Chapter 26: DAMAGE CONTROL
The burner phone rang at 6:14 AM.
"The operative filed his report," Frenchie said without preamble. "Three hours ago. I have a contact who monitors their field communications."
I sat up in bed, heart already racing. "What did he say?"
"'Subject displayed possible enhanced healing during physical altercation. Knife wound observed bleeding significantly, then appeared to stop prematurely. Recommend further observation and potential medical evaluation request.'"
"Shit."
"Your assessment," Frenchie continued, "is that this is accurate?"
I looked at my forearm. The knife wound from yesterday was a thin pink scar now—not even a scab, just a line of discolored tissue that would probably fade within a week. Sixteen hours of healing had accomplished what should have taken two weeks.
"It's accurate."
"Interesting." A pause. "You understand what happens if this report reaches the wrong desk at Vought Tower?"
"They reclassify me. Stop treating me as a manageable PR problem and start treating me as an asset to acquire or a threat to eliminate."
"Ashley Barrett's détente collapses. They send someone more serious than The Deep." Another pause. "Do you have friends who can help you disappear?"
"I don't want to disappear." I was already thinking, already planning. "Can you muddy the report? Delay it? Make them doubt the operative's reliability?"
Frenchie was quiet for several seconds.
"There's a compromised channel in Vought's internal communications," he said finally. "One we use for disinformation when it's useful. I can push a false analysis suggesting the operative's observations were contaminated by 'confirmation bias from viral content exposure.'"
"Will that work?"
"It will work long enough. Forty-eight hours, maybe seventy-two. After that, someone will notice the inconsistency and start asking questions."
"Forty-eight hours," I thought. "That's enough."
"Do it. I'll handle the rest."
"You owe me a favor," Frenchie said. "The big man keeps track of favors."
He hung up before I could respond.
The Instagram post took three attempts to get right.
I'd cleaned the knife wound thoroughly—not that it needed cleaning anymore, but the appearance mattered—and wrapped it in a fresh bandage. The photo showed my arm, the white gauze visible against skin, the caption carefully crafted.
@HarleyVaughn: Got cut breaking up a mugging yesterday. Stitches tomorrow. Being a hero hurts, who knew. #WorthIt #StandUp
The post went live at 7:30 AM. By 8:00 AM, it had 4,000 likes. By 9:00 AM, it was being shared as evidence that the Mythmaker was "just a regular guy who bleeds like the rest of us."
The bandage hid the healing rate. The caption established the normal-injury narrative. The hashtags fed both the admirer and skeptic demographics.
"Damage control," I thought, watching the engagement climb. "Same as any PR crisis. Control the story before someone else does."
The private testing happened in the bathroom, door locked, shower running to cover any noise.
I'd gathered supplies: a box of thumbtacks, a small hammer from Mrs. Okafor's emergency toolkit (borrowed with a vague excuse about hanging pictures), a kitchen knife, and a notebook for recording results.
Test 1: Pinprick resistance. Thumbtack pressed into palm. Result: Skin broke, but required 40% more pressure than expected. Wound closed in 43 minutes.
Test 2: Blunt force absorption. Hammer strike to forearm (light). Result: Mild ache, no bruising. Same strike pre-crystallization would have left a visible mark.
Test 3: Cutting resistance. Kitchen knife dragged across forearm (controlled, shallow). Result: Skin parted, but required 25% more pressure. Wound closed in 51 minutes.
Test 4: Impact tolerance. Fist into tile wall (medium force). Result: Tile cracked. Knuckles undamaged. Mild ache faded in 90 seconds.
I stared at the notebook.
[POWER STATUS: SUPER DURABILITY (RANK 0)]
[CONFIRMED LIMITS: BLUNT FORCE ≈ LIGHT BODY ARMOR | CUTTING ≈ THICK LEATHER | HEALING ≈ 2x BASELINE]
[VULNERABILITIES: FIREARMS (LETHAL) | HIGH-CALIBER IMPACTS (SEVERE) | SUPE-LEVEL ATTACKS (FATAL)]
Rank 0 was the bottom of the power scale. A baseball bat would still hurt like hell. A bullet would still kill me. A Supe—even a low-tier Supe like the V-user from Midtown—would still break bones and rupture organs.
But I wasn't paper anymore. I wasn't the baseline-human who'd gotten cracked ribs from a single impact and spent six weeks recovering. I was something slightly more than that.
"Slight advantage," I thought. "Not invulnerability. Just... resilience."
It would have to be enough.
I peeled the bandage back one more time before bed.
The knife wound was a thin pink line now—not even a scar, really, just a discoloration that would fade within days. Sixteen hours of healing had accomplished what should have taken weeks. The system's "2x baseline" estimate might have been conservative.
"The first real power," I thought. "The first thing that actually makes me different."
Ten thousand believers had made this possible. Ten thousand strangers who'd watched the footage, shared the clips, decided that the Mythmaker was tougher than ordinary. Their belief had become my flesh.
The wonder still hadn't worn off.
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