FSE

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7

Up north it was cold, but Canada was always cold to a degree. Still, Ben and his younger brother Jerry hadn't adapted to the climate yet. Their impromptu flight from the USA (or their reassignment, as their boss had put it) was only three weeks ago. The two wished they could say they had made themselves at home, but they missed the arrogant snobs and uptight sons of bitches back in Brooklyn. Canada's people were too...stereotypically passive and that was driving the brothers crazy. The two black rats had never had a home, but their shitty little apartment back on East 29th street was the closest they'd had to one. Well, before it got blown up. They'd messed up, that is. They'd messed with the wrong crowd and had to leave town _and_the country.

How were they to know their rivals down the block worked covertly for a super-villain, too? Well, a villain more powerful than their boss man that is. Still, no one with powers showed up to stop them ransacking the competition's compound as ordered. The next evening, however...

Boom.

American super-villains. More like obnoxious assholes with a God complex. Not that Ben considered his old boss to be a villain anymore (in the super-power-spotlight kind of way). Ol'Black Augur used to duke it out with heroes like Polarity and Skinwalker, reading the future and manipulating it to his advantage, but not so much anymore. Apparently, even being able to look forward in time couldn't tell him his cancer was coming. Ben thought he may have just...overlooked that part. Or maybe he chose not to see it. Now he's fading away and running a struggling drug cartel against his rival villains. That's all they seem to do, nowadays. They can't compete with the rising heroes anymore, so they stick to the shadows, still being criminals and avoiding being beaten half to death and shipped off to prison...for a while. It happens eventually. Black Augur is only in business still because his powers haven't dulled like the rest of his senses. He moves shop when the capes get too close. He'd come to Brooklyn after nearly getting busted in some backwater town in Washington state, and there he'd found Ben and Jerry, two brothers with nothing and the will to do anything to survive. They'd been good henchman.

Henchman with nothing to lose were the best kind.

Now, hidden away in the great white north, Ben and Jerry whiled away the hours in an alley playing cards, guarding a door into the basement of a building, reminiscing and freezing their asses off.

"I wonder if our place is still smoking," Ben thought aloud, sitting on a milk crate and hunched over a rickety table made from a wooden shipping skid and an unfolded pizza box. His dingy yellow eyes flicked from the cards in his hands (a straight) to Jerry sitting across from him. "I bet it still is. Warm, too. I could go for that right now."

Jerry--back bent uncomfortably, arms together in front, hands and cards held up and masking his face--shrugged. He never said much anymore, not after getting his muzzle beaten in by Big Johnny Mangionni a couple years back at a hand off. Johnny had said their crack was shit, and Jerry had called the bulldog a "fat ass piece of gutter shit that couldn't tell the difference between cocaine and Crisco."

Johnny and his buddies hadn't liked that, and poor scraggly Jerry hasn't let his mouth run since. Not that he could; it was difficult for him to even breathe now since they hadn't been able to afford a trip to the ER and Ben's nursing skills were picked up from a quick Google search. Black Augur hadn't been able to do anything either except get revenge on Big Johnny, and a lot of good that had done. Ben thought Jerry would die, but he'd made it somehow. They were tough, both of them. You had to be to survive like they had, from childhood to adulthood, fighting for food and life alike.

An unwanted breeze cut its way down between the buildings and straight through Ben's thin cotton jacket and wrinkled slacks. He shook off the tingling of his skin and tightened the grip on his cards. Jerry, cards still hiding his face, flicked his ears and took another from the deck on the table then readjusted his brown, knit scarf and pulled it higher. Ben heard him wheezing. He coughed, and then his breaths whistled through his mangled nose like the chirping of a tiny, dying bird.

"You alright?" Ben asked.

Again, Jerry just shrugged.

"Here," Ben said, yanking a red handkerchief from his pocket and tossing it onto the table before his brother. Jerry dropped a hand, snatched it, and then blew his nose. Ben grimaced at the sound of it, like blowing into a saxophone with a broken reed. Jerry tossed the rag back when he was done, and even though the cloth was red Ben could still see the blood splotches on it. He held it up close and could smell it. He sneered, fleshy tail popping against the concrete, and stowed the handkerchief away again.

The wind increased and the rats began to shiver. Jerry coughed roughly and nearly doubled over.

Ben tossed down his hand, the cards flinging across the pizza box. "Go inside, Jerry. You don't have to sit out here and hack to death. Christ."

Jerry lowered his cards enough to glare at his brother.

"I'm serious. This is just a normal meeting for God's sake." The elder rat flicked his hand toward the door at Jerry's back. "Go inside. Ain't nothing gonna happen out here that I can't handle."

Jerry shook his head. He lay down his cards.

Ben stared at the royal flush for a moment, and then he just shrugged--defeated.

"Fine, bro; have it your way."

Jerry smiled with his eyes, his scarf pulled up and hiding everything else. He went to reshuffling the deck, but Ben stopped him with a shake of his head and a point to his wristwatch.

"Should almost be over. No point in starting another game."

Jerry sagged, his eyes falling. He let out a long, gurgling sigh and Ben's spine twisted.

"Fine," he said, throwing up his hands. "Deal'em out."

His younger brother, in his silent way, seemed delighted.

Jerry had always been sensitive to the simpler things in life. Not that he himself was simple--he was actually an intelligent fellow when his temper didn't get the best of him. The small things just spoke infinitely more to him: warm sunlight, cool breezes, falling leaves, familiar smells. Anything that could recall the days when his life meant more than drug deals and making petty cash were Jerry's treasures. His scarf, for instance, he'd seen earlier that day while he and Ben wandered around Toronto, still getting used to the new turf, learning street names and whatnot, where the best place to get a brat was. A street vendor was selling handmade things, and the scarf--thick, voluptuous and brown, the material knit and satiny--had reminded Jerry of a similar scarf his mother used to wear when Ben and him were kids, before she'd died and they'd gone to live with their druggie father. He'd seen the garment and instantly he was back in their living room, sitting on the sofa with his mother, his head on her shoulder, the scarf around her neck because it was winter, her scent so strong in the material...

Jerry had grown to despise the kind of work he and his brother did, the dishonesty and shadiness to it all. He'd approached the vendor with the full intent to buy the scarf, shaking with anticipation and want for it. He hadn't had enough money having bought lunch earlier, but the vendor--for some reason which escaped Jerry--had given it to him regardless. He thought maybe it was because of his face, maybe she'd felt sorry for him, but no.

"It suits you too well," she'd said, smiling. She was a beautiful vixen, teeth pearly white. "I hope you treat it well."

Jerry had nodded furiously, his belly all a tingle, pain shooting through his face as he'd tried to smile. He couldn't help but smile at her, and maybe he did. He couldn't tell. She'd watched him go, and he'd watched her, walking away backward and tying the scarf around his neck at the same time. She'd even waved.

He'd never forget that little bit of kindness. It had made his day so far, and maybe his whole week. Whatever happened couldn't be shadowed by that lovely girl's bright smile.

Jerry lay down the freshly shuffled deck of cards and stroked his face, the malformed snout sharp and bumpy beneath his fingers, twisting in ways it shouldn't.

If only I weren't like THIS, he thought.

The wind picked up suddenly and blew a handful of cards from the deck. Jerry snapped to attention and grabbed for them before they disappeared into the garbage lining the alleyway. One blew past Ben, and that's when Jerry saw a shadowy figure approaching over his brother's shoulders and pointed to it. He picked up the black joker as Ben rose and turned around. The figure paused, bent over and picked up the card that had blown away, and then he continued toward them.

Ben relaxed when he recognized the guy, and Jerry did, too.

"Well, better late than never! Huh, Dark Iron?"

There was a muffled chuckle from behind Dark Iron's face plate. His voice, as always, was deep--menacing to some, but Ben and Jerry found it pleasant to listen to. He was always pretty friendly... to the two rats at least. As frightening as Dark Iron's reputation was, you'd think the guy would've been a bit more...foreboding. Especially since he was once a high-profile villain like Black Augur. But you can't judge a bad guy by his charming personality or choice of wardrobe.

Dark Iron wore mostly black: a thick sweater, cargo pants, Corcoran jump boots, leather gloves. His iconic face plate was made of some kind of black alloy (hence his name), and it was fashioned in the shape of his head: canine, but of what breed no one knew for sure. Over the black was his German Feuchter Ringelai military parka, an aged and worn thing he never removed which was just as renown as his mask. It was zipped and buttoned, the hood up, pockets containing only God knows what, the thing filling out his robust stature and making him incredibly intimidating to those who weren't on good terms with him.

Ben smacked him playfully on the shoulder when he got close enough, wincing when his paw hit an arm hard as steel. It even clanged. The rat just laughed it off. "How are ya, big guy?"

Dark Iron took a deep, chest expanding breath. "Ich bin sehr gut, mein freund." He patted Ben gently on the shoulder, looking at him. "Wie geht es Ihnen? Err...*ahem*...Pardon. How are you, Ben?"

"Heh, gut. Thanks for, eh, speaking English."

"I slip sometimes. Do forgive me."

Ben shrugged. "We're used to it by now, fella."

Dark Iron nodded and turned to Jerry. He held out his gloved hand, a card between his fingers: the red joker. "Ist das Ihre Karte, Jerry?"

Jerry nodded, mouth in pain from wanting to smile. He spoke, the words running together wetly. "Ja,dankeschönHerrDarkIron." He took the card and placed it back into the deck, stuffing the deck into his empty pants pocket.

Dark Iron nodded, rumbling pleasantly. "It is good to hear your voice, Jerry."

Jerry blushed and fidgeted with his scarf.

"He's been reading and learning German a bit from those books you left," Ben said, watching Jerry and relishing in embarrassing his little brother a bit.

"It is a beautiful language that many do not appreciate," Dark Iron said. He looked at Jerry, blue eyes glowing deep within the black of his mask. "Behandeln sie gut die Wohnung befindet sich?"

Jerry stared for a minute as he took in the words, and then he nodded. Ben just cocked an eyebrow and looked from one to the other.

"What'd you say?"

"I asked if the apartment is treating you well," Dark Iron said.

"Oh," Ben grunted, "It is, and we're still grateful that you let us use it."

"It is no problem. I am glad to help."

Ben shook his head. "You're the nicest super-villain I've ever met, Iron. Canada sure breeds you guys different than the USA."

The big canine's shoulders bounced as he laughed. "Well, Germany was originally my home, but I have been here for many years and I find the air fresher than anywhere else. We breathe much more deeply and our manners are not so polluted, I suppose."

"Tha'erthamaplesyrup," Jerry added.

Dark Iron really laughed now. "Sehr lustig sind Sie, Jerry! Ja, ja, die Ahornsirup. Ja."

Ben tapped his foot on the ground, watching Dark Iron. "Can I ask you something I've, uh, been wanting to ask but have been tooafraid to? It's been bugging me since you, sort of,took us in."

Dark Iron cocked his head to the side. "I suppose." He held up a finger. "If you let me do the same, that is. Only fair, yes?"

"Okay," Ben agreed."_How old_are you, Iron? I remember seeing you as you are now, on the news when I was a kid, before Jerry here was even born. That was 25 years ago." He held up his paws. "How?"

"Ahh," Iron said. He started pulling up the right sleeve of his parka and sweater. "It is more easily shown than explained. Take a look, Ben, Jerry."

He lifted up his now bare right forearm and Jerry sighed in awe. Ben's ears flicked up. Iron's flesh, instead of being...flesh...was a dark, matte gray. And it was metal. Or it seemed to be metal. Iron could sense the brother's apprehensions and chuckled, knocking on his displayed limb with his other fist to a resounding_clank, clank, clank._

"My powers are the key to my...longevity, Ben."

"Turning your skin to metal keeps you young?" Ben asked. "Wow."

"Ican turn more than just my skin," Iron said. He patted his parka covered chest. "I can change e_verything_within my body: muscle tissue, organs, tendon, bone, nerves. The metal is a biological alloy. It lives and is unique to my genetic structure, harder than osmium or iridium or even diamond."

"Soundshcomphlicated," Jerry uttered.

"It is," Iron said with a nod. "I live with it and do not even fully understand its properties. I just know it protects me, and if I change my body completely I do not age."

"Like a...a statue or something," Ben said, awestruck. "A monument. I mean, you did that? Went all The Thinker and laid low?"

"Back in 1989, yes, when I was being threatened with execution. And especially after the Masonport disaster. That's when I relocated here to Canada."

"Dat'sheavy," Jerry said.

"Indeed," said Iron. He then looked from Jerry to Ben. "My turn to ask _my_question."

Ben smirked. "Shoot."

"Your names," said Dark Iron, "How did you come by them?"

Jerry snickered.

"That's an easy one," Ben said, tail swaying. "Our momma just loved her some ice cream."

Iron's head bobbed. "Really now?"

Ben nodded. "It was either Ben and Jerry or Häag and Dazs, and I think she made the right choice."

"I believe so, too," Iron said, chuckling. He then made his way toward the door into the basement, stopping and turning to the brothers with his hand on the knob. "I assume everyone is present?"

Jerry looked to his brother, and Ben scratched his belly idly.

"Well," the elder rat said. "All but one: Lam. And they waited,butthey went ahead without you. They assumed you were...tied up, I guess. The kingpin didn't feel like waiting, and--of course--the otherlords couldn't help but agree with him."

"It is alright. I had to prepare. They will understand."

Jerry waved. "G'lucksch,Iron."

Iron opened the door and stood in the threshold staring down. "My friends," he said.

"Hmm?" Ben grunted, sitting back down at the makeshift table.

"I know that life is a struggle for you two at the moment, and I wish to do more for you." He turned his head and watched the rats, his masked face darkened by the cowl of his hood. "You are good people, honest people at heart, who were dragged into this underworld by your tails."

As painful as it was, Jerry frowned at Iron. Worry weighed down on him and he didn't know why.

Ben sat still and watched the hooded canine intently. "Uh, thanks, Iron. That...that means a lot, but...what are you getting at?"

Iron's grip intensified on the door handle and there was a pop as it was crushed. "Go, Ben and Jerry, to the home I gave you. Leave all of this behind and live free of corruption. Make a new start here where no one truly knows you. Black Auger has done a good job creating new identities for you here with his psychic powers and it would be a shame to put this opportunity to waste. After all, you've suffered so much already, and to keep to this path will only lead to your early deaths." He sighed. "And that is something I do not wish to see."

Jerry had turned white. "DarkshIronwha..." He took a step toward Iron and the canine stopped him with a raised hand.

"Go, Jerry," Iron said. He motioned to the alleyway filled with refuse and stinking gutters. "I know you want more than this. Dein Herz hör auf, Jerry._"_And he closed the door behind him as he descended the stairs.

Ben snuffed and looked to his brother. "What was that about, huh?"

Jerry could only stare at the closed door, but all he could see was the bitter truth to Dark Iron's statement.

"Dein Herz hör auf, Jerry."

_"_Listen to your heart, Jerry."

The young rat swallowed, his face in pain from grimacing, and he turned to Ben. He had wanted to say this for a while.

"Wegotstagonaow..."

But Ben wasn't looking at him, he was staring up, and he looked frightened. Jerry followed his gaze and nearly choked when he saw the black and crimson clad lion floating listlessly in the air above them. His eyes glowed a white nimbus, and the hoop of red light circling his head pulsed like a heart beat. He scowled down at Ben and Jerry.

"Old Dark Iron still can't see up past that cowl of his," growled Red Corona. "Villains; you always forget to look up." He popped his knuckles. "You should always look up."

* * *

Dark Iron hit the bottom stair-step and the wood buckled as his body turned completely to metal and grew too heavy. He was still silent on his feet as he paced through the dark hallway, worn brick and cobblestones making for odd terrain in a supposed basement. But it was more than just a basement; it was a bunker for scum.

Iron turned left at a junction, walked ten steps, and stopped on the spot. The strange, arching scores in the floor were at his feet. He ran his gloved hand along the brick wall there and pushed in a spot--top right-hand corner--and then he stepped back as there was a click and the wall skidded out like an opening door. He slipped inside and the wall closed back; there was a groan, and then he was sinking. It grew colder and danker. The lift shuddered to a stop in another open hallway, the atmosphere blue-black and mysterious. Moss covered the brick walls and little tendrils of water snaked toward the floor in spots. Iron could smell their cigar smoke; he could see it wafting through the air like specters. He heard their voices ahead, feint, rising and falling, hollow as this hall.

This place had always reminded him of a sepulcher. It seemed fitting, he supposed, as he continued toward the lifeless chatter. He'd come today contentedly with one thing in mind, and he felt both uplifted and grim at the prospect of taking down the leaders of Toronto's drug ring all at once, to bury their misdeeds here beneath the earth.

The spice of high-life greeted Dark Iron as he paused at a door, slightly cracked, and peered inside.

It was lighted and warm within, and Iron could hear the hiss of the kerosene heaters in the corners of the room. He clenched his fists as he spied the six drug-lords seated around a rectangular table latent with open booze bottles, smoking ash trays, and scraps of plated food. Three were dressed in suits, their overcoats draped over the back of their chairs, and the others could have been any average Joe pulled in off of the streets of Toronto, working a nine to five like everyone else. But Dark Iron knew who they really were and what they really did, and seated at the head of the table and sipping on a bottled water, dressed casually in a gray long-sleeve shirt and jeans--the most inconspicuous one of all--was the kingpin.

Quincy Laremy was a seemingly nonchalant wolverine who owned a hardware store by day and oversaw drug-deals by night. He was a stocky 5'9", with passionate green eyes and canines that protruded over his bottom lip when he wasn't smiling. And he was always smiling. To rival dealers on the streets he was known as "Grinnin' Jack" and "Here's Johnny" after Jack Torrance from The Shining. His calm demeanor was perpetual, even when people died by his own hands. He didn't even bat an eye when Dark Iron stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The others fell silent but didn't seem taken aback by the sudden appearance of the hooded canine, who lingered by the door, his hand on the knob, before striding to the end of the table and greeting everyone with a nod. Everyone nodded in return, even Quincy, but unlike the others the wolverine kept watching Iron, sitting back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. His black, tactical boots looked spit-shined.

"Good of you to join us, Iron," Quincy said. His voice was suave. "We were beginning to worry something may have happened at the Port Lands. The fellows thought that Plymouth's gang may have been too much."

"Yeah," barked Hughes, a red fox and one of the better dressed lords, "But Quincy knew better. We just got a little antsy." He reclined in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. "Can't have our intimidator going bust on us like Lam. The dumb fucker probably got shitfaced last night and is still passed out in is kitchen floor."

The other lords laughed.

Quincy, eyes now flicking to Hughes, let his lip curl up higher on one side. "He does enjoy his leisure time."

Jones, a pudgy marten in flannel, waggled a beer bottle at Iron. "Where were you, man? Business has already been taken care of. We've got your terrorizing schedule all worked out for the next three weeks!" He took a swig from the bottle and winked at the other lords. "He's gonna' be busy, busy, busy! Right, boys?"

So relaxed. So dulled. So ill-prepared.

"I have already been busy," said Dark Iron, placing his hands on the table. The wooden thing groaned under his weight. His eyes were imperceptible from behind his mask. "And business, I'm afraid, is not over quite yet."

The air of fat-cat elation dissolved in an instant. Every vein-webbed eye, and a pair of brilliant green, turned to the black-dressed villain in the room and saw him reach into a pocket of his parka. All but Quincy tensed as Iron tossed something onto the table. The curled, dismembered index finger bounced off of a bottle and rolled, teetering until it came to a stop before the kingpin. The bloody end had congealed and the gray-tan fur was streaked red, the golden ring on it stained as well. The other lords stared in horror as Quincy picked the thing up, and they themselves looked to the similar rings on their own hands. They looked to Dark Iron. The kingpin uncurled Lam's finger and removed the ring, tossing the lifeless digit over his shoulder. It popped against the back wall.

"Dead?" was all the kingpin asked, tapping the bloody ring on the table and watching Iron coolly.

"W...where's the rest of him?" asked Smith, a beady eyed Ram in a blue three-piece. He stroked his beard soothingly and kept looking from Quincy to Iron.

"That was all I found," the hooded canine said.

"Where?" the kingpin crooned.

"The Port Lands, of course," said Iron.

"Where's the rest of him?!" Smith asked again, his voice breaking.

Hughes sneered. "Probably at the bottom of the turning basin."

"Or Lake Ontario," said Jones.

"What about Little Plymouth and his guys?" asked Glagnon, a skunk with one eye and an itchy looking sweater.

Iron sighed. "Gone. Their compound was in ruins. Nothing left--no evidence."

"Pssh," hissed Hughes, "Cowards. Run off when you can't deal with the shit you start yourself."

Quincy stopped tapping the ring and uncrossed his legs. "Was there anything else, Dark Iron?"

"Just this; it was beside the finger," Iron said, pulling something else from a pocket. It was a wrinkled piece of paper. He cleared his throat and then began to read:

"To the kingPin, Grinnin' Jack, and his remaining lords. Your Power and influence, your terror and tact, couldn't save Poor RuPert Lam. He fell. He squealed. I know everything, and--like your raPPorteur, little Lam--you all will Pay. The black king and his Pawns will receive their just rewards. Don't bother to lift a finger. I'll have yours cut off soon enough, too."

"Give me that," Quincy said. Iron handed the paper to the closest lord and they passed it on until the kingpin had it in his hands, surveying it closely.

Glagnon rested his elbows on the table. "That was, uh, awful _poetic_for Little Plymouth don'tcha think?"

"He didn't even finish high school," said Jones. "Doesn't make sense."

Quincy rubbed his temple. "That's because this is from someone else." He flipped the paper around and pointed with a claw. "Notice anything strange?"

Every lord squinted, but Hughes caught it because he was sitting right next to Quincy.

"The letter p's; they're all capitalized," the fox said. "Big P equals Big Plymouth."

"Figures," said Peterson, a hare that listened more than he spoke. "Big P's been gunning for Quincy since he took over."

Glagnon snickered and raised a finger, his one eye roving around. "You mean since Quincy got Dark Iron here to be our indestructible sheriff of Nottingham."

"Hmmph," grunted Iron. "I feel more like Robin of Loxley, actually."

"Heh," chuckled Hughes. "Why's that? I thought only the capes liked to wear tights?"

Iron shook his head and waited for the dull laughter to die down, and then he stood straight and crooked his right arm. He meticulously removed his leather glove and pocketed it, his metalized hand glinting dully in the light. "Well, it is not that, I assure you. I can't manage the arrows, you see..." He put his fingers together, and there was a group gasp as they seemed to elongate and mesh, his entire forearm stretching and flattening out until the limb resembled a sharpened, three-foot blade. "But the sword, well..." He turned his masked and shadowy face toward his smirking--and uncomfortable--audience. "That's a whole different story."

"Uh," said Hughes, eyes wide. "I...I didn't know you could do that."

Jones throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Me...me neither."

"I thought you could just turn to metal and that you were invulnerable?" asked Glagnon. "Strong, too."

"I've learned some new tricks. I can also hold my breath for over fifteen minutes," said Iron, lowering his sword-arm and pulling something from his pocket with the other hand.

Quincy, for once, stopped smiling and scowled. He began to pull himself up from his chair, claws raking against the wooden arm rests. "Dark Iron..."

Behind his mask, Iron smiled and lifted a grape-sized grenade filled with knockout gas.

"Long live the k..."

There was a rattling of the door knob, and then a rough beating on the door itself.

"Knock, knock, knoooock!" came a sing-song, male voice.

Iron and Quincy froze, their eyes locked. The others still hadn't caught on to what was happening, and this..._interruption..._was quite unexpected. Iron knew that Ben and Jerry couldn't have opened the door to the basement after he'd buckled and reshaped the mechanism to keep them out. He'd done the same to this door here. What was going on he had no idea. It couldn't have been the Plymouth gang, either, because he'd left them all unconscious at their compound with the police and ETF on their way to cart them all off to prison. Lam, the poor fool, was there as well--very much alive, but a tiny bit lighter. Iron hadn't wanted to remove his finger, but the Lynx had insisted so the story would be more valid. He would've done anything.

Lam had wanted out. He'd known about something, something happening in the underworld, and he'd wanted nothing to do with illegal activity anymore. Iron had the lynx's reports on Quincy's dealings hidden safely away, and he'd promised to bring the king and his lords down for Lam's cooperation. Apparently Quincy had done something to Lam's family when he'd tried to get out once before. The lynx had held no remorse for turning-coat.

The door rattled once again from blows.

Okay. I'll play along, thought Iron. He splayed out the fingers of his hand with the grenade as if to say, "Stop." Then he began to slowly inch backward toward the door. He pointed at Quincy and motioned for him to lay low. The wolverine relaxed somewhat and Iron thought, Yes, yes, I knew this was going to happen _;__ k_eep believing I'm on your side. Still he couldn't let them all escape, but luckily this door was the only way out. He pressed himself against the wall to the right of the door, so when it opened he'd be behind it.

He had to pocket his grenade to reshape the mechanism back to normal and open the door. His metal hand touched the knob and he connected with the aluminum and stainless steel, and it twisted and reformed to his wishes as if it were a part of himself. He turned the knob and swung open the door as he pressed against the wall again.

Iron saw Ben stumble in with a red handkerchief stuffed into his mouth. He fell to his knees and Jerry followed right after. The younger rat, however, collapsed onto his side, his chest heaving rapidly, eyes clasped shut. Ben made to comfort him but froze when another figure entered and the room took on a feint red glow for some reason. The intruder stayed just on the other side of the door, though, so Iron couldn't see him. Judging by the looks of perplexity from Quincy and the lord's, though, this wasn't someone they knew or expected to see, in good or bad.

"Found these poor fellows outside," said the figure. "They were shivering and quivering, so I thought I'd bring them on inside to get comfy and warm."

Quincy grinned, and for a split-second the wolverines eyes flicked to Iron behind the door before focusing on the intruder. "Well, this is a surprise."

"I'm the kind to make an entrance," said the figure coldly.

And Iron put his full, metalized weight into the door and shoved. It cracked into the intruder and ping-ponged him back out into the hallway, coming away in Iron's hand after being torn from the wall. There was a winding split from where it had impacted with the guy, a blood spot, too. Then Iron saw red, barely hefting the door up in time, as a blast-wave of energy rocketed from the hall and blew him backward a few feet. The door, now aflame with a plate-sized hole smoking through it, was tossed aside. Iron's left arm had taken the blast, too, and it felt odd--tingly. His hand glowed a dull orange before fading back to normal.

Then Red Corona jetted back in, his crimson halo a blur. "Hallo, Gerard!" the lion said giddily. And then he punched Iron square in the jaw to a resounding PTANG! As well built as the lion was, and even given his powers, Iron didn't feel a thing. He shook off the blow as Corona hissed and stepped backward. "Damn! That felt great!" His white eyes intensified as he grinned, and his short mane billowed as his energy intensified. He glanced to Iron's right arm. "The sword-arm is new. I like it!"

Iron's heart was racing. How could this be happening!? Here he was, so close to apprehending the most powerful drug ring in all of Toronto--Canada even--and a cape shows up! But, no, not just any cape...

"It's good to see you, old nemesis of mine," growled Corona. "I've been waiting to bring you in for yeeeeeears."

"I think you're in over your head, man," chuckled Hughes.

Yes,_thought Iron. _Keep your faith in me.

"Oh, you guys are coming, too," said Corona.

There was a bought of pitiful, throat scraping coughing, and Iron almost turned to look.

"_Jerry,"_moaned Ben, having yanked his hanky from his mouth.

Corona smirked. "Here's the deal, maple leaves, you can give yourself up and come quietly or that other thing where we duke it out and I haul your asses to jail. What's it gonna..."

BANG!

Iron felt a rush over his shoulder and Corona's head bobbed backward as the bullet hit an invisible field surrounding him and was dissolved in a red web of static.

"Fuck you!" bellowed Smith, his strange goat eyes wide and beard trembling along with the raised gun in his hands.

"Oh, you dumbass," hissed Corona. His eyes flared and Smith screamed, his gun liquifying and plopping to the table. "Wrong answer."

The lords all stood, pulling handguns from their belts, legs bent and ready to flee.

His one chance to end all of this was ruined. Iron was enraged now. "You fool!"

"Gesundheit," spat Corona, and his right arm rippled in a coalescing of energy before it shot out, pummeling into Iron's chest, and sending his immensely heavy body flying through the air, over the table and right into Quincy Laremy.

The wolverine didn't even have time to shout before the near 800 pounds of hooded canine fell on top of him. Iron felt no resistance from chair or body alike. The kingpin's chest popped like a ripe melon and that was the end of his reign. Of course, no one besides Iron noticed right away. The big canine pulled himself up and stood over Quincy's body. He watched the blood dribbling out of his shocked but grinning face, his fading green eyes bulbous and almost popping out of his skull, chest grossly concave. Iron couldn't move. Even while there was a chorus of gunshots and screams; even while Corona stunned the fleeing lords with weak bolts of energy, inevitably making his way toward the hooded canine, Iron didn't budge. Tears spilled out from under the seams of his face-plate. Dead, Grinnin' Jack, was laughing at him.

I...I killed, Iron thought, mind painfully numb. I broke my promise.

Iron closed his eyes and ignored a bullet as it ricocheted off of his shoulder, the tumult going on around him fading. Then all he heard was the voice of his father.

"Never, ever kill, Anthony. That's what makes a hero into a villain, and a villain into an evildoer," his father had told him from his hospital bed, before he'd taken the old man's costume. "You inherited my powers, and with it my name and all of its misgivings." The doberman--the real Dark Iron--aged all the more in mind than body, but still fading away slowly, had cried. "But I do not want you to follow in my footsteps, son. I know I raised you well. Retirement was the best thing to happen to me other than having you in my life." Anthony had wiped his father's sad eyes then wiped his own. "Do good, my son. Make up for what I've done in my past by taking the dark out of Dark Iron." He'd patted Anthony's face warmly. "That life--my old life--is dead, after all. Gerard Eisenberg, the man behind the faceplate, is no more. I am only Byron Clark, your father..."

I am not Dark Iron, Anthony thought. Dark Iron is dead. He opened his eyes and glared at Quincy's body, cursing at the wolverine as much as the image of Dark Iron: his father's own destructive past. "You were a terrible man who hurt others for selfish gain. You are dead. I am sorry, but..."

Iron was knocked to his knees by a powerful blast of energy, his masked face nose to nose with the dead kingpin's. He gasped and tried to stand, but he was blasted in the back of the head then kicked by an energy-boosted leg across the room and into a kerosene heater. The paltry little machine didn't stand a chance, and kerosene began to puddle across the floor from its crushed casing.

"I see that your coat is still warded for protection," said Corona as he stretched out his kicking foot and surveyed the dead kingpin. He bent over and scratched his chin, not a bit squeamish of the gore. "Hmm, well I didn't mean for that to happen. That will take some explaining, but..." The lion stood straight, his halo flaring and tail whipping and grinned devilishly at Iron who had pushed himself up. "I can always just say that you did it, huh? I mean, technically you did..."

Iron growled deep from his chest and glared at Corona. His father had told him how arrogant the lion used to be, back when they were opponents, but Iron couldn't believe that _this--_this prude, disgusting, and violent man--was a globally acclaimed superhero. He looked to where the lords had been and saw most of them unconscious on the floor in various stages of abuse with dust settling around them. One, Hughes, he didn't see...until he noticed a hole through the brick wall with a familiar, red-furred tail hanging out. Jerry coughed from somewhere. He didn't see Ben.

"My God," Iron gasped. "You're supposed to be a good guy!?"

"Yep, you old piece of shit," growled the lion. "Have you forgotten that, huh? In your old age? Or did I pummel you in the head a bit too much before you vanished into thin air!?"

The lion leaped and shot a concentrated blast of energy at the same time. Iron dodged it and rolled, sensing the hero closing in and raising his arms in time to catch a blow that would have sent his armored skull into the brick floor. Corona hissed as the assault rang like a bell in the confined space, and he kept up his assault, punching and kicking. Iron received combat training from his father before the old man was hospitalized, so he could handle himself; the lion wasn't even that good of a hand-to-hand fighter. Still, he didn't wish to harm the supposed hero, but if this kept up...

He gasped as he tripped over the sprawled body of Glagnon and fell, his rump literally cracking the floor as he dare not power down. He was just glad he didn't fall on anyone else.

"_Do you know how _long I have been waiting for you to crawl back out of your hole, Gerard?" Corona asked. He walked over Glagnon, stepping on some of his fingers. "The last time we fought I was eighteen! It's been 24 goddamn years!" He popped his chest with his fist, still approaching, his white eyes burning. "24 years I've had to wait to put you away for what you did!" He stopped a few feet away from Iron and jabbed a finger at him. "If I could kill you than I would, you cowardly son of a bitch! If that iron-hide of yours was gone I'd blast you into ash!"

Iron laughed coldly. "You don't know a goddamn thing. You don't even realize what you're doing, what you stumbled across."

"Got that right," Corona said. "Talk about divine providence. I'm just came here to pick up a kid with powers, and--low and behold--I find you and the whole world stops spinning. You would've thought I was in love, seeing you again up there. I had the butterflies and everything."

Iron shook his head. "You're delusional."

"And you're mine," said the lion.

"Chooleavehimshalone,youmodderfocker!"

Jerry had gotten up, and he came out of nowhere wielding an electric stun-stick, his scarf fallen away from his battered face. Corona was so wrapped up in revenge that he didn't react in time, and the rat cracked him hard over the back of the head before jabbing him in the small of the back and zapping him. The lion was immune to electric shock, but the blow to the head brought him to one knee...for a few seconds.

"You little SHIT!"

The lion was enraged and grabbed Jerry by the neck. Iron, aghast at the thought of Jerry being killed, grabbed Corona from behind and pinned his arms so he had to let the rat go. He stumbled backward and fell, choking and gasping. Corona roared and tensed, and Iron felt his body growing hot. Very hot. The wards on his father's jacket were flashing blindingly fast in attempts to maintain protection.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" the lion bellowed.

And he released a blast of energy that blew Iron off of him. Luckily, though, the canine seemed to have absorbed the attack and Jerry wasn't harmed. Iron, his body hot and vibrating painfully from the energy, could only lift his head as Corona approached.

"You're...making a...mistake," grunted Iron.

"The only mistake I made was letting you get away after you killed her," said Corona. The lion bent down before Iron, who was still unable to move. He tapped on the canine's sword-arm, the blade glowing orange and stuck into the brick floor for support. "I've learned a few new tricks, too, just for you. I superheated that metal skin of yours, so it's expanded and hard to move around in, huh? You're not going anywhere this time."

"You don't...understand..."

Corona reached a hand toward Iron's mask. "Don't understand what, Eisenberg ol' buddy ol' pal?"

"A lot of...things."

Anthony was a muscular boy, but to charade as his father, he had to be much bulkier. And it was true that he'd inherited the powers of Dark Iron, but he'd also expanded upon them and taken them to levels his father never had. He could not only turn his body to metal, but he could also absorb metalized material into himself and integrate it into his physiology, turning thirty pounds of steel into muscle or bone mass for instance. And, when he transformed back to normal, the absorbed material became what he'd wished it to be and remained organic tissue. However, he knew subconsciously how much mass was his and how much was foreign, and--if the need arose--he could purge it and return to normal.

So he did just that, but in a functional manner.

Corona was startled when the six and a half foot tall Dark Iron suddenly began to shrink, but he was also surprised when his sword-arm began to grow, as if it was sucking his nemesis dry. Then Dark Iron's left hand began to...bloom, almost. His leather glove popped apart and a metal disk began to grow from the limb. Anthony felt infinitely better once the excess metal began to reform and he was able to move again.

Red Corona, face contorted in confusion, backed away. "What the hell?"

Iron rose, his clothing quite baggy from his mass being reduced, and hefted his super-sized sword, his round shield at the ready on his left forearm. He took a step and his faceplate slid from his face to clatter across the floor.

"Heroes aren't supposed to allow themselves to be driven by revenge," Iron said, his voice now a sharp tenor instead of a bass. "Your girlfriend wouldn't like the way you've become, Willem."

Corona could only scowl and grunt his anger. He was shaking when he pointed at Iron. "What have...how did...DON'T TALK ABOUT ELLIE!"

The lion's halo flared and he sent double-beams of red energy at Iron which he deflected with his shield. Still, Corona didn't let up. He kept firing, Iron bracing himself and skidding backward with the energy splaying off of the shield and cutting into the walls, floor, and ceiling. He had to drop his sword and use both hands to brace his shield. Soon the building's foundations wouldn't be able to take much more.

"You have to stop, Corona!" Iron yelled when he wasn't gritting his teeth. "This was a huge mistake!"

"DIE, DARK IRON!"

"I'm not D..."

Crack!

The energy beams stopped. Iron heard someone hit the floor, and he lowered his shield to see Ben standing over Corona's limp body, a broken off table leg in his right hand.

He was covered in dust and his face was bloody; some of his fur was burnt. He spat and shook his head."Whoops," he said dryly, looking at the lion at his feet. Then he looked at Iron, cocking an eyebrow. "What the hell..." Jerry coughed and groaned from where he fell, and instantly Ben was turning to go to him. "Hold that thought. Jerry!"

"Ben, you should take him and get out..."

"Oh, no," came a growl. Corona lifted straight off of the ground, his eyes red now instead of white, energy rippling off of his whole body. "No one's going anywhere." He floated and faced Ben hunched beside Jerry a few feet away, probing the back of his head. "That_hurt_, mother fucker." He lifted an arm. Iron gasped and lurched to stop the lion, but--"I hate rats."

And he fired. A current of red energy lashed out, the beam reflecting grossly in the rat brother's eyes. Jerry choked on a gasp, and then Ben pinned him to the floor, shielding his little brother with his body. The energy hit him and the room flashed white, then Jerry was alone on the floor and covered in a fine, ashy residue. Ben's wristwatch lay beside him, the face cracked. Jerry carefully picked it up.

Iron couldn't move. He couldn't believe what had just happened. Jerry just stared at Ben's broken watch, his chest heaving, eyes glossy and wide. Corona lifted his arm again, and Iron envisioned Jerry being blasted into smithereens. He saw a good man at heart being snuffed from existence without the opportunity of redeeming himself or living his life the way he wanted.

Iron's body rippled and he roared in anger, muzzle pulled back into a snarl. "Noooo!" He hefted his shield and sent the rounded metal disk soaring through the air. It hit Corona's raised arm with a sickening_Pa-crack!_ then continued on its course and sank deep into the far wall. Iron was running toward Corona just as the lion was figuring out his arm shouldn't bend at a backward angle. The canine powered down and tackled the big cat just as his red aura faded and his feet touched the ground, and then Iron metalized his legs, further pinning down his adversary. Then he hardened his fists. Corona's contorted face met knuckles of iron.

"You killed him!"

PA-TANG!

"You fucking KILLED him_!"_

PA-TONG!

"You don't deserve..."

PANG!

"To be a hero!"

PONG!

"My father's more honorable...

PA-DANG!

"Than you'll EVER be!"

PA-CRACK!

Iron leaned back from Corona huffing ragged breaths, the lion's face taking the hits better than expected. But he still wasn't pretty. He was conscious, though, and spat blood out along with a tooth.

"You ruined everything, you self-righteous son of a bitch," Iron growled, shaking Corona by the front of his elastic suit. "I worked so hard to take these assholes down! To help people! To keep things non-violent and non. Fucking. Lethal!" Tears were streaming down his face, his auburn fur revealed and soaking it up. He shook a now shocked Corona weakly. "You made me kill! _You_killed Ben! He was a good guy!" He sobbed. "I WAS HELPING HIM!"

"W...wa," groaned Corona.

Iron just sagged and cried.

"Y...you're not...Dark..."

"No, I'm not Dark Iron, you fucking moron!" Iron screamed.

Corona's eyes swam and looked lost. "But...your powers...the costume..." He raised his head a bit from the ground, teeth clenching in pain before he spoke. "Who...who are you?"

Iron just stared at him without saying a word for a minute, then he leaned over and looked Corona right in the eye. "My name is Anthony Clark."

"A...Anthony," Corona mouthed. Then he let his head fall back against the floor. "You're Anthony Clark."

"Yes."

The lion smirked, but it cracked into a scowl. "I was...sent up here...to find you."

Anthony's ears perked. "What?"

Corona nodded, still not looking at the canine. "Yep."

"Bullshit."

"It's true." The lion picked his head back up. "We're recruiting."

Anthony frowned. "For what? The Vigils? No thanks. I do fine on my own when dickheads like you don't blunder in and screw things up!"

"I'm sorry..."

"No you're not," Anthony snapped. "You're 42, but you act just like you were when you were 18: a hot-headed, punch-drunk brute."

"And you wonder why I mistook you for that fucker, Dark Iron..."

Corona yelped as Anthony grabbed him roughly by the front of his suit again and yanked him up. He leered and growled at the lion. "Don't _talk_about him that way! You don't know a goddamn thing!"

Corona's brow beetled. "Wh...what do you care? You talk as if..."

"He were my father?" Anthony finished. "Well, since you're a bit slow on the uptake I'll let you in on a little secret: Byron Clark, my dad, was once Gerard Eisenberg who was the supervillain known as Dark Iron."

"You're Gerard's...son?"

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Oh dear God. Yes!" Then he bared his teeth. "And don't you dare threaten him again. He changed a long time ago, before he and my mom had me. He taught me everything I know, and he'd been helping me take out the drug-rings around here before he got sick..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...Agh! Shit!" Corona bit his lip and his eyes began to water. He squirmed beneath Anthony to no avail. "Gerard's sick? Invulnerable and immune Gerard? And my arm's broken..."

"He hasn't used his powers since he stopped with the crime stuff," Anthony said. "Some of them he's lost. His immune system is really, really weak." The young doberman shook his head. "But that's beside the point! Look at what you've done!"

"This is the everyday life for us, kid," Corona said. "Shit happens."

Anthony felt like tearing his hair out. "You killed an innocent!_Ben..."_

"He wasn't innocent! He was taking part in this illegal shit, and he assaulted me!"

"He was protecting me from you! And then he was protecting his_brother_ from..." Anthony froze. He returned his bottom half to normal and stood. "Jerry!"

Corona carefully pushed himself up as the doberman went to the young rat. He didn't want to admit it, but he'd lost control of his abilities. He'd only ever done that one other time 24 years ago.

"No, no, no! Jerry!"

The rat was unconscious and clutching Ben's watch to his chest, and he was barely breathing. Blood was trickling out of his deformed muzzle onto his scarf.

"Yikes," was all Corona said as he hobbled to stand behind Anthony. "He's a handsome fellow."

"Shut up," barked the doberman, panic shooting through his body. "He needs help! He can't breathe properly."

"With a schnoz like that I can see why."

Anthony shot up, his fur standing on end. "Oh my GOD I hate you! What the fuck is your deal!? You kill his brother--the only other person he has in the world--and act like him dying means _nothing_to you!?"

"He's druggie scum."

"You don't know him like I do! He's not like that!"

Corona watched Anthony, perplexed. The kid was so...virtuous. "He raised you?"

"What?"

"Gerard--he really raised you?"

Anthony stood rigid, but then he nodded. "My mom died when I was two. Like I said earlier, my dad taught me everything I know."

Corona just smirked. "Huh."

Jerry gave a long, breaking gasp that sounded much too close to a death rattle for Anthony's comfort. He couldn't let him die, not after what happened. He felt to blame for Ben's death.

He turned to Corona. "You came here to get me, right? You need me for something?"

The lion nodded. "Yeah, I mean, but..."

"Fine. I'll go."

Corona was taken aback. "R...Really?"

"But on two conditions; one to be named later. The first being that you have to take Jerry with us and get him fixed up and he doesn't go to jail..."

The lion knew that if this boy was as stubborn as his so-called father, than he wasn't going to budge. Besides, he wanted to get back as soon as possible to get his arm taken care of. He'd alerted the police of the situation after descending the stairs so they should be there soon.

"Fine," Corona said.

"I mean it," Anthony said. "He gets treatment and doesn't get..."

"He'll be healed, but he will be contained in our holding facilities until..."

Anthony glared.

Corona shook his head. "We'll worry about that later. Can we go please?"

Anthony picked up Jerry carefully. "How?"

"Teleport for three, please, Servo. Have medical facilities prepped for immediate usage," Corona said to nobody in particular. He then glanced at Anthony, his white eyes fading into normal hazel ones. "How's your, uh, old man doing then?"

Anthony felt a sudden surge come over him as if he were being enveloped in plastic wrap. He held Jerry close. "He's dying."

"O...oh."

And the three vanished in a nimbus of violet light, leaving sparkling motes of energy dancing through the ravaged room to alight on six unconscious bodies and one dead.