The Metal Man #1
The Iron Shadow
Rain slicked the streets of Chicago, turning neon lights into bleeding streaks of red and gold. John Henry sat alone in the garage behind his mother’s old house, staring at the half-gutted engine on the workbench. His wheelchair creaked when he shifted, the metal brace digging into his spine—a constant reminder of what the war had taken.
It had been six months since they shipped him home from Korea. Six months since the bullet tore through his back and left him a broken man. The Army doctors had patched him up, slapped his shoulder, and sent him home with a pension. Lucky to be alive, they said. But “lucky” wasn’t the word for a man who couldn’t stand, whose nights were filled with the screams of men burning on the battlefield.
Before the war, John had been a legend in town. The mechanic who could coax life out of dead engines, who could rebuild an entire truck from nothing but scrap. Now he could barely rebuild himself.
The Garage
The obsession began slowly. A way to keep his hands from shaking and his mind from drowning in memories. He scavenged everything he could—rusted pistons from junkyards, airplane hydraulics, old truck gears. What started as therapy became purpose. He built braces, pistons, and steel plates, welding them into crude legs that could move when his own refused.
The first time the machine lifted him upright, he cried. He hadn’t felt that tall, that whole, since before the war.
By the third month, he wasn’t just walking. He was something new—half man, half machine. Every hiss of the hydraulics reminded him he wasn’t helpless anymore.
The News
The headlines came like a gut punch.
“Iron-Clad Madman Holds Bank Hostage—Demands Gold for Dead Son!”
The grainy news footage showed a hulking figure, clad in makeshift armor, stomping through the First National Bank like an avenging ghost. Steel plates were welded across his arms and chest, each movement screeching like a tortured hinge. Through a distorted speaker, the man roared:
“They took my son in Korea, and now they’ll pay! I’ll take what they value most—gold, money, power!”
John sat back, cigarette trembling between his fingers. He didn’t know the man, but he understood him. That raw, hollow anger was familiar. It was the sound of someone who gave everything and got nothing back.
The Suit
John opened the trunk in the corner of the garage. Inside were his own creations—metal braces reinforced with armor, a chest plate with hydraulic support, and crude gauntlets that amplified his grip. He tightened the straps, bolted the pieces together, and hooked up the power pack.
When he stood, the machine came alive with a low hiss and the grind of gears. John Henry—cripple, war casualty, forgotten veteran—was gone. In his place stood something harder. Something that could fight.
The Bank
The streets around the bank crawled with squad cars, their red lights spinning across rain-slick pavement. The cops didn’t know how to handle a man who could shrug off bullets. They formed a nervous perimeter, too scared to go in.
John didn’t wait. The heavy doors groaned as he shoved them open, stepping into the dim lobby. Gold bars lay stacked like bricks of sunlight, and hostages huddled in the corner, their eyes wide with fear.
The armored man turned to face him, a jagged claw glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Who the hell are you?” His voice was a distorted snarl through the speaker.
“Just a man who’s tired of being broken,” John said, his voice steady. “Step away from the gold.”
The madman laughed, a sound like rust scraping metal. “Soldier boy, you don’t get it, do you? The government doesn’t care about you. Or me. My boy died for a flag that spits on his name. I’m taking what’s owed.”
The Clash
The man lunged, claw swinging like a wrecking ball. John ducked, his hydraulic legs hissing as he drove his steel fist into the man’s chest plate. The impact rang like a hammer on an anvil.
They fought like titans, the sound of metal-on-metal echoing through the lobby. Sparks flew as claws tore at armor, the floor cracking beneath their weight.
“You think they’ll thank you?” the madman growled, grabbing John by the shoulder. “They’ll forget you, just like they forgot me!”
John froze for half a heartbeat. He heard the truth in those words. He saw his own reflection in the man’s dented visor—a soldier chewed up and discarded.
The Walk Away
Sirens wailed outside. The cops were getting ready to storm the building.
John lowered his fists. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “They left us both with nothing.”
The madman blinked, his claw trembling mid-air. “Then why fight me?”
John turned toward the door, his metal boots thudding against the marble. “Because I thought I still owed them something. I don’t.”
He walked out past the police barricades, ignoring the shouted orders. He didn’t look back.
The madman could have the gold. None of it mattered. Not to men like them.
Comments
Post a Comment