Max_Striker
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Chapter 7: Future Direction
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 17:09:53 +0000 UTCJay woke up in a motel room that smelled like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams. He'd blown 50 bucks on this dump, but it was anonymous, and that's what mattered.
His stomach hit him before he was fully awake—a gnawing emptiness that felt like it was trying to eat him from the inside out. He'd demolished a full dinner last night, plus snacks, and somehow, he was starving again. The Heavy Eater drawback wasn't just inconvenient; it was also expensive.
The cheap digital clock blinked 7:23 AM. His wallet was empty except for Grandma Emma's ten dollars. Time to collect the rest of his payment.
Walking back through Bayville's wealthy neighbourhood felt different in the morning light. The manicured lawns sparkled with dew, and early joggers nodded politely as they passed. Jay felt like an intruder in clean clothes, carrying secrets that could shatter their perfect little bubble.
The Hendersons' house looked even more imposing in daylight—all Georgian columns and expensive landscaping. Jay rang the doorbell, trying to look more confident than he felt.
Mrs. Henderson answered, her face cycling through recognition, relief, and something that might have been hope.
"You came back," she said.
"Told you I would. How's Tommy?"
She led him inside, past oil paintings that probably cost more than most people's cars. "See for yourself."
Tommy was in the living room, building an elaborate fort out of couch cushions. When he saw Jay, he grinned and waved.
"Look! It's a spaceship!"
Jay knelt down beside the fort, watching the kid's animated explanation of his imaginary adventure. Tommy's eyes were bright, his color was good, and he moved with the boundless energy of a healthy six-year-old. No trace of whatever mutation had been trying to surface.
"That's pretty impressive, captain," Jay said, and meant it.
For a moment, he was back in the paediatric ward, watching a kid bounce back from illness. Those moments had been rare in his old job, but they'd kept him going through the worst shifts. This felt the same, only better; he'd been the one to fix it.
Mr. Henderson appeared in the doorway, still in his expensive suit even though it was barely eight in the morning. "Tommy, why don't you show your spaceship to Mom upstairs?"
As the boy ran off, Jay noticed Mrs. Henderson favouring her left foot.
"You're limping," he said.
She waved it off. "Stupid accident. Tripped over Tommy's bike in the garage yesterday. Twisted my ankle pretty good."
"Let me take a look."
"Oh, you don't need to—"
"On the house," Jay said. "Call it a service for good behaviour."
She sat on the couch and rolled up her pant leg. The ankle was swollen and decorated with an ugly purple bruise that wrapped around to her heel.
Jay crouched down and gently touched the injured area. He'd done this hundreds of times as a nurse—checking for fractures, assessing damage. But now he felt something else, a warm current flowing from his chest down through his arms.
"This might feel strange," he warned.
A soft green glow spread from his fingertips into her skin. The warmth travelled through the damaged tissue, making it revert to how it was supposed to be. Jay guided the healing carefully. The swelling receded; the bruise faded from purple to yellow to nothing.
Mrs. Henderson stared at her perfectly normal ankle. "How did you—"
Mr. Henderson had been watching the entire display with the calculating look of a man who saw opportunities everywhere.
"Sarah, it's okay," he said, moving to steady her. "He helped Tommy, remember? He's not dangerous."
Jay pushed himself up from the floor, swaying slightly. The healing had taken more out of him than he'd expected—like running a sprint after donating blood. His hands trembled as he steadied himself against the couch.
"Sorry," he said to Mrs. Henderson, who was still staring at him like he might spontaneously combust. "I should have warned you it would look... dramatic."
"How many powers do you have?" he asked bluntly.
Jay considered the question. The truth was complicated—he had one power that could become many, but explaining power theft might make them nervous.
"Just one," he said carefully, "but with different applications."
"And you can heal serious injuries? Not just bruises?"
"Depends on the injury. Broken bones, torn muscles, internal damage—yeah, I can handle most of it. But it's draining. The worse the injury, the more it takes out of me."
Henderson nodded slowly. "I have associates. Wealthy people who value their privacy. People who might need medical attention but prefer to avoid hospitals."
Jay felt a familiar excitement. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for—a way to monetize his abilities without getting tangled up in the superhero community.
"The price would be substantial," he said.
"How substantial?"
"Depends on what needs fixing. But we're talking about serious money. These people can afford it."
"They can indeed." Henderson pulled out his phone. "I'll make some calls. You'll need a way to contact you."
"Working on that. Give me your card—I'll reach out to you."
Henderson handed over an embossed business card that probably cost more to print than most people spent on lunch.
"Now, about yesterday," Henderson said, walking to a wall safe hidden behind a painting of hunting dogs. He spun the combination and withdrew a manila envelope.
Jay tried not to stare as Henderson counted out the cash. Crisp hundred-dollar bills, neat and perfect, stacking up like green poker chips. When Henderson finished, the bundle was surprisingly compact—fifty thousand dollars reduced to a stack barely thicker than a paperback book.
"All there," Henderson said, handing it over.
Jay flipped through it quickly, more out of habit than distrust. The bills felt real, looked real, smelled like the particular mix of cotton and ink that said "legitimate money."
"Pleasure doing business," Jay said, pocketing the envelope.
Walking away from the Henderson house, Jay felt like he was seeing the world differently. The money in his pocket was more than he'd ever held at once, but it wasn't just about the cash. For the first time since arriving in this reality, he had a plan that made sense.
The Henderson contact was just the beginning. In a world full of superheroes and villains, there had to be plenty of people who needed healing but couldn't risk going to a hospital. People with secrets, people with enemies, people with money.
No more emergency rooms full of people who hated their lives. No more administrators who treated healing like an assembly line. No more insurance companies deciding who deserved to get better.
Just him, his abilities, and clients who could pay whatever he decided to charge.
He thought about his old life—twenty-five years of following someone else's script, playing by rules designed to keep him trapped. That version of himself would have been horrified by what he was planning. Taking advantage of the wealthy, charging exorbitant fees for healing, operating outside the system.
But that version of himself had been miserable.
This version was finally free.
His stomach growled again, reminding him that freedom was expensive in more ways than one. Time to find breakfast, then figure out his next move. Maybe look into getting a phone, finding a more permanent place to stay.
