did miss you in class," she said, "and so did the Dean of Students, Albrecht Mortenson. He wants to see you." She looked at him for a moment. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Sure," he said. "Everything's fine… peachy, you could say… Why don't I just go see the dean… Thanks for the message… I was going to see him anyway…" Peter got up and smiled at his teacher, containing the simmering pressure of frustration that was building in his chest and gut. Then he jogged towards the administrative building.
Ms. Slade sighed, shook her head, and continued down the sidewalk. "I hate it when the good kids get into drugs," she murmured to herself.