Hemorrhage 4.5
The week after the disaster turned into a kaleidoscope of faces in need of help. By the second day I'd already recognized the pointlessness of going home — time was too precious. Sleep became a luxury available only in stolen snatches, a few hours at a time, right at my workstation. My help could be needed at any moment, and the work of clearing rubble and pulling survivors out never stopped, day or night.
Every wounded person demanded time and attention. Any mistake on my part could turn into a tragedy, could cost someone their life. I couldn't afford to slip up.
Working myself to the bone was exhausting, but the result was worth it — nobody died under my watch. The primary cause of death in disasters like this is blood loss, which I could stop with a single thought. Far harder to deal with were internal organ injuries. Repairing a ruptured lung or liver was beyond me, but I could monitor a patient's condition and relay information about their problems to other medics with extraordinary precision.
My rare breaks I spent calling the people close to me — family, Margo, Marta and Bob. And, of course, talking with Ezekiel. The man was… curious. Unusual. The eccentricities he put on display seemed to function like a curtain, hiding something deeper beneath.
For one thing, I had to turn off my power whenever I was talking with him — it went haywire around the rubber man. My brain practically seized up trying to analyze him. The ability to stretch a limb a full meter without any accompanying damage or tearing was, if anything, stranger than flight or laser eyes. With those, at least, I couldn't feel anything to begin with.
With him, though… his cells weren't just breaking the laws of physics — they were snapping the logic of common sense right over their knee. The only thing I managed to work out was that he had some unusual variation of the resilience typical to supers. His cells were just somehow oriented toward developing elasticity and tensile strength. For Ezekiel, stretching his arm out several meters was the same as flexing a muscle.
For another thing, as a person, he wasn't particularly pleasant. Not a villain, not an asshole, not even the religious fanatic he worked so hard to appear. Beneath the fanatic's mask, I could see a genuine businessman who simply wanted to close a favorable deal — one he needed badly at the moment.
During our conversations he constantly hinted, and sometimes outright argued, that I should join his church.
And while at first he leaned on divine grace and eternal happiness beyond the pearly gates, once he'd gotten to know me a little better, he shifted to laying out all the perks and practical benefits of working with them — or simply collaborating. The offer, honestly, wasn't bad.
The church — however strange its name sounded — was enormously popular. It had become something like a new-generation version of Scientology or Mormonism, leveraging the phenomenon of super-powered individuals as yet another "divine sign." Over the past half-century it had grown into one of the most widespread religions in the world.
From the moment the first super appeared, genuine crises of faith had swept through most of the world's major religions. After all, how do you go on preaching about ancient miracle-workers whose powers came from God when there's a little soldier standing right in front of you capable of the same tricks?
Raw physical strength, speed, and endurance weren't as visually impressive as walking on water or turning water into wine, of course — but other heroes began appearing soon enough. And the outcry when Liberty became the first human being to take to the air without any mechanical assistance was something else entirely.
Every religion on Earth had to find its way out of that crisis of faith. Each chose its own path. Christianity, as always, couldn't reach a consensus. The Pope declared superheroes a gift from God and the next stage of humanity's evolution, leading mankind toward ascension. But there were those who interpreted his words differently.
The Church of Supers, which Ezekiel led, had not been his creation. It had taken root back in the fifties, and he was simply the latest in a line of leaders of an organization whose influence had spread across a third of the United States. In the South and Central parts of the country, this megachurch had effectively become a new pillar of power. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if within ten or fifteen years that brand outearned even Vought's most successful ventures — like the Seven.
I'd spent my entire life in a more liberal region, where the church's influence wasn't as visible. But even there, I'd heard plenty about them. I just couldn't have imagined the scale.
Ezekiel was offering me genuinely attractive terms. Even without formally joining them, I would gain access to her wealthy and influential patrons — deeply devout Christians who supported their religion generously. And there were a great many such people in the church.
In exchange, all I had to do was appear with Ezekiel on television a few times, where I'd heal people live on air. He assured me he'd handle all the legal aspects; my only job was to demonstrate my abilities. After that, I'd be free to pursue healing independently.
My entire public image was built on the mystery surrounding my powers. Videos of me treating animals were enormously popular online, but nobody knew the details. And Ezekiel was proposing to play on exactly that — presenting my abilities as a divine gift.
He made his case, of course. He was convincing about the advantages of working through him specifically — a man with deep roots and extensive connections in the field — but he wasn't pressing me. And when I thought it through, the offer really was very good. I'd need to talk it all over with Margaret eventually, but the positives were too numerous to brush aside.
A partnership with the church would be another step toward my independence. I'd be able to generate income without being directly tied to Vought. Formally, the two organizations had no connection, of course — but everyone understood who stood behind whom. The corporation couldn't control the church outright, but it had ways of "influencing" it. For now, that distance was enough for me.
Beyond that, I needed connections with powerful people. Visibility and recognition would raise my profile, and many of them would want to make use of my services. I was the only healer with capabilities like mine, and that made me someone worth protecting — not someone to be quietly removed on a bad day.
The nature of my abilities, combined with worldwide recognition, would be its own guarantee of my safety. Nobody would be stashing me in some facility where I'd spend my days patching up a restricted list of approved individuals.
That was the worst-case scenario, anyway. Nobody wants to antagonize a healer who could plant a time bomb in someone's body set to go off years down the line. The expert-level supers they had on staff would figure that out fast enough.
All of that could wait until I was done helping people. Ezekiel wasn't rushing me — he understood that a decision about a partnership like this took time. For now, every hour I had belonged to someone else.
But even now, news of what I was doing was spreading across every media outlet. Vought hadn't become a global megacorporation for nothing — they knew how to advertise their "product."
And with my reputation at another peak, this was the ideal moment to break into the big leagues. That was a task for the future, though. Right now, I had a far more important goal in front of me than simply getting famous.
. . .
I wiped the sweat from my face with my sleeve and looked around for the next patient, exhaling heavily. Over the course of the week my skills as a medic had made an extraordinary leap, and I could now call myself a doctor without even a trace of irony. I'd understood the human body better than most specialists well before any of this, but the practical experience had simply demolished every remaining barrier.
To my surprise, I wasn't greeted by another nurse or doctor calling me to a new patient. Somehow — I had no idea how — Newman had made her way into the medical tent. She'd swapped her stylish blazer, white blouse, and skirt for a far more understated gray sweater and black pants. Her usual look, I suspected, hadn't exactly suited the surroundings.
She was smiling and waving at me, silently asking permission to come in. I glanced around and registered, differently now, the absence of any medical staff. And seemingly having waited for that realization to register on my face, Victoria walked in on her own.
"Good to see you looking well." She extended her hand to me with a porcelain smile, keeping her voice maximally calm, almost melodic. "I understand that my company — one that's taken positions against heroes — may not have done my reputation with you any favors. But I know that people like you are the real heroes. The kind anyone can only respect."
I made a noncommittal sound but shook her hand. Something told me she hadn't come to me without a reason. Actually — I was completely certain of it.
"And I'm glad to see that things are going well for you… for you," I said, allowing a slight smile of my own. "We did switch to first names, didn't we? I'm glad our politicians care enough about ordinary people's lives to come check on them in person. If it's not a rude question — how many interviews have you already given out here?"
I had to watch every word and avoid giving any impression that I knew her beyond what was appropriate. The fact of our acquaintance was known to everyone who needed to know it, but saying more than that was very, very risky. Too many supers around who might hear things they absolutely shouldn't.
And given that Newman was herself a super, it was genuinely interesting to figure out what she'd come here for.
"Just finished my third. And since I had a chance for a short break, I wanted to have a word with one of the most interesting young heroes around. You'd be amazed how many people have already reached out to me — people who are very interested in a personal meeting with the first healer-hero in history."
My smile stayed in place, but internally my puzzlement was growing steadily.
"Hah, it's not that complicated," she said with a slight smirk, tilting her head. "Philanthropists and billionaires have enormous resources, but there aren't many paragons of health among them at baseline. And they're willing to go to very, very great lengths when it comes to their own bodies."
I looked at her, still not quite following. Not that I didn't understand what she meant — but why had she come here to tell me this? Fortunately, Victoria showed no sign of stopping.
"Just say the word, and you'll have fat wallets of every variety lining up for years ahead, ready to pay small fortunes just for you to look them over. And actual treatment of ailments is a separate category of sums — ones that often don't even fit on a check. With resources like that, you could reach for truly great things. You could help so many people…" She paused briefly and looked directly into my eyes. "Getting there isn't simple, though — and even Ezekiel's help won't necessarily be the answer. The key to all of it is one small request of mine, involving a little assistance for the children of the Samaritan's Embrace…"
Her smile dimmed slightly, and something cold moved behind her eyes. It didn't reach me at all, though, and I kept myself completely calm.
"Well — if the request really is small, then I'm at least willing to hear it."
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