Editing The Titans (Hybrid 70) (section)

==='''Detective Ted Grant/Power Man'''===

"Getting too old for this." Detective Ted Grant took in a deep breath as he reached the top of the stairs. He swore he'd take the stairs, but at the last minute he'd chickened out and ridden up ten of the floors and walked the last three. He missed being in shape. He missed the endless hours after shifts training, sparring, keeping himself in perfect physical condition. That'd ended when the doc had diagnosed him. "Lay off the heavy stuff", the doc had said. No strenuous activity, and you'll have plenty of years left. The captain had almost forced him to retire then. He was young and brash but he meant well. He'd talked him down to ceremonial appearances only. He couldn't stand being off the force. The older officers had understood that. They'd stood up for him. So here he was, a decorative officer. This was some sort of charity event. Some bigwig, Stark, was giving a bunch of money towards the reconstruction of the city, and some of it was going towards the police department. Grant still remembered that day. His fists clenched and his brow furrowed at the thought. The explosions, the fighting. A lot of good officers had died that day. The doctors thought that maybe exposure to some Atlantean weapon had caused his condition. It didn't matter. 

"Is something wrong officer?" The woman was small and blonde, and she had a definite New York accent. Her name tag said Quinn. She looked vaguely familiar, but even after studying her face for a moment, it wouldn't come to him. He finally responded.

"No, just thinking. I'm Detective Grant, I'm here for the event?" The woman nodded, and led him into the reception hall. 

"Over there officer Grant."

"It's detective, actually." 

"Then maybe I should have let you deduce your seat?" She said it with a strange, jokey tone, smiling to let him know she didn't mean it. He began to move towards his seat. He saw Stark gliding towards the podium in some sort of fancy chair, and then it caught his eye. The gaggle of men in the back of the hall. It was still early, and not everyone had arrived, but they were there, waiting. They weren't dressed quite right either. Not nice enough to be guests, but not uniformed like staff. Like someone who was trying to fit in, but didn't quite know how. He began to walk towards them, his hand resting on his belt. Only a quick movement to the side was his sidearm. He probably shouldn't have it for an event like this, but over thirty years man and boy on the force had taught him to keep his weapon close and his eyes sharp. One of the men made him, and everything went wrong. One of the men broke away from the group, pulling a small black pistol from his coat. He was trying to shoot Stark. Grant had covered the distance before he managed to fire the weapon, jerking it up and the guests and staff screamed and scattered as the gun went off. Grant gave the assassin a vicious right hook that sent him sprawling the ground, turning and drawing his own gun at the same time. He put two shots into the chest of one man and felt the bullet hit him as another one fired. He'd been shot before. It wasn't a new sensation. But it still hurt. He staggered back, catching himself on the table, and managed to put at least one bullet into the man who shot him. Anything else and he couldn't be sure. The two remaining gunmen began to move towards the stage, sleek black pistols in their hands, but then it dropped down. It was terrifying. Some sort of dark shape, indistinct even in the glaring lights of the reception hall. It looked human, or at least human-shaped, and it struck with astonishing speed. With some sort of knife it struck one of the assassins, running him through. Then it backhanded the other, sending him flying into the wall with a thud. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Grant looked down. He'd been shot more than once, it seemed. He had missed the second and third times. The last thing he saw was that blonde woman rushing towards Stark. But the man was calm. At least you could give him that. Then, everything was black.

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Grant opened his eyes. He was in something. A fluid maybe? Even through the strange liquid he could see his surroundings. A good detective always checks his surroundings. It was a lab. Highly advanced. He'd kept up with technology better than some other officers he knew, but this stuff was still beyond him. Way beyond him. But it was also quiet. Empty. No scientists, lab assistants, nobody bustling around, checking monitors, reading data. It didn't even look like the sort of lab that had a staff. There were no proper banks of stations, no feel that this was a working location. This was pure science, devoid of the usual clutter of humanity. Then he heard a voice. He recognized it from the countless TV and radio interviews. It was Stark.

"Glad to see you're finally awake."

"Where am I? This some sort of secret government lab?" Stark laughed at that, then responded.

"No, this is secret, but it is my own personal facility. I keep only my most advanced projects here." 

"Then is that what I am? A project?" 

"Not quite. Ted Grant, 61 years old, detective with the NYPD, police officer for over forty years. You must have started young."

"Eighteen. As soon as they would let me take the tests."

"You've remained in incredible condition for a man your age, until six months ago. What happened then?" Ted figured he'd just play along until he could figure out what was going on. 

"I've got some sort of condition. The doctors, they've got a name for it, but I just know that it has to do with my heart. Too much strenuous activity, and they say it'll just give out. Apparently it happened because of that attack." He could actually see Stark now. He'd glided out of the darkness in a corner of the labs, then looked up at the lighting with disgust, waving his hand. The lights in that section of he lab turned on. 

"That is an incredible shame. After all you've done for the city. You caught the Red Racer, the Bohemia Strangler. You put Alfred Moletti and Sal Maroni behind bars. You've even arrested super-villains. Countless arrests, countless convictions. You've saved so many lives. Why were you never more than a detective?"

"I wanted to stay close to the justice. The further up you go, sad to say, the further you get from it. Staying low on the totem, that's the only way I could get things done my way. The "whatever way I could" way." Stark nodded, his face distorted by the liquid. 

"By all rights Detective Grant, you should be dead. The strain to your heart, not to mention the three bullets to the chest should have sealed your fate. But let me ask you a question, purely hypothetical. If I could give you another chance to fight injustice, to keep on fighting the good fight against the forces of corruption, would you take it? If I told you all that I would ask would be that you keep fighting, and perhaps listen to my guidance?"

"Mr. Stark, that sure doesn't sound like a hypothetical to me." 

"But if it were possible?"

"If what you say is true, you can give me a second chance, to get back out there? Fighting crime and corruption has been my life. My whole life. Everything I've ever done has been to accomplish it. I've got no kids, no ex-wives and a string of disappointed girlfriends who thought they could be the one love of my life. If you can get me back out there Mr. Stark, then yes, that would be a deal I'd take."

"The formula you are emerged in is a chemical first developed during WWII. A super-soldier program. My father worked on it. Now, it will only heal your wounds. Even fix your condition. I've made modifications, you see. Brought it up to modern standard. But if I charge it with certain highly unique energies, it will give you new strength, new life and new youth. You'll be a brand new man. Strong enough to hurl a car, tough enough to stop machine gun fire with your chest. You'll see, hear, smell, taste and feel better. You'll barely need sleep and you'll have full access to my crime lab."

"There a catch? Because right now Stark, you're sounding real tempting. The goatee and red tie aren't helping."

"Forgive me, I haven't had time to change. I ask that you work with me to fight larger problems as well as handling street-level affairs. I ask that you train my bodyguard and assistant here," at that the blonde woman materialized from...somewhere. One minute the room had only Stark, and the next minute she'd just appeared behind him, "in detective work, observational skills and whatever other skills you think necessary for the job. Oh, and you should probably come up with some sort of codename. To the world, Ted Grant is dead." That bugged Ted a little, but he'd talk about it later.

"I can do those things. She that black thing that came out and finished the triggermen off?"

"Yes." 

"Then I can use her. As for a codename, well. Just call me Power Man or something. Something simple."

"Fine. I'll begin the process then. Oh, and Mr. Grant?"

"Yes?"

"This will hurt."