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“Are you sure you want to see it, Tom? I-It’s…I’ve seen a lot over the years but this one…it’s bad.”
“Blake, I just got done visiting the morgue. I saw what was left. Play the damn video.”
#
The raw footage is already pulling numbers on shock sites. Edited clips popping up all over social media. Even the major news networks covering the story are using stills.
Detective Tom Novak has been living in LA for a few years now so he knows the basics of the Mecha-man lore. Until now, he’d always thought the part about it being one family, a mantle handed down from father to son, was a gimmick. Something to enhance the myth. Supes just love their storytelling.
But if the kid on the video is — no, was — old enough to drink, then Tom is Miss California 2010.
A kid like that should be busy worrying about homework and football and whether the girl he likes likes him back, not…not dying in a cold, filthy basement while a nutcase rants and raves at him.
It’s not right.
“The killer took off Blue’s mask before he killed him. Isn’t that, like, sacrilege for these people?”
Tom’s partner, Angie Castellanos, hums.
“Big time. Pretty much every supervillain group in the county has already released a statement cutting all ties with Manimal. There’s a bounty on his head, and even the guy who shot Astral weighed in from his prison cell telling him to watch his back.”
“In other words, you’re going to need to find this prick real quick if you want any chance of getting him to live long enough to make it in front of a judge,” Blake says, pale as he avoids looking at the screen.
Nothing’s happened yet.
The killer, Manimal, is still monologuing — something about the lack of separation between man and beast — as he ranges around just outside the camera’s view. Mecha-man Blue follows him with his eyes, never losing sight of the threat.
There are signs of an earlier struggle on Blue’s skin. The knuckles of the hands which hold the heavy steel collar locked around his throat are bloody. There are recent bruises, next to week old ones, patterning his sides. There’s an oozing bite, from a human mouth, on his forearm.
Manimal’s stripped Blue of everything pertaining to his superhero identity, but he makes sure everyone watching knows exactly who the young man is.
“Mecha-man, a man and machine working in harmony. An abomination to the true order of nature, red in tooth and claw—”
In the first hour after the video appeared there were rumours and desperate speculation — the footage was faked, or the man on the tape wasn’t really Mecha-man at all, just some poor soul snatched up off the street and forced to participate in a madman’s game.
Even the discovery of the remains couldn’t clear it up.
Confirmation came at last from Track Star, a close friend of Astral and one of the few people familiar enough with Blue to make a credible ID based on still frames from the video.
Tom can hardly imagine.
He doesn’t even know the kid, but he already knows that the skinny face and big brown eyes preserved on camera are going to haunt him.
#
The backdrop is the same kind of grimy, industrial space supervillains and serial killers seem to love. For all Manimal’s talk about the dominance of nature, there’s a distinct lack of it present in his lair.
It looks more like the set-up for a dog-fight.
#
The thing on Blue’s neck is a shock-collar.
“You see this circular mark here?”
Torsten, the medical examiner, holds up his forceps. A scrap of flesh is clamped between them.
“It’s an electrical burn. Low-voltage. Looks like repeated shocks, occurring shortly before death. Whatever delivered them was held securely, close to the skin — see how neat the borders are?”
The kid works it out quickly, giving up on trying to interrupt Manimal’s monologue by reasoning with the psycho within a few minutes.
It’s not an automatic trigger, based on sound.
It’s about words.
Each time Blue tries to speak, Manimal shocks him, but a frustrated howl goes unpunished.
“...that’s it, give in to the simplicity of the beast. Man is animal. Logic, higher thought, it’s all a trap. Technology is a distraction.”
“Christ, this guy sure loves the sound of his own voice,” Angie mutters.
“He’s a supe. They’re all like that. Love the drama, love the attention…” Tom trails off.
Blue is looking right at the camera.
Tom passes kids like that on the street every day.
“Technology is a false god.”
Apparently that’s Mecha-man’s whole shtick — that he’s just a regular guy with no powers. Like watching a man with no arms shave his face using his feet. It’s only impressive because of the handicap.
Maybe if Tom had grown up in Los Angeles, he’d have the same starry-eyed admiration for the myth of the plucky, powerless hero dynasty that the locals do.
But right now all he sees is a dead kid who might’ve lived had his granddaddy not tried to be a hero.
“Technology is weakness.”
Blue rolls his eyes, lurches forward and aims a kick.
The camera falls back, directed at the ceiling.
“You little—”
Blue screams at the shocks.
It goes on for almost a minute, before the noises stop and Manimal makes his first appearance.
He’s an ugly motherfucker.
Tom’s got nothing against hybrids.
He certainly wouldn’t ever date one, but he’s polite enough to the ones he encounters. He’s sat through enough diversity awareness courses.
Usually, a hybrid will have the features of just one kind of animal. Cat. Snake. Stick insect. Whatever.
Not Manimal.
Tom’s got no idea if it’s natural, the result of gene splicing or a side effect of the guy’s powers. Most supervillains, and even a majority of heroes, are cagey about their origins and the limitations of their powers, so there isn’t a whole lot of information available on the guy.
“With a face like that, I can’t imagine he’ll be on the run for long.”
The file is clear on one point.
Manimal isn’t a shapeshifter.
“Nope. That’s way too many eyes for me.”
“Guy looks kinda like Jeff Goldblum…y’know when he was in The Fly?”
Tom tunes them out, looking into the face of their killer as he checks the camera for damage.
The kid’s likely come to the same conclusion as Tom — it’s why he kicked the camera.
Manimal’s a hypocrite.
There’s nothing natural about any of this.
Murder is a human affair.
#
Manimal sets the camera back up, further away this time.
Far enough to show the bars of the cage surrounding Blue.
It reminds Tom of the sort of thing they have in zoos, with sliders and sub-sections to keep humans and animals from coming into direct contact.
“I…um, not sure I can watch this again.”
Tom doesn’t comment as Blake gets up from his desk, leaving the video playing as he exits the room.
The extent of the cage isn’t the only thing which is now visible for those watching.
Tom’s opinion of Blue shifts slightly as he realises that the kid’s been able to see what’s waiting for him the whole damn time.
It’s not normal.
Tom knows hardened gangbangers who’d be crying and pissing their pants pleading for their lives if they were sitting in Blue’s spot right now.
Fuck, Tom would be doing the exact same thing.
#
There’s nothing natural about the dogs either.
They’re squat, muscle-bound, mean-looking things. Bred by man to bite and tear and kill on command. Tom’s seen dogs like that before, usually in the hands of dumbass wannabe tough guys until they end up getting euthanized after taking a chunk out of a toddler.
There’s three of them — one grey, one black, one brindle — separated from Blue by a single sliding hatch.
Manimal’s got them under his control, eerily silent and still with staring dead-white eyes.
The kid’s snarling, looking somewhere to the right of the camera where Manimal is presumably lurking. He’s all coiled up, and Tom recognises something in that stance.
It’s like the moment when someone pulls a gun. All the juices start going and time seems to stretch while you try and figure out who’s dead.
Unfortunately, he already knows.
It’s gonna be Blue.
#
The hatches open up.
All three dogs drive forward.
There’s something off about their movements, the silence of it all.
Blue moves into a defensive stance like it’s second nature. A boxer’s stance. Keeps his back to the wall so none of the dogs can get behind him.
There’s no hesitation. A dog lunges, Blue deflects.
He hits hard.
Bare hands, bare feet, versus three sets of bonecrushing jaws.
There’s only one way it can go.
#
Blue strikes out at the black dog as it goes for him, and the grey clamps down on his outstretched forearm. It jerks him forward, almost off his feet.
The third dog, the brindle, goes for a leg, shaking its head as its teeth sink in deep.
Blue cries out, dropping to the concrete.
He’s dragged across the floor, closer to the camera. Close enough that Tom can see the freckles on his cheeks.
Blue keeps fighting.
His free hand lashes out at the grey dog’s neck. It’s so thick he can’t get his hand around it, so instead he aims hard, sharp, little jabs at its windpipe.
For an instant the creepy all-white glaze fades from its eyes, and Tom sees ice blue and a shiver pass from nose to tail. Before Blue can land another hit the black dog darts and wrenches his left arm away too.
Manimal reasserts his control.
The next thing Tom hears is a crunch as the grey dog breaks Blue’s forearm. There’s no scream, just a grunt.
He’s still fighting, trying to get his free leg back under him, trying to get traction so he can pull away. Like he’s gonna be strong enough to break free from an animal currently exerting over three-hundred pounds of biting force.
Even if Tom hadn’t already seen the parts scattering the table in the morgue, he’d still know it’s hopeless.
Another crunch and the grey dog starts to twist its head, scrabbling backwards like it’s a tug-of-war.
“Jesus…”
Tom’s not sure who says it. Him or Angie.
Blue doesn’t start screaming immediately, quiet for just long enough that Tom can hear it when the flesh starts to come away. Skin and muscle tearing from the bone, peeling off like a glove.
In an instant there’s blood spattering the concrete, a sudden downpour, while the microphone on the video camera struggles to process all the noises coming out of Blue.
Somehow, through it all, Tom can still hear Manimal.
Moaning.
Like any run-of-the-mill fucking pervert getting his kicks.
#
Blue clamps his raw, red hand, minus a few fingertips, under his body as soon as it’s free. Tom recognises the signs of shock on him — shivering, sweating, so pale he could be a ghost. He’s silent now, forehead pressed to the concrete, shoulders hunched. Trying to curl up to protect himself as much as he can.
On the left hand on the screen, the grey dog’s bloody muzzle is just barely visible as it chews.
“This is what it means to be prey. To be consumed.”
Blue looks up, panting, still lucid enough for anger.
“Fuc—”
Before he can finish a light flashes on the collar and he convulses. The two dogs with their teeth still sunk into him don’t react at all, Manimal’s control blocking either the sensation of the shock or their reaction to it.
Blue kicks with his free leg, but no matter how hard his heel connects with the brindle dog it doesn’t let go.
Not until Manimal wants it to.
#
It’s systematic. Not instinctual.
Instinct would be to go for the neck. In most cases of fatal dog attacks, a wound to the head or neck is the cause of death.
Dogs don’t eat people — at least, not before they’re dead.
Years ago, when Tom was still just a beat cop living in Indiana, he got called out to do a wellness check on some guy in his fifties with late stage heart disease, and two Pomeranians. Knowing the guy was dead for a day at least, before they started munching on him, was a relief.
There’s no relief here.
Not for him.
Not for Angie.
And certainly not for Blue.
Manimal uses the dogs like tools. Both scalpel and restraints.
He keeps Blue positioned, nicely, for the camera.
Works on one piece at a time.
Nauseous, Tom checks the video.
They’re barely half-way through.
#
It’s going to goddamn glow.
When they finally find the place, and the crime scene guys spray their chemicals around.
The whole fucking room is going to light up like it’s the nightsky on the fourth of July.
So much blood he can almost taste it, iron in the back of his throat.
He recognises little pieces.
They’re sitting on a mortuary slab right now, underneath his feet.
A pair of fingers, still connected at the knuckles and a few shreds of connective tissue. An ear and a dime-sized piece of scalp. A raised keloid scar he now knows came from Blue’s chest.
Well, he’s not really Blue anymore.
There’s way too much red for that.
#
It’s hard to tell exactly when the man he’s watching get ripped apart becomes a corpse.
He barely screams.
It’s weird.
After that last attempt to tell Manimal to fuck himself, Blue shuts his mouth and barely makes a peep.
Tom’s seen kids, young ones, like that before. Abuse cases.
They know nothing changes whether they cry or not, so they don’t waste the effort trying.
If Blue was a little older — or if he still had on his mask — Tom might think it’s just a case of typical superhero stoicism.
He thinks it’s something more.
Every now and again Blue’s eyes catch on the camera. Each time they look a little more unfocused, but the expression in them is the same.
Lost.
Searching.
“Someone really did a number on you, kid.”
A long time before he got thrown to the dogs.
He’s still breathing when they tear him open, and still he doesn’t scream.
#
Manimal doesn’t make it in front of a judge.
He doesn’t make it into a cell.
He doesn’t make it out of town.
Some of Tom’s colleagues find the guy in pieces, head intact to make the ID easy.
No one takes responsibility, and no one pushes when the case goes cold. Hero or villain, Tom doesn’t care.
“Deserves a fucking medal, that’s all I’ve got to say,” he tells the guy sat next to him in the bar.
He still sees those eyes, that face, most nights before he goes to sleep. It doesn’t matter what he does, or how much he drinks, Blue’s always there waiting for him.