TITAN
The History of Tim Steele

A longforgotten sense ran up the back of Tim Steele’s neck when he answered thephone. He had not felt the dull hum in his bones for a long time. It came tohim like a memory he didn’t know he had forgotten.

The soundsof the people and the office around him faded to no more than a whisper. Hedropped what he had been doing and his hand snapped to the phone on his hip.The pencil with which he had been sketching designs remained gripped in hisother hand.

“Hoffman andBond, this is Tim.”

“Is thisMr. Timothy Steele?”

“Yep, thisis Tim.”

“Sir, myname is Sergeant Tom Renik with the Alexandria PD…”

“Sorry,Officer, but I don’t have anything to donate at this time.” Tim didn’t know whyhe said it, but he hoped that if he willed the caller to be nothing more than asolicitor then it would be so.

“Uh… no,sir, Mr. Steele, I’m calling about your son. His name is Eric Steele, s’thatcorrect?”

The warningbuzzing in his bones whistled in his head now. A cop would only be callingabout Eric if he was in trouble or in trouble. Something approachingvulnerability crept into Tim’s voice—a rare thing, indeed. “Eric’s my son.”

“Mr.Steele, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your son was rushed to theemergency room about twenty minutes ago.”

Tim let thepencil he’d been working with drop onto his desk and he adjusted himselfstraighter in his chair. He couldn’t get comfortable. A lump of black dreadsettled into his gut. He could only think to say, “When? Where? What hospital?”

The officergave the name of the hospital and said, “It looks like Eric collapsed onDuke Street. Some kind folks found him and called an ambulance.”

Tim was nowstanding, but he didn’t remember getting up. His hand was tight around thephone and the other pressed on the desk surface. The wood creaked under hisweight. He pushed off and headed for the corridor, towards the exit.

“What’swrong with him?”

“Well,we’re not exactly sure. He collapsed and was unconscious. Witnesses said itlooked like he was… smoking.”

A nervouslaugh escaped, but Tim didn’t remember thinking anything was particularlyfunny. “That’s ridiculous, Eric doesn’t smoke.”

“Oh… no,sir, I’m sorry. You misunderstand. His body was smoking. Like he’d caught on fire… but there were noburns. Some guy burned his hand. We’re still trying to work it out.”

Tim’s throatlocked and he stopped walking. Every movement ceased and all of his strengthwent into making his lips move. “His body was smoking. But no burns? Like itwas coming from the inside?”

“Yeah,that’s a good way t’put it. S’what the witnesses said. Like he had a real bad fever.”

The lump inTim’s stomach grew until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. What the cop wassaying could only mean one thing, but… it wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Tim didn’tknow, but his son was in the hospital. That single thought pushed him forwardand Tim could move again. He headed for the door and patted his pockets to makesure he had his keys. He snatched them off of his belt loop and launchedoutside into the sharp late winter air.

The officergave Tim some additional information, which he didn’t quite hear. The moment hehung up with the cop, he dialed Nancy. This was going to send her into a tizzy,but he had to tell her.

It couldbe worse, you know… his bones hummed deeply now. He felt the warningas clearly as a voice. Everything in his rational mind wanted Eric to be okay,to just have a fever. The rock in his gut suggested otherwise.

* * *

Tim Steelewas born and raised in Buffalo, NY like his father had been. He was from thesoutheast in the poor part of the city. He was short and stocky, but athleticand tough. Very tough. He had to be.

His dad wasArthur Steele or Art the Fart to his friends. Art was a professional handyman.He did everything: carpentry, plumbing, electric, ironwork, constructionplanning, and occasional superhero. Tim remembered his father as being tall,but Art was really only about five feet eleven, maybe six feet. He was lean andlooked weak or even frail in his daily life when he wore ratty, loose clothes,but his body was fit and strong. His arms had been tightly muscled like cables,his shoulders sturdy and broad, and his hands rough and hard. Everyone thoughtArt’s incredible strength stemmed from a life of labor. Tim knew it wasthat and more.

Timremembered his father’s hands most of all. For as battered and callused asthose old hands were, they could be incredibly gentle too. Tim’s memory failedhim more often than not these days, but he remembered how his father put hishands over his and taught him to use a saw, measure correctly, hammer withoutleaving marks, sand wood, and a lot more. Art had been a good teacher, quietand patient; he demonstrated what he wanted Tim to learn and then guided him todo it on his own. He had been that way with everything.

Arthur Steelehad been Titan, a legendary champion, empowered by the elements of creationembedded in his bones. Tim had been Titan, too, after his father’s time. ButTitan was gone now. And Eric didn’t know anything about it. If this was reallyhappening, Eric wouldn’t understand why his bones felt hot, why his jointsached, or why he broke out in fevers for no reason… why didn’t I see it?

You’re ina fog, that’s how. You’re spending so much time hiding from your grief… a crueltrick of fate has awarded—cursed?—your son with the family responsibility andyou missed it because you’re blind…

Wait.

Not fate.No.

God.

…butthere were rules, weren’t there? Maybe not since they’ve just been broken.

Timremembered how his father had taught him Titan’s powers, his history, and his duty.He remembered a childhood, knowing a great family secret, never being able totell anyone what he knew. Regular people read the news and accepted the storiesas written. But Tim read the same stories—tales of disappearances, murders,thefts—and knew the truth from the fiction. There was evil in this world. Mostof the time, a murder was just that: murder. But sometimes, there was anothertruth. Honed over time by Art’s tutelage, Tim knew man’s crimes from theunnatural.

At an earlyage, Art began telling Tim stories of a warrior called Titan. He taught himthat Titan was God’s champion against evil. Art told Tim that Titan had existedsince long before he was born and would be around long after he was gone. Artalso told Tim that Titan was a secret warrior that only they could know aboutbecause if anyone knew, Titan and all the people that depended on him would bein danger.

When Timturned ten, Art revealed that he was Titan. It wasn’t anythingspecial—startling, maybe, but light from heaven did not shine down as ithappened. Tim came out to the garage early one morning and found Art standingnaked in front of his workbench.

“Dad?!” Timhad said. As a boy, his instinct was to laugh, thinking his dad was beingsilly, but as Art turned around his skin darkened with innumerable threads offine metal moving like a liquid over his skin. As Art turned, his face wasvisible for only an instant before it wrapped over with the shifting waves ofliquid metal. Tim watched a letter “T” etch itself across his father’s chestand form on his face appropriately enough over his T-zone, resembling somethinglike a Viking helmet. When it was done, Art moved towards Tim, who was frozenin place, and said in a deeper voice, “The stories are true, kiddo. I’m Titan.And so are you.”

And soare you…

As a boy,Tim thought the whole thing was very exciting. His dad was like Superman—butreal! Keeping the secret made it oh so much fun, too. It was something heand his dad shared that no one else did. Tim once asked his dad if his mom knewabout Titan. Something about the question made Art smile. “Your mother is mywife. She knows enough.”

Art taughtTim things he had never shown him before: not roofing or carpentry, how tofight and how to strategize. Art taught Tim to size up an opponent, asituation, or a location in an instant because sometimes an instant might beall he got. It was something that Tim had passed down to Eric not as Titantraining, but as fatherly advice. Eric often made fun of Tim because Tim neversat with his back to the door in a restaurant—he needed to see everyone whocame and went.

For eightyears, Art and Tim lived two lives. In the one life, they were father andson—just two regular Joes on the block. In the other life, Art was both masterand teacher, and Tim was a student of an ancient power—something he neverreally understood. Tim learned about fighting, about using his enhanced senses,and about Titan’s power. Art was vague about from where Titan came and theolder Tim got, the more he realized that Art probably didn’t know. Titan wasold, though, maybe a thousand years or more. Tim suspected as much because allof the lessons and stories were usually littered with details that placed themafter the time of Christ. Of course, all of it made Tim question if there hadeven been a Jesus… there was something strange about God existing in a world ofsuperheroes and terrible demons. But Titan had been passed down for what Timguessed to be a thousand years to the first born child of the previous Titan.

“There arerules…” Art had warned but had never been specific. When Tim pressed him aboutwhat that meant, Art had just said he would understand when he needed to. Andon the eve of Tim’s eighteenth birthday, he had finally understood pain. Arthad been preparing Tim for that day ever since the morning in the garage yearsbefore. Art had taught him to fight, told him stories, passed on what he knewas best he could, but Art didn’t know everything. Before Tim’s eighteenthbirthday, Art came into Tim’s room after he had gotten home from work. Art laida thick, gray book on Tim’s bed.

“This isyours. When it’s time, you haveto give this to your kids.”

Timhesitated. “Kids? I thought…”

“Ah… to yourfirst.”

When Timtouched the book, he realized it was metal; a finely woven metal binding justlike Titan’s suit. It felt warm in his hands and like it belonged to him... Ifdéjà vu could apply to feeling like you owned something but didn’t, then thatwould be how Tim felt as he held the book. It was bound plainly and lookedfaded, with only the faintest etching of a “T” on the cover. The heat in hisbones and the agony in his joints was quieted as he held the book, which Timgradually came to understand wasn’t a book. But he didn’t know what it was. Notthen. But he learned.

Art told Timthat he should stay home on his birthday. There was no way to tell when thetransformation would happen, only that it was always on the eighteenthbirthday. Art didn’t know why.

Art had beenmentally preparing Tim to be Titan for years, but not for becomingTitan. He had said it was a painful experience, but he had not gone intodetail. Art only mentioned the feverish feeling and the joint pain when Tim hadtold him about the sudden flare ups a week before his birthday.

When Timasked why Art had left so much out, Art said, “You have to do a lot of thisalone, kid. So I’ve been trying to get you ready for that. Nothing hurts memore than seeing this happen to you, knowing what you’re going to feel. And tobecome… this.” Art gestured at himself as though he was nothing. Ormaybe Art was lamenting what he soon had to give up.

“I thoughtTitan was good,” Tim remembered saying as agonizing pain shot through hisknees. He fell back onto his bed, but Art caught him and let him down slowly.

Art smiled.“It’s good for other people. Not us.”

Timremembered that more than actually becoming Titan. It was probably because,like with Eric, the agony of surging liquid metal soaking his bones and coatinghis insides with unknowable power had knocked him out not long after the heathad welled up in him.

* * *

Tim thoughtabout his father as he wound through traffic. Art had been more of a mentorthan a father—he trained Tim to be a weapon; he didn’t raise a son. Tim likedto think he had done it differently, but he realized that he had not. He wasn’tparalyzed by what happened to Sarah like Nancy was, but he hadn’t moved pastit. Instead, Tim had put his blinders on and moved forward, often forgettingthat he had a son who had lost his sister and a wife who had lost her daughter.Both of them lost him too. The worst part was that, in the end, Tim had failedhis father; anyway… he wasn’t Titan anymore. That was gone. So, really, TimSteele realized in his car driving down I-495 that he had pretty much failedeverybody.

Or not.

God hadsomehow nudged things back into place. Clearly, He wasn’t done with Titan. Therules had been bent, but Titan would live again. Only Eric didn’t know what washappening to him. He had to replace out, alone, in the middle of an Alexandriastreet, surrounded by strangers.

Tim whistledthrough traffic, hardly seeing the other cars. No one would prevent him fromgetting to his son. He had to protect him now. Well, I always had to protecthim… but now… Tim’s failures were behind him now.

Tim almostpushed the gas pedal through the floor.

* * *

Everythingwent to hell.

One momentJim was sitting in the Starbucks at the corner of King Street and South Union,and the next he was being “escorted” out by two of the Colonel’s men. They wererough with him, grabbing him under his arms and practically carrying him out.They didn’t say a word.

Until then,Jim’s “handlers” had never been violent. Jim could no longer deny the fear thathad been simmering underneath his suspicion from the beginning—the shots, thethings they knew about him, the long plane ride, the hangar in the middle ofnowhere, the men armed with Desert Eagles… Jim had never been a stupid person.But from the beginning, ignoring the sinking, terrified feelings that whisperedin his ear along the way had been the smart thing to do. If he denied thesethings were bad or scary, then he wasn’t in trouble… it would all be okay if hejust did what they told him to do.

But not anymore.The denial evaporated. The shots, the guns, the anonymity, the tales of strangediseases… Jim’s mind finally let him realize what had been evident from thestart: These men were killers.

Jimstruggled. The Shadow Man’s goons were used to Jim going everywhere they wantedwithout a problem. In his fear-induced haze, Jim had complied with everything.So when he did fight back, it took the guards by surprise. Jim shovedthe guard on his right into the street. A bicyclist crashed into the guard andtogether they collapsed in a heap. The guard on Jim’s left hesitated for asplit second, long enough for Jim to ram his knee up between his legs. A gaspof high-pitched air exploded from the guard’s throat as his knees locked andhis grip opened. Jim cracked the stunned guard in the center of his face with aclosed fist and knocked him out.

Jim wasfree, but what now? He took off running up King Street, towards theroving groups of people. Those bastards wouldn’t dare cause a scene in front ofwitnesses.

Would they?

No. Jim wasabout as sure as he could be with a shadowy military sect. Not with assecretive as they’d been so far. It didn’t really matter anyway. Both guardswere still down on the street.

The touristswere all taken by surprise. No one saw Jim take them out; they just saw himrunning away from the fallen men. Jim shoved past a few slow walkers andsprinted for as long as he could. He was a military school student—if there wasone thing he could do it was run for a long time. And with his adrenalinepumping, Jim could go for a while.

Two thoughtsechoed in his mind: Get to Eric. Warn him. He had no idea where Ericwas, though, and he had no phone and no car. He considered stopping in one ofthe stores or restaurants, but his flight reflex wouldn’t let him. He needed tobe far away. Very far away.

Ironically,Eric had been only two blocks over—a steaming heap, lying in the middle of thestreet.

* * *

Tim didn’tremember parking his car, though he later found it in the first row nearest tothe door. He never parked that close to anything. “I’d rather walk thanget my car all banged up by assholes,” he always said. Today was differentthough. His active memory only picked up as he sprinted through the white,sterile hallways towards the main desk. Even then, there were only bits andpieces. There was a receptionist—black, kind of cute—and something about forms.Tim kept hearing himself say, “Eric Steele. Where is Eric Steele?” Eventually,a paramedic grabbed his shoulder. A surge of fury coursed through him. Timmight have dented the young kid’s face if he hadn’t immediately jerked back.Tim couldn’t remember what the kid said exactly, but when he resumed consciousthought he was standing behind double doors with tall, vertical rectanglewindows that peered in on the Emergency Room. Eric was on a table with peoplein sea-green scrubs and white coats hovering over him. His face was beet redand he wasn’t moving.

Tim wantedto storm in and take Eric home. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. Notreally, anyway. But Tim was scared to death that the doctors would discover theSteele secret.

Dad gotphysicals all the time.I gotphysicals. They never found a thing. High iron levels sometimes…

This thoughteased Tim only a little bit. His powers had not gone unnoticed forever, butthat was a lifetime ago... He took his hands off the doors and took deepbreaths—something his dad used to tell him to do when he’d get angry orfrustrated.

“Kid,stop. Take a breath. You’re not thinking. Breathe it in… then breathe that shitout.”

Some part ofTim wondered if he remembered that or heard it. Whichever it was, itdidn’t matter; it worked and he was thinking again. Eric looked okay and thedoctors wouldn’t replace anything.

Sarah’sdoctors found something. Oh, yeah, they found something alright.

A tremor ofrage rolled through him. His bones ached and his legs buckled. Dim memories hecould usually never reach flooded his mind. His hands were clenched so tightthat his knuckles threatened to pop through his skin. He took a breath and thenbreathed all that shit out.

Seeing hisson lying on the table, surrounded by doctors, Tim missed his daughter all themore. He never wanted this for his children. He thought it was over. After whathappened to Sarah, he figured it was.

The doctorsstabilized Eric. Tim watched it and remembered what it was like. The memoriesof learning about Titan, becoming Titan, and being Titan were sofresh... Eric still didn’t know. Tim remembered what it felt like to change.But he had at least known what was happening to him. But Eric… he must havefelt like molten lava was boiling inside of him. He probably thought he wasdying.

Tim steppedback from the doors and collapsed into a nearby chair along the wall whilekeeping his eyes on the door. Nancy would be here soon. How was he supposed toexplain this? She knew about him, but Eric… this wasn’t supposed to happen tohim. It was over. At least Tim thought it was. As he wondered how it waspossible, his father’s voice spoke to him again. But this time he didn’t careif it was a memory or not. His father whispered an answer—probably theanswer: “God.”

* * *

Two menentered the hospital entrance not long after Tim Steele ran past. They woredark, inconspicuous clothes and strolled through. No one asked who they were orwhy they were there. They went by unnoticed. They looked like anyone. That wasthe idea.

* * *

A youngdoctor came out to meet Tim. He was rumpled and worn like he hadn’t slept indays. There was confusion in his expression and his words were chosencarefully. But he didn’t seem evasive, more perplexed.

“Mr. Steele,I’m Dr. Briscoe. I’m sorry you had to wait so long before anyone spoke withyou.”

“Not aproblem. What about Eric?”

“We aren’texactly sure what caused this. He collapsed with, what I believe to be, a veryhigh fever. It broke and his temperature is steady at 102. He’s now in a coma,”Dr. Briscoe said.

“Is thatgood?”

“Coma’sbetter than the alternative. But I think he’ll come out it soon. Histemperature, while steady now, declined in the course of triage. And finally,while we aren’t sure what caused this, I can’t replace anything wrong with him.The only thing is an elevated amount of iron in his blood, which while odd,isn’t particularly dangerous,” Dr. Briscoe said, patting Tim’s shoulder. “He’sgonna be okay. We have to monitor this coma, but really, I’ve seen worse. I’mhopeful.”

“Can I seehim?” Relief washed through Tim. Eric was okay and they didn’t replaceTitan.

“Give us afew minutes to get him set up in a room upstairs. We’ll send for you,” Dr.Briscoe said and then faded back towards the Emergency Room and spoke to acouple of nurses.

Two men inscrubs exited a side room off the hall and entered the Emergency Room. Theyreceived instructions from the nurses and wheeled Eric past Tim, who reachedfor Eric’s hand. The man pushing the gurney blocked Tim’s hand. “Excuse me,sir. Let us get him arranged upstairs first.”

Tim wantedto hit him, but he fought the urge and let them pass. A nurse exited theEmergency Room and Tim caught her attention. “Which floor will my son be on?”

The nurseflipped through her papers. “Third floor.”

Tim walkedafter the gurney. They reached the elevator and one man held the doors openwhile the other ushered Eric in. Tim hurried to catch up and the man nearest tothe door stopped him. “Sorry, sir. You can’t ride with a gurney on theelevator. Hospital policy.”

“I’ve neverheard of that in my life,” Tim said.

“Now youhave.” The doors closed and Tim wanted to hit that guy again.

He waitedfor the elevator to go up a floor and then he pressed the “up” button. Hewatched the floor lights brighten as the elevator ascended. Two… then three…now four…

“What?” Timwatched the floor numbers tick from four to five. There were only seven floors.His bones hummed again. Warning whispered though his marrow and Tim didn’thesitate; he ran around the corner for the stairwell. He took the stairs two ata time, bounding up the narrow flights. His thighs burned in response and hisheart pounded in his chest. Tim wondered if the pounding was exhaustion or fear.Probably a bit of both.

When hereached the top, Tim was covered in sweat and his hands shook. Over the soundof his gasping breaths and pounding chest, Tim heard the thrum of a helicopter.This was the roof. He exploded through the door into the hall. At the far endof the hall, a set of doors led onto the helicopter pad. The two men, with Ericon the gurney between them, were halfway down the hall.

“Shit!” oneof them yelled. “Kill him!”

Tim charged.In his youth, he had been leaner and built more like his father. But hedefinitely wasn’t a young man anymore; he was stocky and solid. He was a bullraging down the hall after his son and the abductors.

Thekidnapper at the head of the gurney continued pulling Eric towards the door.His partner stopped in his tracks and produced a big gun—a Desert Eagle.Tim ignored it; he was almost on him. The man fired. The side of Tim’s necksizzled with pain and his face twisted into a snarl. He leapt at the shooter.He never got another shot off.

Tim grabbedthe man’s arm holding the gun and smashed it out of his hand and onto thefloor. “You MOTHER FUCKER!”

The mancurled blows onto Tim’s back, aiming for his kidneys. But Tim gritted his teeththrough the pain and head-butted him. The blow knocked the man’s to the hardfloor. Tim rained blows down on him until the man’s face was a pulp of blood,spit, and tears. He was only dully aware of the warmth trickling down the sideof his neck. Tim rolled off the man and picked up the gun. The other kidnapperwas about to exit onto the helipad when Tim started after him.

If theyget on that helicopter, I’ll never see my son again… that thought fueled Tim with parental jetfuel. A shot rang over his head. The kidnapper was shooting at him and draggingthe gurney so his aim was off and he couldn’t fire quickly. Tim didn’t dareshoot back. Eric was too close and Tim hadn’t fired a gun in ages. But he knewthat when he got his hands on the guy holding him, he was going to rip histhroat out.

Eric and hiskidnapper disappeared through the double doors at the end of the hall. Timarrived a split second later. Five rounds ripped through the door and Timhugged the wall. Anger and surprise wrestled inside of him. He glanced out thewindow and saw Eric’s abductor making his way to a waiting helicopter with twoother men inside. A fourth man stood along the side to help get Eric in. Heaimed an M-16 at the doors.

Tim kickedthe left door open and machine gun fire blasted through the opening. In thesame instant, Tim shouldered through the right door and squeezed off four shotstowards the man with the machine gun. He’d never fired a Desert Eagle before.It kicked like a horse. But two of Tim’s shot’s connected anyway. The gunmanwent down in a spray of vaporous red that swirled up into the helicopter’sbeating blades. The abductor fired two shots at Tim before his gun clicked dry.Tim couldn’t hear the man over the helicopter’s roar, but he saw him mouth,“Fuck!”

This wasTim’s moment. He knew he’d get one. He didn’t shoot the abductor. Instead, hefired all three shots he had left into the window of the helicopter. The manbehind the throttle of the craft sagged. His passenger ducked. The abductorturned to look and wasted precious seconds he could have been reloading. Thatwas a mistake.

Tim ran athim and hurled his empty pistol. It caught the kidnapper in the side of thehead. The kidnapper dropped his now reloaded gun. Tim circled the gurney andthe guy swung a hard right into the side of his face. Tim shrugged it off andgrabbed the guy’s loose scrubs and pushed him up into the helicopter blades!Tim heard his last words as “Holy fu…” There was a sound like a whipping stumpgrinder and then Tim, Eric, and the side of the helicopter were sprayed withblood. Blood and sinew spun with and splattered from the blades. Tim tossedwhat was left of the body into the helicopter and made a move to climb in afterit. The pilot in the opposite seat swung the helicopter off of the roof in aswinging, wavy, out of control path. Soon, the roar of the rotors died away.

Tim wipedthe blood and chunks off of his son’s face. He wheeled Eric back into thehospital quickly.

* * *

The nexttwenty minutes were the fastest, scariest twenty minutes of Tim’s life. He hadjust killed two men, beat a third within an inch of his life, and coveredhimself and Eric in liquefied human remains. Someone from the hospital staff wouldeventually come upstairs. Perhaps sooner, someone would notice that Eric Steelewasn’t where he was supposed to be. Yet even more urgent, was Tim’s currentappearance: slathered with sweat and blood. Fortunately, only Eric’s face andhair had been splattered. Tim had to get the blood off of his face and clothes,Eric, and the gurney sheet. Cleaning it was out of the question; blood wasworse than chocolate.

Tim pushedthe gurney back into the top-floor hallway taking care not to touch the doorswith his bloody fingers. The man who had skimmed Tim’s neck with a fiftycaliber bullet was groaning and twitching. He was alive, but he wasn’t goinganywhere anytime soon. Tim checked every door along the hallway looking forsomething—anything—to get clear of this. Most of the rooms had plain whitedoors, probably cleaning closets or storage rooms. Tim looked in each one.

Back inBuffalo, when he was fifteen, Tim had worked as a cleaning person for the localrecreation center, like Eric’s job oddly enough, and some of the janitors keptspare clothes in their lockers. Tim opened door handles with the outside of hisshirt. Tim peered into the room three doors down on the right, very near to thenameless man with a broken face, and found a maintenance room with a row ofshort metal lockers.

“Thank God.”

Tim leftEric in the hall, while he examined what he had to work with. He continuallychecked on the elevator and stairway door. There was a small square mirror thesize of a compact disc case leaning on a shelf reflecting Tim’s face back athim. What he saw in it frightened him. His face was smeared with blood andribbons of flesh hung in his black hair. His eyes looked sunken and distant.Somehow seeing his reflection forced what had just happened into the front of hismind, filling him with dread and peculiar humor.

Thirtyminutes ago, I was preparing to send housing dimensions to my crew… threeminutes ago, I shoved a man face first into whirring helicopter blades… now,I’m covered in blood looking for new clothes in a janitor’s closet that smellsof chemicals… A dry chuckleescaped him and Tim realized that if anyone saw him standing there, soaked inblood and laughing, they’d think he was crazy and throw him into a padded cell.Or jail. Hell, that might happen anyway.

“Yes, officer, two mystery men armedwith guns kidnapped my son and tried to take him away on a helicopter. I killedthem, but the helicopter got away. Oh, I’m also the failed latest in along line of people with super strength and metal in my bone marrow. Am I freeto go?”

He took abreath and breathed that shit right out, per Art the Fart’s orders. His visioncleared and he got a grip on what he needed to do and how fast he needed to doit. Despair would get him thrown right in jail, where the bastards who were reallyresponsible for this belonged.

No. Theydeserve to be dead. Shot inthe kneecaps, hands cut off, necks broken…

Tim knewthat getting Eric out of the hospital unseen would be impossible. If he couldjust get Eric back to his room, it might be enough. It might even serve as analibi if he was quick enough.

Tim openedthe lockers with his sleeve. Fortunately, they weren’t locked. Unfortunately,only one locker had anything he could use: a white tee shirt. But unless Timgot the kidnapper’s blood off of his neck and face, it would be useless. Plus,his neck was oozing his own blood into the mix.

Steppinginto motion, Tim grabbed a black trash bag and yanked his shirt off. His buildwas thick and looked like he had once been deeply muscled, fit, and trim. Itwas dense and flabby now. Oh, and slick with blood and sweat. Tim threw hisshirt into the bag and stepped into the hall to remove Eric’s gurney sheet. Heexamined his pants and found that they were mostly okay. A few flecks here andthere, but Tim was wearing dark jeans. Since he was usually working on sitewith his company, Nancy bought him dark pants that didn’t show dirt and dust.The blood was barely noticeable, even in the ghastly fluorescent lights.Besides, Tim could say it was paint.

Tim foundbleach among the chemicals. He yanked a pail out from beneath the bottom shelfand poured in a fair amount of bleach. He filled the pail with water from thewall spigot and stirred it with his hand. His split knuckles howled in thecoarse liquid. He ignored it. With a rag, Tim went to work swabbing blood off.The bleach wasn’t diluted nearly enough and the rich chemical scent burned hisnostrils while the liquid did the same to his skin. He very nearly screamedwhen he rubbed the rag over his neck wound. When he was done, all thingsconsidered, he looked alright. Though, he feared the bleach would turn his hairwhite. It hadn’t yet, but it probably would later.

Tim dilutedthe mixture more and cleaned up Eric. He stirred briefly when the reeking ragpassed under his nose. The smell was unpleasant even to the unconscious. Asidefrom slightly wet hair, Eric looked fine. No visible blood anywhere else.

Tim slatheredthe clothes inside the bag with bleach to contaminate the blood. His hope wasto burn the bag and the clothes inside, but he had to cover all the basesanyway. Just in case. Tim slipped on the tee shirt and saw no splotches ofblood. Perfect. He dumped the pail out down the spigot drain and slipped thebloody rag into the bag and tied it up. He would carry it with him and say thatit was his change of clothes out of his car. Then, he washed his hands underthe water with a mix of soap and bleach that left his hands feeling raw anddry.

Tim closed all of the lockers, carefulnot to touch them with his fingers. He wiped down everything he touched withhem of the tee shirt. He kicked the spigot handle “off.” With bag in hand and abloodless appearance, Tim exited the closet and pulled the door shut with hisfoot.

He wheeledEric towards the elevator and hesitated over the beaten man. He knelt downbeside him, careful not to touch the blood on his face, and searched him. Therewere two extra pistol clips in his right pocket and two sticks of Juicy Fruitin the other. Tim was about to leave him lying there when he noticed a littlewhite bump in his ear. Tim looked closer and saw an earpiece connected to athin wire sliding beneath his collar. Tim pulled out his car keys and used themto pop it free of the man’s ear. Then he yanked on the wire. It came out onlyso far because the guy was laying on what it was connected to. Tim angled theguy up using his foot and pulled the rest of the device free. It was a smallblack box with a tiny key pad. Tim guessed it was a transmitter and receiver.He pocketed it and hurried back to the gurney.

On the wayto the elevator, Tim picked up one last item: a new gurney sheet. It was in abin in a room just beside the elevator. The picture was complete. He prayed toGod that he could just get Eric to his room safely. If he could just do that,he would give thanks and be a good person. Try to be what he hadn’t beenbefore. But first, he was going to replace out who tried to take Eric and killthem in the most painful way he could devise.

* * *

TheColonel’s smile was gone. He hunched over the desk with a transmitter in hisear. The voice on the other end brought him up to date. Creases in his facegrew dark and deep. Years of control, patience, and carefully consolidatedpower came from pure will.

It waswavering.

Pettyannoyances glanced off his iron resolve without notice, defeats along the waywere taken in stride—you don’t win all of the time—and setbacks were acceptedwhen they came and turned back into progress when possible. But slowly, overtime, more and more annoyances clipped him. Defeats came fast and they cameoften. The setbacks were major—the Colonel’s project had been whittled downfrom a major operation to little more than a half-cocked special op. And now,the results of working with incompetents were mounting. Limited and poorresources were compromising results.

A fucking kid beat two of my men…

Jim hadescaped into the streets and the Colonel’s “crack” squad had been nearly wipedout by Tim Steele… a broken down, unarmed man. This is what you got withwashouts and back-benchers.

It is closer than it has ever been,but this is it… if not now, never. Make of what you have, not of what youdon’t…

The voicethat sometimes came to the Shadow Man was especially clear in his ear. He oftenthought of it as his inner mind’s voice, but every now and again the voice wasloud and distinct. It was deep and not his own, but not unfamiliar.

The voicewas right, but it didn’t say anything he didn’t already know. The Shadow Manhad been confident, but it was wavering. His control was slipping bit by bit.Deep rage—the eternal flame burning him up inside, driving him ahead—was slowlydevouring him. Unless things turned around, the Colonel wouldn’t be able tocontain it any longer. He would just kill his men and do it himself.

Once upon atime, this project had been popular with his commanders. They had believed inits success and supported the mission with funds, men, equipment, research,etc. But time, limited progress, setbacks, and poor performance had ended thegravy train. This really was the end of the line unless he acquired Titan. Thesamples obtained long ago had yielded unpromising results… well, results withpoor side effects. The subjects had been effective while they retained theirmental faculties. Jim had been prepped and if they could just get theirhands on the little bastard again, the final injection could be used.

The factwas, even if Eric Steele had undergone the change, he was not Titan. He wasjust a boy; young, untrained, and stupid. Not like his asshole father or hismurderous grandfather. He was just a boy with all kinds of shit running throughhim that he didn’t understand. The Colonel would send more men and try it thatway. If they fucked up like the rest, well… plan B was promising. In his heartof hearts, the Colonel wanted to start with “Plan B,” but he had to keep uppretenses. It was overkill and might expose them, but it was time to go forbroke because it was over otherwise.

Thesimmering rage burned to a boil and the Shadow Man flipped over the desk, thecomputer, and the whole station and smashed the workstation around him. His menstared, but the Shadow Man didn’t give them a second’s notice. It was allcrumbling to shit and all his men could do was stare. He wanted to kill themall. He wanted to tear their faces off and stuff them up their asses. The planhad been simple and yet it was falling apart.

The ShadowMan turned to his C-squad of rejects. “Get the fuck away from me! When thathelicopter gets back, I want a team out there. Find Jim McNulty immediately. Ifhe gets to the Steeles first, this whole thing is fucked! Jim knowsnothing specific, but Tim Steele will connect the dots.”

One of hisassistants, suiting up to go out, called to him, “Sir, what about Titan? Willwe attempt retrieval again?”

The hatedidn’t subside, but the Shadow Man’s demented smile returned. He wanted tolaugh again. “Yes,” he said, drawing it out and hissing like a snake. Yessssss.

“Andif all else fails, Jim McNulty will help us.”