JohnnyZ
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[Life is Good] Chapter 41
🕑 Added 2025-02-02 07:28:20 +0000 UTCWe stepped out of the building to the sound of a shootout dying down in the neighboring house. Huh. That was quick. Then again… they’re just thugs. What else would you expect? Without hostages or a super on their side, what could they possibly do against a well-trained SWAT team?
Oh, never mind. The gunfire roared back to life, and I made a beeline for the Captain. I walked straight into the open, stepping right into the line of fire without a care. No cover, no ducking—what for? Naturally, I was rewarded with a chorus of "Get the fuck to cover, you idiot!" from the cops and a solid ten hits from the gang holed up in the building. Well, well, well—looks like these guys don’t have stormtrooper syndrome. Not that it mattered. The more bullets they wasted on me, the fewer they'd have for the girls. So, I lit up my fist and gave the windows of the fortified thug house a menacing little wave.
The response? Another wave of lead. No damage on my end, but the cops took advantage of the distraction and returned fire with renewed enthusiasm. That’s how I finally made it to Miss Stacy, who was giving me the look. Not an angry look—more like the exasperated patience of a mother catching her kid doing something profoundly stupid. My own mom used to give me that look a lot when I pulled dumb shit.
"Captain, is there anything else I can do to help? Maybe with the assault?"
"Salamander… Look, I’d really rather not send you into the fight, but we’re pinned on the first floor, and the criminals blocked off the breach on the third. And, from what I can tell, you really are bulletproof."
"Got it, Miss Stacy. Though…" I glanced thoughtfully at the megaphone lying on the hood of a car and pointed at it. "Mind if I give it a shot?"
She raised a skeptical eyebrow but nodded.
As I picked up the loudspeaker and strolled toward the "front lines," Stacy was barking orders into her radio. The gunfire started to die down, turning into occasional shots before stopping entirely. I stepped out from the police ranks, walking to about the middle of the open space between the barricade and the building.
"Good evening," I said, my voice calm and a little tired.
From one of the windows, a voice immediately responded, "Go fuck yourself, asshole!"
"Believe me, I’d love to. Thanks to you fuckers, I just missed out on a damn fine orgy, and I am not in a good mood right now. So, be smart about this and surrender. The hostages are free, I personally turned your dear Scorpia into crispy bacon, and you’ve got nothing left to hope for. Also, I’ve got a phone in my hand."
I raised the device for them to see.
"And if you don’t throw down your weapons in the next five minutes, I’m calling my good friend Deadpool. She’s very into ‘highlight reels of dead enemies.’ And after that, we’re coming in together, and you’ll be leaving this place in neatly grilled and expertly sliced kebab portions. You’ve got five minutes to decide."
With the entire battlefield falling into stunned silence, I turned on my heel and walked back to the cops.
Why bring up Deadpool? Well, for one, she had a very unique reputation. And for two—I was absolutely sure she’d back me up. Worst-case scenario, I’d pay her mercenary rates. I had some savings, and if that wasn’t enough, I could always borrow… maybe from Harry Osborn or Magneto.
"You think that’ll work?" Captain Stacy asked, her voice brimming with an ocean’s worth of skepticism.
Then, from behind me, two gunshots rang out inside the building, followed by a third. I turned just in time to see a white t-shirt waving frantically out the window.
"Don’t shoot!" a voice shouted. "We surrender!"
"Seems like it worked," I shrugged, turning back to Gwen’s mom. "Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way."
"Huh. Well, I’ll be damned… Sure thing, Salamander." She still looked a little thrown. "By the way, in case something like this happens again—" she gestured at the building "—can I call you at that number?"
"Of course, Miss Stacy." I nodded. "If I’m available, I’ll help."
"Good. One more thing—it’d be great if you could do some training with our girls. Y’know, to get used to working together. Sybilla swore like a sailor but spoke pretty highly of you. In her own… special way."
"Hmm…" I considered it. "Could you guarantee that no one will try to unmask me or kidnap me? Had some… unfortunate incidents before."
"Guarantee? No," she admitted with a slight smile. "But I can promise to warn you if anything shady comes up. You saved my daughter, pulled my girls out of a bad spot… and my team? They wouldn’t stand for that kind of bullshit. Special forces girls are straightforward—they walk under fire and value trust. Plus, the order for us to work with you came from higher up. I think they’re interested in making this ‘experimental program’ work."
"Let me check with the older mutants and get back to you?" I decided to hold off on answering. This was something worth running by more experienced folks.
I didn’t want to promise anything only for Magneto or Xavier to immediately shoot it down. Not that they’d forbid me outright—we’re not a prison—but they’d argue me into the ground until I was convinced I’d just agreed to be a sucker. Then I’d have to call Stacy back and decline, which would be awkward as hell. But if I could help, I would.
"Sounds reasonable. Deal. Do you need a ride?" Stacy flashed a rare open smile.
"I’d appreciate it if someone could drop me off."
"Alright. Sergeant!" She called out to one of the officers. "Escort Mr. Salamander wherever he needs to go."
"Yes, ma’am. This way, sir."
"Goodbye, Captain." I gave her a nod.
"Goodbye, Mr. Salamander." She switched back to a more formal tone. "And thanks again for your help. Oh, and Gwen says hi."
Muttering, "Tell her hi back," I followed the sergeant, feeling surprisingly good about the day.
Behind me, cops were rounding up the now-handcuffed criminals. Not bad, huh? I did some good work today. More than one good thing, actually.
One hell of a day—enough action to fill a month. Took down a psycho, freed some hostages, fried Scorpia, won a negotiation battle with a bunch of gun-toting gangsters… Damn, just mentioning Deadpool got an entire squad of criminals to surrender without a fight. Wild.
She’s such a sweetheart—why is everyone so afraid of her?
…Yeah, I’m bullshitting. She’s totally capable of turning those guys into a very literal "highlight reel."
I should take her out for coffee. You know, as an apology for using her name. No need for misunderstandings.
Besides, I really don’t want her to hold a grudge. That’s the kind of grudge you don’t survive.
By the way, about Scorpia—was she a female version of Gargan or an actual Elaine Coll? Honestly, the reports never mentioned her real name. Just "Scorpia." Didn’t think too much about it. In the original Marvel, Mac Gargan came first, then Coll replaced him later under the Scorpia moniker. But with this universe’s take on canon being all over the place, for all I know, she could be a completely random chick.
"Mr. Salamander, may I ask you a few questions?"
The fuck? Oh, for—Goddammit. I was so lost in thought that I completely missed the fact that we had just stepped out of the police cordon and walked straight into a pack of piranhas—ahem, I mean, a group of reporters. Holy Khorne, what happened to my radio Alastor Moody powers?! Where’s my CONSTANT VIGILANCE?!
"Sorry, ma’am, but I’m in a hurry." I tried to inject my voice with as much firmness as possible, laced with just the right amount of regret.
"Sir, it won’t take long. Just a few questions for our readers." The one pressing me was a rather cute redhead with mesmerizing green eyes. Well, yeah, of course—journalists. I’m actually surprised they haven’t tackled me to the ground like a rugby team and started milking me for information with their tits…
"Sergeant…" I turned to the officer escorting me, hoping for a lifeline, but either she misunderstood my plea or she was just as eager to eavesdrop, because she immediately delivered the finishing blow:
"I’ll wait, sir."
…Fuck. I stared into the journalist’s eyes, watching her grin widen in triumph, and accepted my fate. Fine. Nobody said I couldn’t squeeze some personal benefit out of this situation, right?
"Alright, but let’s keep it brief, Miss…?"
"Melinda Brown, Mr. Salamander. America Today. Tell me, what inspired you—a man—to take on such a dangerous role assisting the police in fighting crime?"
"Conscience." Short and sweet, baby.
"Could you elaborate a little?" Her smile tightened slightly, and a hint of disappointment flickered in her eyes. I almost felt bad. Almost. Fine, no need to bully her.
"I can. Let’s try an analogy, Miss Brown. Imagine you’re an exceptional swimmer. World-class. The best. Got it?"
Melinda’s eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically, her smile bouncing right back.
"And one day, you’re crossing a bridge over a wide, treacherous river. Up ahead, some poor guy stumbles and falls into the water. You don’t know him. You don’t know if he can swim. You don’t know if he can survive. But you do know that you have the ability to help. Do you jump in or just shrug and keep walking?"
"Of course, I’d jump in!" she declared, almost insulted by the implication.
"Exactly. Same principle here. I have the ability to help, I have the means to help, so I help. Whether I’m a man or a woman doesn’t matter. What does matter is that if I walked away, my conscience would eat me alive. So no, Miss Brown, this isn’t altruism. I act under the weight of my own principles, upbringing, and sense of responsibility."
She let out a short giggle and was about to fire off another question when someone else cut in.
"Mr. Salamander, Daily Bugle, Edward Brock. We just saw the body in the Scorpia armor being carried out of the neighboring building! Was that your handiwork?"
Well, well, well… Brock, huh? How… interesting. I actually hesitated for a few seconds—his sudden appearance was unexpected. Also, the redhead wrinkled her nose when he barged in, but didn’t protest. Professional courtesy, or was she just sharing the opportunity?
"Yes, Mr. Brock. That was Scorpia, and yes—her condition is entirely my doing."
They couldn’t see my face, but trust me, I was grinning. A very unpleasant grin.
"She’s an incredibly powerful supervillain," another journalist chimed in—this time, a third one. Nobody seemed annoyed by the interruption anymore. Guess there was some kind of unspoken rule: one question per person, so nobody leaves empty-handed. "Can you tell us how you managed to neutralize her without causing any major destruction? Past fights with her have resulted in significant casualties and serious damage to the city’s infrastructure."
"Miss…?"
"Helen Winter, New York Observer." The woman introduced herself. Late forties, brunette, nothing particularly remarkable.
"Miss Winter, the success of this mission was thanks to the impeccable professionalism of Captain Stacy’s team. As you saw, I wasn’t acting alone—I was coordinating with a highly trained SWAT unit. The exceptional skill of the officers combined with my abilities allowed us to rescue the hostages and engage a superpowered opponent on our terms, minimizing risk to civilians and property. In the end, only a couple of walls in an abandoned building were damaged, which I’d say is proof that the strategy—‘Team of professionals + superpowered operator’—was highly effective."
Gotta grease the wheels, right? Make the cops look good so they keep treating me even better. And throwing a little extra sugar at the police captain, who already seemed to like me, wouldn’t hurt either. No need to tell them that my actual battle strategy against Scorpia was just a whole lot of WAAAAAGH!!!
"So it’s true that you’re officially cooperating with the police? What led you to that decision? Most superheroes either work solo or team up with their own kind—other superpowered individuals," Brock followed up.
"That’s right, we’re working together. And to be honest, we’re still getting used to each other. This is a new endeavor for both me and the NYPD. Also, I don’t consider myself a superhero." I deliberately emphasized the last part. "Mutant? Sure. Guy with superpowers? Absolutely. But as for the title of hero… I completely agree with your boss, Mr. Brock. Miss Jameson put it best—real heroes are—"
I gestured toward the police sergeant standing nearby, who, after my earlier praise of the officers’ professionalism, was now standing there like a cat that just got spoiled with treats. Her eyes widened in surprise when I pointed her out.
"—them. The police."
I waved toward the ambulances.
"Doctors, paramedics, rescue workers. See, they don’t have superpowers—just bravery, responsibility, unwavering principles, and years of training dedicated to protecting and saving the lives of ordinary Americans. They are the ones who rush into burning buildings, stop criminals, and keep you from dying in some accident. Me? I’m just a guy who, out of nowhere, got some extra abilities beyond what the average citizen has, you know? And I’m extremely grateful to Captain Stacy and her leadership for allowing me the opportunity to work with professionals and gain experience."
Brock opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Melinda Brown practically vibrated with excitement as she jumped in.
"Mr. Salamander, you mentioned being a mutant! What’s your take on the ‘mutant problem’?"
"Mmm… You know…" I actually took a moment to think about how to answer in a way that would satisfy everyone without bullshitting myself. And then, well, I mentally said, fuck it, and decided to just say what I actually thought.
"Let’s be real, Melinda. Mutants don’t have a problem. Society has a problem. Let me explain," I raised my hands to cut off whatever follow-up question she was about to fire off. "See… some time ago, America decided to actively fight against racial oppression."
I noticed one of the black reporters in the group immediately perk up.
"Racism, discrimination based on skin color—all that started getting condemned. Now, in every walk of life, people are supposed to have equal opportunities, equal rights… unless you’re a mutant. A mutant girl is far less likely to get hired, she’ll be kicked out of college under some flimsy excuse, she’ll have rocks thrown at her from an alleyway, people will spit at her back, she won’t even get served in stores. So tell me: for what? What did a girl do to deserve this just because her eyes turned yellow? What crime did a boy commit just because he suddenly became faster than a cheetah? How can a parent throw their own child out of the house just because they stopped being 'normal'?
"Mutants don’t choose this life, you understand? One day—whether it’s wonderful or horrifying—we just… change. Powers manifest. And in that moment, in the eyes of the majority, we become outcasts. Corrupted. Untouchable freaks. Nazi Germany—our enemy in World War II—performed horrific experiments on mutants. You could call them torture, because that’s exactly what they were. A few decades later, and here we are—Colonel Stryker, under the authority of the U.S. Secretary of Defense, running her own little Ahnenerbe branch on a military base, torturing children in the best traditions of HYDRA and the Nazis… And you’re asking me about the 'mutant problem'?"
My voice, toward the end, was thick with bitterness and disappointment.
"The mutant problem, Miss Brown, is that all we want is to simply live."
For a few moments, silence hung heavy around us. Even the sergeant looked away, suddenly finding something fascinating on the pavement.
"Tell me, Mr. Salamander," Brock again—but this time, there was hesitation in his voice, none of his earlier cockiness. "If things are really that bad… why do you still choose to help ordinary people?"
"Because I am an ordinary person, Mr. Brock. They can slap labels on me—monster, freak, abomination—but at the end of the day, I’m just as human as you, Miss Brown, and Miss Winter. My mother gave birth to me—my human mother. I was raised by ordinary people. I love a normal girl, and I hope that soon, she’ll become my wife. Our children might not even be mutants, you understand? So how could I possibly feel hatred toward my future children? Toward the woman I love?
"I am human, and I can contribute to humanity. A united humanity—not one divided into black and white, mutant and baseline. One way or another, by doing what I do, I feel like my life actually means something."
"That’s… very admirable, Mr. Salamander. Tell me, do you believe in the Goddess?"
What the hell…? That was unexpected from Helen Winter. Probably my whole ‘love everyone’ stance made her assume I was religious, so she decided to ask about my faith. A question I absolutely couldn’t resist making a joke about. A joke only I was going to laugh at, of course.
"I believe in the Emperor, Miss Winter. The Emperor and Humanity."
That’s right, bitches. Forgive me, Goddess, if you’re real, but this was my standard response to every street preacher back in my last life. I just really, really hope that the higher beings in this universe have a sense of humor and that Thor or Loki won’t kick my ass for that one.
After hastily saying goodbye to the journalists—who were still blinking at me like I’d just spoken in eldritch tongues—I turned on my heel and walked away with my equally stunned police escort toward the parked cruisers.
Didn’t think I’d say this at my mental age, but right now? I just really, really wanna go to Mom. I wanna go to Mama Betty so bad.
