"Wait. Wait, I'm not ready… I need a second—AAAAARGH! YOU SON. OF. A. BITCH!!!!"
"Language."
Theo was splayed on the rehabilitation bed, his face a rictus of agony. A mountain of a man—a 210 cm, impeccably muscular, and completely bald nurse named Barry—had his right leg in a firm, unyielding grip, bending it toward his chest with the gentle subtlety of a hydraulic press. Beside the bed, looking as serene and devastatingly beautiful as a renaissance angel, Michael sat in a sleek chair, idly flipping through a magazine.
"Fuck you!" Theo snarled, directing his fury at Michael, the only safe target for his rage.
"My, my," Michael tutted without looking up from his article on summer linens.
"No, wait, Barry, please—" Theo's plea turned into another strangled cry as the nurse, with terrifying efficiency, transitioned to stretching the leg forward, extending the tortured muscles with a series of audible pops.
Theo panted as if he'd just run a marathon, his hospital gown soaked through with sweat, his knuckles white where he gripped the sheets.
Michael chuckled, a soft, melodious sound that was pure gasoline on the fire of Theo's pain.
Theo glared bloody murder at him. "I said wait, you bloody gorilla! AAAGH! I SWEAR TO GOD, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE WORDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH???"
A wave of dizziness washed over him; he was certain he was about to pass out. This was his third session, and each one felt like a fresh descent into a very specific, physiotherapy-themed hell, all to restore mobility to the leg that had borne the brunt of First Hand's final, crushing blow.
"Good, Mr. Theo. You did very good," Barry said in a surprisingly soft, almost gentle voice that clashed absurdly with his Herculean physique. He patted Theo's trembling leg. "I'll go get the oil to massage the tissue now. Be right back."
"Please… don't," Theo gritted out through clenched teeth, every fiber of his being dreading the next wave of pain.
Barry just gave a small, professional smile and left the room.
Theo collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, trying to remember how to breathe normally. Beads of sweat dripped from his hairline onto the pillow.
"You good?" Michael asked, his voice laced with unmistakable amusement.
Theo turned his head slowly, his eyes promising a slow and painful revenge. "What," he hissed, each word a dagger, "do you think?"
Michael smiled.
"Stop smiling," Theo grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling forearm.
"Why? I assure you, I do not enjoy your misery."
"I know you don't. It's just that your smile is so...infuriatingly perfect." It was like being glared at by the sun—well-intentioned, but blinding.
Michael laughed, the sound as clear and pleasant as a wind chime.
Theo snatched the bottle of water from his bedside table, his hand shaking so badly he nearly spilled it. He took several deep, greedy gulps, the cool liquid a minor blessing in his personal hell.
Michael's gaze traveled over Theo's torso, a landscape of glistening sweat and a patchwork of scars—some pale and silvery, others still angry and pink.
"Did you get all of that from just one fight?" Michael asked, his tone one of genuine, almost clinical curiosity.
"No," Theo gasped, finally lowering the bottle and catching his breath. "Most of them are old. As my power weakened, so did my ability to fully shrug off blows. The Ether... it used to mitigate the damage, leave barely a mark. Towards the end, it couldn't keep up. So I got more and more. As you can see, not a pretty sight."
"Wow," Michael breathed, leaning forward with something akin to admiration. "I must say, you look like a medieval knight. A true veteran of a hundred campaigns." He then sighed, a theatrical sound of deep regret. "A shame I can't get any. I would look so handsome! So manly!"
Theo stopped drinking, lowering the bottle to stare at Michael as if he'd just declared the sky was green.
"What do you mean, you can't get any scars?" Theo asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
Michael leaned back in his chair, gesturing with a graceful hand. "Well, the Holy power inside me won't permit it. It's terribly vain, you see. If I get, let's say, a cut, it doesn't just heal—it erases. It's like my skin has a permanent, divine reset button. That's why my complexion remains... disappointingly pristine." He said the last word with genuine sorrow.
Theo just stared, utterly baffled that this man, blessed with a power that kept him physically flawless, was lamenting the lack of physical proof of his suffering. It was the most absurd, out-of-touch problem he had ever heard.
"Fuck you," Theo said, his voice low and utterly sincere.
"What?" Michael blinked, his brilliant blue eyes wide with innocent confusion.
"Tch." Theo narrowed his eyes, a fresh wave of resentment bubbling up. "You have magic that leaves you looking like a porcelain doll, and yet you couldn't even fully heal me."
Michael's expression softened into a wry, self-deprecating smile. "I'm not all-powerful, my friend. I'm a buffer, a force multiplier. Your injuries... were far beyond my capability to fully mend. I can bolster a fighting spirit and seal a wound, but I cannot rebuild what was... fundamentally shattered."
"I know, I know," Theo muttered, sinking back into the pillow and closing his eyes. "It's your face that's pissing me off."
Michael smiled, a genuine, unforced expression. He really liked this version of Theo. It seemed a great weight that had been burdening him was finally gone, allowing his true, sharp-witted and unfiltered character to emerge. Over this past month of regular visits, watching that character slowly regrow from the ashes of "Aeon"—first as a pained and bitter sapling, now showing signs of a resilient, if cynical, strength—had been more rewarding than Michael had anticipated.
"So! Back to some serious matters," Michael announced, his tone shifting to a business-like cadence as he retrieved a sleek folder from his briefcase. Theo turned his head on the pillow, his interest piqued.
"This," Michael said, presenting the folder with a flourish, "is what I can officially offer you."
Theo took the papers, his eyes scanning the header. "SDN?"
"Superhero Dispatch Network!" Michael declared, exaggerating his movements as if unveiling a grand prize on a game show.
"The Superhero Dispatch Network, abbreviated as SDN, is a premier global organization that dispatches certified superheroes to assist subscribers in their moment of need. With branches across the world, the SDN employs a vast roster of heroes, who are deployed as first responders to provide emergency assistance to citizens who call in for help." He finished his spiel with a burst of enthusiastic energy.
Theo just stared at him, his expression a perfect blend of confusion and skepticism.
"And you, my friend," Michael continued, undeterred, "will be one of our invaluable Dispatchers. You will be the voice in their ear, the mind in their operation. You can guide them, provide tactical advice, navigate them through urban jungles, and assist in making critical, real-time decisions that impact the success of the mission and the safety of civilians. You name it."
He beamed.
"Every dispatcher is an essential gear in the magnificent clockwork that is the SDN, making us one of the most powerful and effective arms of the government for public safety!" Michael finished by stretching his arms out theatrically, as if embracing the entire concept.
Theo blinked slowly. "So... like an operator. A desk job?" he said, his voice flat with uncertainty.
"What?"
"I don't know if a desk job is for me..." Theo admitted, a frown creasing his brow. The thought of being confined to a chair, listening to chaos unfold over a headset, felt a world away from the life he'd known.
"Well," Michael said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "it's not like you can currently run around playing hero yourself."
"F.U.," Theo shot back, raising a trembling but defiant middle finger.
"And!" Michael chirped, completely unbothered by the gesture, "You get these seven awesome heroes at your disposal!" He handed over another, thicker file.
Theo sighed and began to flip through the dossiers. "Sovegrin Volt... DreamOn... Error... Tremmor... Carver... Saturobi?... Seraphim." As he started to read their profiles—their powers, their histories, their psychological evaluations—his eyes grew wider with each page. The blood drained from his face.
"Motherfucker," he breathed, his head snapping up to stare at Michael in utter disbelief. "These are not heroes... THESE are villains!" he protested, his voice rising an octave.
"Tut-tut," Michael waved a dismissive finger. "Former villains. They are newly recruited assets for the SDN, enrolled in our cutting-edge 'Phoenix Program.' They have been thoroughly rehabilitated and are ready to dedicate their considerable talents to the pursuit of good!" he announced cheerfully.
Theo just stared at him, his expression making it clear he thought Michael had lost his mind.
"Are you clinically insane?" Theo asked with utter sincerity.
"Nope!"
"You understand," Theo said, his voice low and deadly serious, "that I am personally responsible for putting at least three of these guys behind bars, right? I think Carver still has a scar I gave him. This isn't a team; it's a hit list waiting to happen."
"Posh! Water under the bridge," Michael dismissed the concern with an airy wave of his hand. "Besides, none of them know you were Aeon. As far as they're concerned, you're a brilliant new civilian dispatcher with a mysterious past. It's part of the appeal!"
Theo looked down at the files again, the glossy photos of the seven former villains feeling like a gallery of his greatest hits—and future potential assailants.
This is insane, he thought, the panic a cold knot in his stomach. How in the hell was he supposed to control, let alone guide, this pack of hyenas? Would they even listen to a voice over a comms line, especially when that voice belonged to the man who had, in a previous life, personally ensured their accommodations in maximum-security prisons?
His gaze drifted from the files to his own right leg the skin was marred by three deep, angry scars from the reconstructive surgery—a permanent roadmap of his downfall. The doctor's prognosis echoed in his mind: even after discharge, he'd be reliant on a cane for at least six months. The reality was a cold, hard slap. A desk job wasn't just an option; it was his only option.
"And you're absolutely, one-hundred percent sure they are rehabilitated? And ready, genuinely ready, to be heroes?" Theo asked, his voice laced with a skepticism born from years of staring into the eyes of true malice.
"Of course!" Michael affirmed, his confidence seemingly unshakable. "And look, look at your contract!" He leaned over, his finger tapping a specific clause. "See? They start fresh! As Rank 10 heroes! And the best part—each and every successful mission they complete under your guidance earns you a percentage of the reward credits! I worked really hard to get you that clause, you know." He finished with a theatrical pout, crossing his arms in a show of mock offense.
Theo read the section carefully. It was true. The financial incentive was substantial, a lifeline he desperately needed. The more missions this rag-tag team successfully completed, and the higher their difficulty rating, the more money would flow into his empty accounts. It was a good deal. An almost suspiciously good deal.
The door swung open, and the hulking silhouette of Barry filled the frame.
"It's time for your massage," the nurse announced, rubbing a generous amount of lotion between his hands with a sound that was somehow both gentle and terrifying. "And after that, we'll begin the range-of-motion exercises for your arm."
Theo immediately broke out in a fresh cold sweat. Barry's "massages" were a form of deep-tissue torture designed to break up adhesions, and they existed in another dimension of pain entirely.
"Well, read it over! I'll come back for your answer soon!" Michael said, already making a swift, strategic retreat toward the door.
"Wait—" Theo pleaded, his hand outstretched, a man watching his only ally abandon him to the executioner.
But Michael was already in the hallway. He didn't get far before a roar of pure, unadulterated agony echoed from the room.
"AAARGH YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!"
Michael just smiled to himself, a quiet, satisfied chuckle escaping his lips as he practically skipped down the sterile hospital corridor. He was truly hoping Theo would take the offer. He wanted to help his friend, to throw him a lifeline when he had none.
It was the least he could do for the man who, as Aeon, had once saved him in a way Michael could never explain. Though, of course, Theo didn't know it.