JohnnyZ
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[Life is Good] Chapter 42
🕑 Added 2025-02-05 04:10:25 +0000 UTCThis was exhausting, I thought, slumped in the waiting room of the hospital where they had taken Mom Betty.
Judy and G were beside me, the three of us looking like a picture-perfect display of gloom. My little sister’s eyes were red-rimmed, barely holding back fresh tears. The doctors had assured us that Betty’s life was out of danger, but… yeah. We were grateful she was alive, but the fact that she had lost her arm took a pretty big chunk out of that relief.
Getting here had been a whole ordeal in itself. The dead of night bleeding into early morning, first taking a ride to one end of the city where a pissed-off, sleep-deprived Logan was waiting with a change of clothes for me. Then figuring out where the police had taken Mom. Then another cross-city trip to the hospital…
Wolverine had gone back to the school, while I, heart hammering in my chest, had walked into the hospital, running on nothing but nerves. The chaos of a city ER, trying to get someone to tell me where to go, then finally finding Mom and G, exchanging heavy greetings that carried more relief than joy. My eleven-year-old sister in tears, desperately trying to comfort me, even though she was on the edge of a breakdown herself… The only thing that helped was just standing there in silence, holding each other.
We had pressed ourselves up against a wall in the hallway, away from the nurses and orderlies rushing back and forth, and just… hugged. The three of us, clinging on for dear life. And yeah, there were tears. Even mine.
And no, I wasn’t ashamed of them. These weren’t weak tears. This was pain, mixed with overwhelming relief.
I’d had this realization before, but moments like this hit it home: people never truly appreciate what they have until they almost lose it. Or in our case, barely manage to keep it.
Mom had suffered massive blood loss, a mild concussion, a fractured clavicle, a crack in her cheekbone, a dislocated jaw… and a stump where her left arm used to be.
Judy, when she told me all of this, had paused between each sentence, as if holding back either a sob or a string of curses.
She had never liked Betty’s job. Not because she was anti-cop, but because she couldn’t stand the risk—the constant knowledge that the person she loved was putting herself in danger every day. But she’d always handled it tactfully, never letting it turn into fights or drama in our home. Just quiet complaints and playful jabs at our headstrong lieutenant.
So now, we waited.
The sky was starting to lighten outside when a doctor finally approached us. A woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor.
“You can see her now,” she said. “Ten minutes. No more. And do not stress her.
“We’ve stabilized her condition, but she lost a lot of blood. She needs rest to regain her strength.” The doctor gave us all a pointed, disapproving look. “Frankly, I wouldn’t let you in at all until at least this evening, but your mother insisted. Loudly.”
She sighed, looking up as if asking some higher power for patience.
“Why is it that some people have no sense of self-preservation or patience?” she muttered under her breath before walking off down the hall, waving off our murmured thanks with an absent shake of her head.
I glanced at her badge. Sullivan. Noted. Not for revenge, obviously—I wasn’t that kind of psycho. No, people like her, the ones out there actually helping and saving others, had earned the right to be tired, grumpy, and a little rude.
I was remembering her name for a different reason—because in my past life, I’d had a tradition.
A thank-you gift.
A real one.
Some high-end liquor, a massive basket of chocolate and fruit, and, tucked at the bottom, an envelope stuffed with cash. All topped off with the biggest, most extravagant bouquet of flowers I could find.
Because I could afford it.
If I couldn’t afford it, I’d find a cheaper way. No shame in that. It’s not about how much you give—it’s about how much you have left after giving.
Inside the hospital room…
Mom’s face was wrapped in bandages, leaving only one tired—but mischievous—eye peeking out at us. The visible part of her cheek was pale.
“Why do you three look like you’re at a funeral?” she asked, voice quiet but teasing. “Did the doctor forget to tell me something?”
That was all it took.
G burst into tears and all but fell to her knees beside the bed, clutching Betty’s right hand with both of hers. She kissed her palm repeatedly, babbling out something through her sobs.
"Mom, I love you, please—"
“Oh, sweetheart, come here,” Betty murmured, shifting her fingers through G’s messy red hair, lightly scratching her scalp. “You didn’t brush it properly again, huh? Ah well. Don’t cry, Ginger. It’s not as bad as you think. Your reckless old mom is still here, still breathing. Yeah, losing the arm sucks… but you’re gonna help me get used to it, right?”
Vigorous nodding from my sister.
“Well, there you go, then,” Betty sighed fondly. “That’s why I insisted on seeing you two. Didn’t want you sitting out there, scaring yourselves with worst-case scenarios.”
I stood beside them quietly, just feeling everything. Letting it sink in.
The worst hadn’t happened. It could have, but it didn’t.
I watched as my sister’s face slowly smoothed out, as the tension faded from Judy’s shoulders. The dark cloud hanging over us was lifting, letting in light again.
The weight pressing on my chest—the one that had been sitting there ever since I first heard Mom was in danger—slowly, but surely, slid away.
I could breathe again.
Watching them, seeing them safe and alive, a stupid smile crept onto my face. My vision blurred slightly as tears of relief welled up in the corners of my eyes.
We were okay.
Everything else, we could figure out.
“Toby, quit standing there grinning like an idiot. Get over here and hug your mother.”
Betty’s voice—tired but gentle—snapped me out of it. And yeah. What the hell was I waiting for?
I stepped forward, bending down carefully, mindful of her injuries. I barely put any weight into the hug—just enough to be there without pressing too hard.
The smell of antiseptic and Mom.
I pressed a light kiss to the patch of skin visible between the bandages.
Her hand smoothed over my head, slow and comforting.
“Thank you, son,” she whispered.
And goddamn it. I sniffled. Loudly.
For a few seconds, I just stayed there, letting myself be a kid for a little longer. Letting her comfort me, even though she was the one lying in a hospital bed, missing a whole limb.
What kind of weak-ass—
No.
No, fuck that.
This was my family. There was no need to put on a tough face here.
The door creaked open behind me, and I glanced up with my energy vision, registering a warm signature before turning around.
The door behind us opened, and through my energy vision, I noticed a figure stepping into the room. A pleasant female voice politely asked us to leave.
We gathered our things, warmly said our goodbyes to Betty’s mom, and walked past a refined-looking woman in a doctor’s coat. She wasn’t exactly young anymore, but she wasn’t old either—just at that perfect in-between stage. Her face had that distinguished, aristocratic quality, and she greeted us with a kind smile.
She even nodded at me, her eyes full of understanding and quiet sympathy behind what looked like a rather expensive pair of glasses—or at least, that was my impression.
Something about her seemed familiar, like I’d seen her somewhere before.
But what really caught my attention—and honestly, inspired me—was her energy signature. The heat silhouette on her right arm blended seamlessly into a network of energy lines, a clear sign of a high-tech prosthetic that was indistinguishable from a real limb.
I’d have to ask her where she got one like that.
The woman watched the departing family members until they disappeared from view, then let out a deep sigh. Reaching for the tablet hanging on the back of the hospital bed, she settled into a chair, her sharp gaze locking onto Elizabeth.
“Well, well, girl. How the hell did you manage this?”
Betty averted her eyes, choosing instead to stare intently at the ceiling. The "doctor" simply smirked and flipped through the medical records.
“Hmm… It’s really not as bad as it looks, sweetheart. Rest up, recover, and you’ll be as good as new.”
Her tone was almost cheerful now, as if reassured by what she read. Betty, in response, slowly lifted the stump where her left arm used to be.
“Oh, please, Elizabeth. Who are you trying to impress?” The woman chuckled, patting her own forearm for emphasis. “We’ll get you a replacement so damn good you’ll want to swap out all your limbs for upgrades. Ha! Oh, don’t give me that look—I’m trying to cheer you up.”
Leaning back in her chair, she examined Betty thoughtfully.
“Don’t rush anything, just focus on healing. Tomorrow, we’ll have you transferred to a VIP room—nice and comfortable. You’ll have high-speed internet, any TV channels you want, and a nurse to cater to your every need. And in the meantime, I’ll figure out how best to frame this situation. You were careless, yes, but there’s opportunity here.
"Greater emotional attachment. A way for a wounded mother to regain a fully functional limb. And I imagine the boy will appreciate it when a certain organization graciously and free of charge provides his dear mother with the means to live a normal life again.”
She narrowed her eyes, a dreamy expression passing over her face, before glancing at Elizabeth again—only to find that the woman had already fallen asleep.
“Well, now. How rude.” The aristocratic woman sighed dramatically, lowering her voice. “If I were fifty years younger, I might have actually been offended. Hmph.”
She lingered for a moment, then, as if debating something internally, moved to the bedside and gently adjusted the slightly rumpled blanket. Standing over the sleeping policewoman, she studied her bandaged face with a look that was almost… tender.
Finally, with a quiet sigh, she reached out and lightly brushed her fingers over the exposed patch of skin.
“Little brat,”(1) she murmured in German, a rare warmth in her voice, before shaking her head and striding out of the room.
There was still so much to do.
Nick Fury scowled at the report in front of him.
At this point, scowling at any intel related to Tobias had become second nature—ever since the little shit managed to hide under Magneto’s skirt.
The first recorded appearance of "Mister Mutant" had immediately set off alarm bells for SHIELD analysts. The girls in the department had even given the kid a nickname: Boilermaker.(2) Because, according to them, he "literally boils brains."
Thermal manipulation. Male.
The chances that this was anyone other than a former lab rat from Stryker’s experiments? Damn near nonexistent.
There just weren’t that many male mutants with this specific power set. Pyro didn’t count—his method of fire control was completely different.
Then came the human trafficking case.
Tobias handled it cleanly—no bodies, no mess. Saved the daughter of a police captain. Big case. High-profile. The rescued victims had even personally made sure their "mysterious savior" got the recognition he deserved.
Then the drug cartel.
Again, silent and efficient. He and Spider-Girl tore through an entire operation—two dozen armed women, no casualties. Handed them over to the cops, and once again, right into the hands of the very same captain whose daughter he’d saved before.
None of this would have meant much six months ago.
But now?
Now, every damn thing a mutant did was headline news.
A male mutant rescuing regular civilians? A male mutant taking down human traffickers? A male mutant busting a cartel? The media was eating it up. And now, this latest stunt…
A full-blown hostage rescue.
A fight with Scorpia.
And a victory.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the damn press conference.
And it wasn’t the usual "I’m just a friendly neighborhood superhero!" bullshit either. No, the kid gave answers. Polished. Political. Fake as hell—but exactly what the public wanted to hear.
"One Humanity."
"I am a person first."
"Mutants just want to live their lives."
"The real heroes are police officers, firefighters, and doctors."
Jesus Christ. With rhetoric like that, he could run for Senate.
Even that pain in the ass J. Jonah Jameson had praised him.
PRAISED.
JAMESON.
Fury ran a hand down his face.
That psycho would probably start calling Tobias the Second Coming in his next editorial. And then there was this whole Emperor thing.
Was it a religion? Cult? Sect?
SHIELD had all the data—anything missing had already been requested.
But no records showed any relevant religious figure. No past "Emperors" who could've inspired this level of devotion. A few sci-fi books, maybe, but those didn’t line up with the kid’s profile.
Tobias barely had any interest in fiction at all—books or movies. Which was already weird for his age. Didn’t matter if it was classic literature, mainstream blockbusters, or hyper-masculine action flicks.
The analysts had a theory: either the "Emperor" thing was a joke or an attempt to get reporters off his back.
And God, Fury wanted to believe that.
Because the alternative was some new underground cult, creeping into mutant communities. And mutants had some very powerful people in their ranks.
Now, as much as he’d stopped actively trying to screw the kid over…
If Tobias somehow disappeared off the face of the Earth tomorrow? Fury wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. But the brat had made too much noise. Before tonight, the idea of recruiting him for SHIELD had been premature at best.
But now?
Now he’d taken down Scorpia.
And that?
That made him a serious player.
Scorpia herself was currently clinging to life in a SHIELD medical facility. If it weren’t for the… modifications made to her body, she’d be a well-done corpse.
As it was, she might live long enough to be useful.
And her suit? Junk. Some components had survived, sure, but the finer tech? Completely fried.
A whole lot of questions were piling up about the kid’s rapidly evolving abilities. Heat, light, electricity, energy absorption, physical resilience—it was a long damn list.
And according to SHIELD’s analysts, Tobias wasn’t even close to his limit. He was still adapting to his powers, which meant he was only going to get stronger.
Then there were his connections.
Having a direct link to mutant communities? That was invaluable. Sure, SHIELD could reach out to those communities if needed, but having an insider—a mutant who was part of that world, who had real friendships and attachments? That was an entirely different level of access.
And now, on top of all that, the kid had publicly declared that he was tight with Deadpool and Ghost Rider.
If Fury had hair, it would have turned white on the spot.
One of the most powerful and mysterious supers on Earth had personally given the boy a ride to the scene. And if that wasn’t bad enough, their powers…
There were clear parallels.
Both of them lit up like a damn torch. The only difference? The kid wasn’t a full-on skeleton—yet.
But even that was debatable.
Because, according to the field report from the special forces officer who worked with Tobias, there was a moment during his standoff with the female soldier when: One. His voice dropped into “shit-your-pants” territory. And Two. Under the visor of his helmet, something that looked very much like a “flaming skull” flickered to life.
Yeah.
A lot of questions.
Way too many damn questions.
Alright. Decision made.
They needed to send someone to talk to him.
If they couldn’t recruit him yet, then at least start softening him up.
His performance in this latest operation would be more than enough to convince the right people that putting him on SHIELD’s payroll was a necessity.
After all, once Tobias got involved, there were zero casualties—only a few injuries from the final assault, and he wasn’t even part of it because he was too busy beating the hell out of a supervillain.
And then there was the personal angle.
Fury could use this meeting to cover his own ass—if he framed things right, he could make the kid realize how much trouble he’d caused for "Joseph Black." Not outright blaming him, of course. Just… leading him to the conclusion that, maybe, he owed Fury something.
A little debt.
A little guilt.
Tobias wasn’t stupid, but he was still a kid. And if Fury could paint himself as a martyr in the boy’s eyes?
That would be a damn useful card to play later.
Deadpool twirled around the room, hugging a freshly printed newspaper to her chest.
"My Friend, Deadpool."
Oh, how wonderful!
Her darling Tobi was thinking about her!
Simply fantastic!
The voices in her head were practically singing with joy.
Okay, most of them.
A couple of sourpusses were grumbling, but who cared?
Deadpool was happy.
It was just such a shame she’d been busy that night and only found out about everything after it had already happened.
If she had been the one to save his dear Mommy from captivity…
Oh, oh, Tobias would have been so, so grateful.
He might have even…
agreed to go on a date with her.
A dreamy sigh escaped her lips.
But her perfect moment was shattered by the shrill ring of her phone.
Her first instinct?
To hurl the damn thing against the wall and destroy the vile contraption that dared interrupt her pure bliss.
But then she saw the name on the screen.
Her eyes widened.
For a few seconds—actual, genuine seconds—Deadpool panicked.
Then, taking a deep breath, she snatched the phone up, answering with a voice that was just a little hoarse from excitement, but packed with as much joy and enthusiasm as she could possibly muster:
"Tobias, baby! Oh my God, I’m so happy to hear from you! How’s my favorite little firecracker doing?"
(1) If you do know how to say that phrase in German pls let me know. I’ll replace it.
(2) Help me brainstorm the nick. In the original his nickname is "кипятильник" which directly translates to "heater" or "boiler". I just can't think of a good translation for that
