Disclaimer: Shayera Hol, Batman and Flash characters are property of Warner Bros and DC Comics. I'd know if they were mine, since I'd be considerably wealthier. All other characters, plus the story are my property.
"So the long and short of it is your cellular structure is very different from what it ought to be. Your skin is tougher than it has any right to be. It's no wonder you weren't burnt. And that may be why you weren't cut by any debris during the crash." Dr. Grant was explaining the results of the tests she'd done on me.
"I just figured I wasn't hit by anything. I really don't remember whether I was hit or not… Then again, it's been a month and a half. Maybe my memory's going in my old age." I smiled at her. She had beautiful brown eyes, so very gentle.
"Believe me – your skin sample we took looked like Kevlar when we put it under the microscope. And the MRI of your skeleton and musculature… Do you feel any heavier, sluggish, anything like that?"
"Maybe a little – why? Should I?" I had never been small – I passed six feet tall when I was 13, and had topped out at 6'6", and tipped the scales at 300 lbs of mostly muscle. I was curious.
"One thing we weren't able to do yesterday was weigh you. Let's do that now." The scale had been missing the day before, the doctor apparently figuring somebody from physics had taken it. So I stepped on the scale, a digital model that quickly showed my weight.
"Four hundred pounds! That's nuts. I'm wearing the same clothes I was months ago."
She looked at the file she was holding, and then back at me. "You aren't any bigger – your weight gain came entirely from a change in density – of your bones, musculature, pretty much every part of your body where an increase in density would have a positive effect. That, combined with the changes in you at the cellular level, seem to be behind what you're experiencing, although I have no explanation for why these changes happened."
I stood there, probably looking as dumb as I felt.
"I think we have to move on to the next stage of testing." She continued.
"What's that?"
"Physical testing – seeing just what you're capable of."
"Over two spans working for the government, I've learned to be a little careful about sharing information. That would seem to include this sort of testing. Never know whose going to have access…" By this time I was largely talking to myself, and had largely forgotten that I was speaking out loud, until she abruptly brought me back to reality by dropping her briefcase on the desk – loudly.
"Are you insinuating that I would be anything besides diligent in preserving patient confidentially?" She sounded irritated, and this grew to anger. "No, you're not – you're saying it outright!"
I remembered now just why thinking out loud is a very poor idea at times.
She wasn't finished. "I have sworn an oath, I have provided you with all the medical care possible, tested you for something that shouldn't exist, looked after you when any sane person would have told you to go see someone that's actually in the same province as you. But no, when you asked for my help, I got you in, got the use of some busy testing facilities, using up some valuable favours in the process. And you have the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to insinuate I might not be trustworthy."
She had paused. Meanwhile, the only part of my body anyone had ever suggested was super-powered, my brain, vaunted instrument it was, finally had stumbled to life, leading me to the conclusion that a general retreat was in order.
"Ahh, you see, I didn't mean to say that, well, it's not you that I'm concerned about." She was now looking at me rather sceptically, although this indicated a distinct cooling from her previous, utterly pissed off look. I continued. "I have worked for an agency of the government that doesn't, shall we say, have the much respect for such niceties as civil liberties. While I'm not much for conspiracy theories, I am one of those who figured the gun registry would eventually be misused. And I was right. But that's my concern. Believe me when I say I've dealt with these guys, and they don't play by the rules. That's what I was talking about."
She still looked sceptical, but evidently either believed some part of what I was saying, or had decided I was nuts and arguing would only encourage me in my delusions. She looked down at some files lying on the desk, took a breath, and looked me in the eye.
"Assuming you are correct, for the time being, I can see why you might want to minimize the level of documentation on your abilities. But for curiosity's sake, let's go and have you try lifting a few things, just to see what you can do – but don't worry, no documented tests of your maximums. Does that sound reasonable?"
I was just happy to get out of there alive. But I decided to push my luck one more time.
"Sure, with one condition."
"Okay, what's the condition?" She looked at me warily.
"After we're finished, you let me take you to dinner." I finished by giving her my winning smile, or at least that was what I tried to do. I'm not sure what it looked like to her, but…
"I'm your doctor." She hadn't said no.
"No you're not. MY doctor is in an office in Belleville, Ontario – you know, a couple thousand miles away. You are an academic who I consulted with over a matter most doctors wouldn't believe. The fact that you are a doctor, who happened to treat me, in an emergency situation, for a few days, over a month ago, is irrelevant to the matter. I am a philosophy professor – I know these things. Indeed, much more relevant are your beautiful smile." By the time I finished, the smile was there and the eyes sparkled. And I felt like I hadn't at any point since high-school. Fifteen years before. Too long.
She gave me a stage sigh, overacting comedically.
"Well, far be it for me to argue with a professor."
We ended up going to a maintenance garage, where the groundskeepers and maintenance personnel kept their equipment, including trucks, tractors, trailers, and sundry other items of various sizes. She had me try lifting various pieces of equipment. I had no problem lifting items up to over the 1000 lb. mark. From this point it became a matter of guesstimating the weight, as I tried lifting one end of a truck or tractor, seeking to get a gauge on what my capability was in this area. The most I lifted amounted to around 3000 lbs, when I lifted the front of a big Ford F-550. And I found my bad right shoulder, injured when I was twenty, seemed to have healed.
Dr. Grant, who had by now told me to call her Kate, was impressed before I reached 1000 lbs. She was speechless by the time I finished. My male ego was suitably stoked. She looked at the truck, and then at me, and at the truck again.
"That is impossible, or at least it should be. You lifted almost eight times your weight, and you looked like you weren't maxed out. That shouldn't be possible. From what those tests indicated, I could have seen you going as high as three or four times. This, well, I can't explain it."
"Guess a bowl of porridge for breakfast each day is good for you. What can I say? But anyway, I think it's time to get ready for dinner, wouldn't you say?"
"I guess so. So where and when?"
"It's your city – where should we go?"
"How about McCafferty's, it's downtown near the Legislature buildings."
"Sounds good." I looked at my watch. It was 4:30 pm. "Would 7 work?"
"Definitely. I'll call ahead for a table. Don't be late." She smiled.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"I wasn't worried about you dreaming of it. It's the doing that's my concern."
"I'll see you at 7."
When I got back to the rental car, I saw my cell phone, which I had left there, had a message on it. It was from Tom. I wondered what he was calling about. We'd talked for some time the night before. It turned out he was a detective with the Regina Police Service, and usually worked areas such as the one where we'd met, looking out for everything from drugs to gangs to terrorists. Before I left, we'd exchanged numbers, planning to meet for another coffee before I flew home on Saturday. The phone automatically connected to my voice-mail. It seems he needed to meet me first thing in the morning. He left a time and place, and simply asked me to call if I couldn't make it. I didn't see a problem, so I simply drove back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.
I arrived at the restaurant at 6:55, and found Kate already seated. She looked beautiful, stunning… After I regained some semblance of sanity, I complimented her.
"You look beautiful, I mean, even more than usual." Yes, I was suave, like a latter day James Bond. Sure. Well, I was damned-well not going to make too much of a fool of myself. I regained my composure, and after exchanging the usual pleasantries, we ordered. I had a pepper steak, she had a broiled-chicken salad, and we ordered a nice Ontario wine I had heard about on the Food Network.
We talked throughout the meal. She had gone to the University of Alberta to do her medical studies, after doing an undergraduate degree at Brandon. I told her about my adventures in education, travelling from Loyalist to Queens to a year at an American seminary before wrapping things up at Trent. It turned out she had a younger brother who'd gone to Trent, well after my time. She drove an '04 Dodge Ram pickup, with the Hemi, which she liked for its utility and four wheel drive.
"I grew up on a farm near Weyburn – I got used to driving a truck."
"I used to drive an old Ford with a steel flat deck, but right now I've got a Magnum RT, lots of acceleration, and I like the utility of the wagon."
We continued to talk through dessert and coffee, before realising that it was after 10. We ended the evening with a walk down by the legislature, beautifully lit in the late fall evening. Kate shivered.
"What are you doing shivering?" I asked mockingly. "You're from Saskatchewan; this should be more of a problem for me, the wimpy Ontarian."
She laughed, which warmed things up considerably, it seems. Finally we arrived at her truck. She turned to face me.
"It's been a very enjoyable evening."
"Ya. It has been. I don't sup…" She cut me off by kissing me, a full on, holy crow, kiss. After that I didn't know what to say. She did.
"Dinner, tomorrow night, my place."
"Sounds good." My voice reflected the after effects of the kiss, along with surprise at her invitation. She wrote down her address and personal phone numbers, gave them to me, waved, and drove off into the snow which had started to fall. I walked over to my rental Explorer and drove back to the hotel. I watched the news and went to bed, having arranged for a 7 am wake up call.
Batman was doing some research. After Flash's question of that morning, he had decided to run some data searches on the internet and through various Canadian media databases, looking for any signs of metahumans or other potential 'superheroes', as the media had taken to calling Justice Leaguers and the like. Even with the power of the computer in the Batcave, it still took the better part of the day for his specially written search program to crawl, line by line, through data from all across one of the biggest countries on the planet. It was now after midnight, Friday morning, and the computer beeped to inform him that the search was complete, and results had been found that fit within the search parameters.
Another computer, in another city was beeping at the same time. A hand reached out, a tap on a key ending the audible alert. Then the hand reached for a phone. Without need of dialling, the phone connected to another office, this one in Ottawa.
"Yes?"
"We have the search results, sir."
"Good. Send them to Simmons; he'll know what to do."
"No problem, sir."
"And remind him, I want his interpretation by the end of the day."
"Yes, sir."
The phone line went dead. The hand now reached out to hit the 'print' button. While the system did that, he looked at the data. He wasn't an expert in interpretation, but he could clearly see a name on the screen. Tom Longriver.
Tom Longriver stood outside his truck in the Tim Horton's parking lot. The morning sun helped keep him warm in spite of the cold morning air. He'd been up since 5 am, and it was now almost 8. He noted the people coming in and going out, the strong aroma of fresh coffee, along with a fainter scent of donuts and other baked goods, permeating the air. He should have gotten a coffee first, and then waited. Finally he saw the Explorer pull into the lot.
I saw Tom's old truck as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. He was wearing jeans, a denim jacket and a ball cap with the Swift Current Broncos emblem on it. He was almost as tall as I was, around 6'2" or so. He took off his sunglasses and waved. We met at the door.
"I was a little surprised to get your message. I'd figured we'd meet tonight or tomorrow before I fly out." I reached into my pocket to grab my wallet, hoping I had some cash on me. Tim Horton's stores don't have Interac. Fortunately, I had a few toonies and a five. "What'll you have?" I asked him.
"Regular coffee, extra large."
I turned to the woman at the counter. "Two extra large coffees, one regular, one double cream, triple sugar, and a whole wheat and honey bagel, toasted with butter."
I paid for the order, giving Tom his coffee while I waited at the counter for my bagel. When I had that, we walked outside. Placing the order on the hood of his truck, I unwrapped the bagel and took a bite.
"You got any plans for today?" He was looking at the front page of the Regina Post in the newspaper box.
"Not until tonight."
"Another date with your lady friend from last night?"
That took me by surprise. He must have seen it on my face.
"I was on patrol last night. Saw the two of ya walking. Who is she?"
For a second I wondered if I should answer. But he was a cop, and after their discussions on Wednesday night, well, it was too late to decide not to trust him. And anyway, he already knew her name.
"Dr. Catherine Grant. She's helping me with some research on my 'condition'."
During the four hours spent talking, we compared notes from the crash, and eventually he told me he'd seen what I'd done, and that it wasn't human. When I'd looked surprised, he'd simply said he had the same 'issues'. They hadn't gotten into specifics.
"You got her number?"
"Yes."
"Good – she might be interested in meeting my friend as well. You ready to go?"
"Yeah. Where are we going?"
"You need to follow me out to my place. We're about half an hour from here."
"Okay. Lead on."
I walked over to the Explorer, got in, put the coffee in a cup holder, and was behind Tom on the road within a couple of minutes. We ended up driving north on highway 11, the expressway that links Saskatchewan's capital with its largest city, Saskatoon. About twenty minutes later we were off the 11 and onto a local gravel road, before turning onto a long driveway. Tom parked his truck beside a barn, while I put the Explorer in front of a silo. As he got out of his truck, he waved me towards the old farmhouse.
"Nice place you've got here."
"Thanks. It was in my mother's family since it was homesteaded, and now, well, it's basically mine, although my parents live in the far part of the house."
He pulled open an insulated storm door and pushed open the main door, which opened into a neat kitchen. The smell of coffee dominated the warm air of the house. There was an entrance way from what looked to be a living or family room, and a tall, dark haired woman entered the kitchen through it.
"This is my wife, Liz. This is that fella from Ontario, James Mackenzie."
"Welcome. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Thank you, yes I would." I kicked off my shoes, and Tom led me into the living room.
"I've got someone else I think you should meet. I'll just go get her."
Liz's voice came from the kitchen. "She'll be down in a sec. She needed to mend a shirt."
"Well, I guess I won't get her then."
Liz brought in six coffees, along with containers of cream and sugar. She looked at her husband. "Your parents are coming over as soon as your Dad finishes fiddling with that old tractor, or at 9:30, since your Mom said she was only giving him until then. As she was saying this the sound of the doors opening and closing came from the kitchen. A male voice boomed from the kitchen.
"Tom, that easterner you were talking about here – that who belongs to the new truck outside? Oh, and Liz, can you help an ol' fella and give the missus a shout? I gotta wash up."
"Not in the kitchen sink – use the work sink." Liz hollered to him as she walked out of the room. She came back momentarily, followed by a slim, grey haired woman that couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Tom introduced her. James Mackenzie, Miranda Longriver, my mother."
"And I'm her husband, and his father, though I'm careful about who I let in on that secret. Brian Longriver." He was almost as tall as his son, wearing overalls and a flannel shirt that made him the epitome of a Canadian farmer. Unlike Tom, who was fairly soft spoken, Brian had a booming voice.
"James Mackenzie."
There was a creaking from the stairs. Liz stood up and walked to the doorway to the stairs. Tom stood even as his mother sat down, his father making his way to an easy chair.
The mystery person stepped into view. And my jaw dropped. I'd never seen a woman who looked like her, except on the news about four months before. And I hadn't expected to see one now…
Tom cleared his throat. "James Mackenzie, this is Miss Shayera Hol."
