"Torture Is a Way Of Life"

"Torture Is a Way of Life"

1/17/2023

I.

"I didn't hit seventy, seventy hit ME," sighed Weaver. Nothing remained on his plate of the Reuben. In the warm, dimly lit dining room of the Hofbrau House, he had felt so relaxed that he was thinking of ordering dessert just to linger a little longer even though he was full.

Across the table, Jeremy Bane smiled more openly than he usually allowed himself. "A touch of grey suits you, Steve. It makes you look dignified."

"Hah. I don't mind the salt and pepper hair, it's the big bald spot on top of my head that's killing me. That, and the pot belly I can't lose." In fact, the former Black Angel was still handsome in his way. The deep dark brown skin showed few wrinkles. Perfectly tended teeth flashed when he smiled and the thick mustache under a wide nose had stayed black. Weaver looked friendly. Most people liked him at first meeting. And he still dressed well, showing up for dinner at the restaurant in a dark blue suit with a powder blue shirt and narrow black tie, all tailored in a conservative cut.

In contrast, his captain Jeremy Bane remained a lean, tense figure all in black... slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. The 8 Wolf had not visibly aged as much as Weaver; except for some lines around the mouth and eyes, and some scattered white flecks in the short black hair, he looked much as he always had. The grey eyes under heavy brows remained as startlingly pale and sharp as ever.

They both had enjoyed Reubens with sauerkraut. Weaver had ordered a side of cream of potato soup, Bane a plate of sweet potato fries, and they had shared a pitcher of dark German beer. Neither man usually drank, since their healing factor meant alcohol didn't affect them but the beer had seemed appropriate. Only a few pickle wedges were left and Bane was claiming one.

"So, now I have to decide where to move," Weaver said. "I finally retired from the HCE Project after all these years. Enough working on those CORBYs and relaying messages from the Trom. I'm tired of all that."

"You earned some peace. I 'm sure you know this already, but you are more than welcome to stay at the headquarters while you look for a house. We have a suite of rooms on the third floor all ready. And it goes without saying, meals and expenses are covered. You're still a KDF member."

"I might take you up on that, Jeremy. All my stuff is in storage back at the Project for now, but my suitcase and duffel bag are at that hotel on 53rd. I booked it for two nights."

Bane's voice was normally low and taut, but now he made sure no one was within hearing before asking, "Did you bring the Black Angel outfit?"

"What, the wings and flightsuit and all that? Naw. I can't remember the last time I even tried it on. My powers are gone, captain, gone and not coming back. I can't even levitate enough to reduce my weight on the bathroom scale."

"That was such a loss to our team," the Dire Wolf said. "Not just because of losing your flight ability, but because you added down to Earth common sense to our gang. I always wanted you to stay, even as just an advisor and monitor officer or something."

Weaver picked up the laminated four page menu again. "Aw, I would have felt so useless. Like a quarterback sent to sit on the bench for every game. What would you say to some lemon meringue pie? Nice and light after the heavy food."

"Fine with me. Order us some. I do have to get going soon, though. I'm supposed to meet one of my observers down in Little Italy at eleven." Bane pushed his plate to one side with satisfaction. "I'm glad we had an hour to catch up, Steve. There's not many left of our founding members."

"Just you, Cindy and Ted at this point," Black Angel said. "I joined in 1980. I was not one of the original seven who signed that Kenneth Dred Foundation character. Oh, miss? Yes. Could we have two servings of lemon meringue pie? Yeah, that'll be all. Thank you."

"So, what's your plan?" asked Bane. "I know some of the team are headquarters. Unicorn, Tim and Demrak Jin for sure. They'd be glad to see you."

"I don't know. I guess I want to go back to my hotel room for tonight and think things over. In a way, I could be happy studying at Tel Shai half the time and maybe just loafing around the rest. I mean, I got my first job at 16, then I enlisted in the Air Force and then I started working for the Trom and then I joined the KDF."

"Sounds like you want some time to yourself," Bane said. He thanked the waitress as she brought their desserts and then practically inhaled the pie in a single gulp. One price for his enhanced speed was a metabolism that left him always ravenous.

Weaver took a good bite of his own serving, chewed and swallowed before answering. "Feh. I don't have to decide tonight. Between all my pensions and benefits and socking away dough all my life, I can travel the world in luxury if I want to."

Watching his old friend, the Dire Wolf allowed a rare wistfulness to creep into his voice. "You ever think about our first team? Mike, Khang, Larry? Leonard Slade? All gone now. This year Garrison Nebel died, too. I visit Shiro every now and then, he lives in an old restored farm house in Pennsylvania; he put on fifty pounds and spends his time writing the most awful poetry you ever saw."

"He's earned the right to waste his time. We all have." Weaver took some bills from his wallet and tucked them under his plate. "What about you yourself? You claim you retired six years ago, Jeremy, yet I hear you are still going out in the middle of the night to chase monsters and stalk killers."

"I'll never change," Bane admitted. "Always the Dire Wolf."

( the rest of the story )