PART 3:
Sunder was heavier than he looked and he already looked hefty to begin with. It didn't make much of a difference to Peter, though. With the amount of energy he'd pulled from the man, he could probably do a couple of marathons back-to-back while carrying a car on his back before he fully used up what he'd taken.
Carrying Sunder over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes a short distance into the Alley was… well.. Small potatoes. Or a very big potato in this case. A big potato that smelled strongly of cheap, tart aftershave.
While Sunder wasn't too heavy for Peter to manhandle, he was unwieldy, easily twice Peter's size, so balancing him was slightly tricky, but Caliban had been insistent that Peter actually carry him, rather than drag him by his ankle.
"Sunder has already taken many, many blows to the head. I do not think it would be good for him to take any more." Caliban had said primly as they walked.
"Fine," Peter sighed. "I honestly wasn't expecting to have to be the one to carry him, though."
Caliban shrugged. "You won. You didn't kill him, so like Callisto said, you get to take him to Healer."
Peter glanced over at his taller companion. "And if I had killed him?"
Caliban gave another shrug, this time, Peter could see it made him uncomfortable. "Then you would have had to deal with the body. Responsibility is part of being a Morlock. You make a mess, you clean it up."
Peter looked thoughtful. "Should I have killed him?"
"Please do not. Sunder is–" He stopped for a second groping for the right thing to say. "He is not well. But he is not that bad."
"Not that bad?" Peter asked incredulously.
"Sunder is loyal to a fault." Caliban said in explanation. "Probably to every possible fault. He is loyal to the Morlocks, but he is most loyal to his friends. Caliban has known him a very long time."
"Sounds like you're one of his friends," Peter said, his tone mildly accusatory.
Caliban gave Peter a wan smile. "Caliban is. Sunder is not a deep thinker. Or much of a thinker at all. He likes a good scrap and he likes to be told what to do. Masque and Callisto like to tell him what to do."
Peter's expression darkened, his eyes flashing red in the not-quite dark of the Alley. "Masque seems like he likes to tell a lot of people what to do."
Caliban nodded at that.
"Does Callisto just tolerate him or is he supposed to be doing that?"
"Caliban does not know for sure anymore." He shrugged once more. "Callisto has many ideas about how things are. How people are supposed to be. Sometimes those thoughts do not line up with how things actually are. Sometimes she tells Masque to do things."
Peter frowned. "Then why is she in charge."
"Because no one else wants to be," Caliban admitted. "Or rather the ones who want to be, run into the rule about Morlock leadership." Caliban held a finger up. "Very important rule."
"Which is?"
Caliban declared, "If you don't like how Callisto leads, you challenge her for leadership. Fight to the death with no powers. Whoever survives, leads."
Peter stopped walking and stared at the pale man. "That's insane."
Caliban made a non-commital noise and shrugged once more. "The possibility was raised. But it does prevent most people from trying for her spot."
"Wait, you guys are the founders of the Morlocks… so she's always been in charge and that's a rule she made up."
"Yes. Correct."
Peter looked Caliban dead in his massive eyes and declared flatly. "Literally insane."
"As Caliban said, it is a possibility. Yes." Caliban murmured, looking away.
"And she's still in charge? People listen to her?" Peter pressed.
"Other than a very casual stance on violence and murder for conflict resolution, she is not that bad of a leader."
"Seriously?" Peter stared.
"She protects us. She makes sure people do their tasks. She did not mind that you came to blows with Sunder. As far as she is concerned, since you won, you were in the right. It is over and done with."
Peter glanced to the unheeding bulk on his shoulder, then over to Caliban, disbelief still plain on his face.
The pale man smiled faintly. "Still, Caliban is glad you did not kill him."
They walked deeper into the alley, past where most of the dividers and structures had been clustered and down a much smaller branch corridor that had a wooden board over it as a makeshift sign in white paint, declaring in all capitals: "HOUSE OF HEALER"
The 'S' in the word house had been painted backwards for some reason.
Peter glanced up at the sign as they stepped into the slightly darker corridor. This one smelled of candle smoke and beeswax. Dust and paper.
"So I'm taking him to a doctor or something?" He asked.
"To Healer," Caliban corrected gently.
As they stepped into a larger carved out room, Peter took in that there were about a dozen mismatched beds with threadbare sheets that all possibly had other colors when they'd been new, but had all been bleached to an almost uniform off-white.
Just to one side of the entrance was a wooden roll-top writing desk against a wall, that had clearly had repairs done to it as the legs didn't match one another, even though someone had sawed them down so that the whole thing remained level.
Next to the desk was a battered stand lamp with an adjustable neck. It was currently off, with the warm light in the room being provided by at least a dozen dribbly candles scattered on almost every available surface.
The walls of the room looked like raw stone, with niches and shelves carved into them. Most of the shelves were haphazardly filled with a profusion of books, but the light was too dim to see the titles from where Peter stood.
There was also what appeared to be a metal fire door embedded into the rock walls without a door frame. On the red, chipped paint of the door, someone had painted in white the word, "SUPPLIES" in the same style as the sign outside the chamber. Both the 'S's were backwards. The door had a prominently visible latch that had an oversized padlock threaded through it.
In front of the door stood two people. One was the bearded man who had been in front of them in the breakfast line. The man in the robe with the pointy collar and a skull cap.
He was arguing quietly with an older woman with a lined, careworn face. She had dark eyes that were lined with crows feet and brown hair peeking out from underneath a knitted blue beanie cap. She wore an ill-fitting brown cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Underneath that, she had on a green housedress that came to her ankles. On her feet were a pair of battered work boots.
"It's not like I'm asking for any of the hard stuff," She said in a cracked and wheezing voice. "Just some ibuprofen–"
The man's voice was deep, but had an exasperated air to it. The tone of a conversation that had happened so often it had worn grooves into someone's soul and they were playing it by rote now. "Plague, we are out. We are down to the children's dose stuff, which isn't enough to do you any good and we need to save for the actual children."
She whined. "Anything? Anything at all? Anything will do. Paracetamol? Naproxen? I just ache so much–"
The older man sighed. "I know, dear. I know. But I have been assured by Callisto that we will have a supply run very soon and she has made it a priority to get us more medication."
The woman, Plague, slumped. Her entire demeanor, defeated. "Fine. I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe I can just sleep it off–" She muttered as she walked away, coughing elaborately into her fist as she shuffled past them. She eyed Peter carrying Sunder, then shot Caliban a quick questioning glance which the pale man returned with an elaborate shrug.
Healer watched the woman leave, making sure that she was gone before he threw his hands up in frustration. He gave Caliban a hard look and said. "I swear to you, young man. If that old hypochondriac does not stop annoying me, I will not be responsible for my actions."
Caliban held both hands up placatingly. "Plague is not trying to be difficult, Healer. You know she isn't."
The now named Healer grumbled inaudibly.
"Is she going to be okay?" Peter asked curiously, drawing Healer's attention to him for the first time.
"Plague?" Healer replied, waving his hand dismissively in the direction of the door. "Oh, yes. She's fine. Healthy as a horse. Her power is to make other people sick. Unfortunately, it also constantly makes her feel sick, even when she really isn't. I can't do much about that."
Caliban supplied, "Healer has the power to heal people, but it's mostly for injuries. Also, he can not heal himself, so please do not pick a fight."
Peter shot Caliban a sour look.
Healer looked worried and shied back slightly. "Is this a concern?"
Peter sighed. "No, it isn't. I'm going to randomly pick fights."
Caliban nodded, his expression deadpan as he replied, "Yes. Your behavior did seem quite deliberate."
That earned him another sour look, that Caliban returned all earnest innocence.
Peter shook his head and prodded. "So… healing injuries?"
Healer nodded. "Oh, yes. Bruising, burns, and lacerations I can deal with quite handily. Actual diseases, less so, but I can at most give someone's immune system a bit of a jump start to help with infections. Not much more beyond that."
"So your power wouldn't work on her, even if she was actually sick?"
"Exactly. Consequently, she tends to go through a lot of over the counter medication. She can survive being uncomfortable for a day or two until we get some more supplies in, however." Healer's attention focused on Peter further.
"And you are?"
"Ah. I'm Dumas." Peter replied.
Healer squinted at him slightly. "Birth name or your mutant name?"
"Does it matter?" Caliban asked.
Healer shrugged and reached out to pat Peter on his unoccupied shoulder. "I suppose it doesn't."
In the fleeting moment of contact, Peter felt his power reach out and take hold of Healer's power, his gift. The power was sending a pulse through his body. Peter could feel the subtle, passing wave of energy trying to map his body out, seeking any injuries or infirmities.
He knew that if he just tightened his grasp a tiny bit more, he could take the power. That would stop it cold. It would be so easy.
Peter flinched back, breaking off the contact. Healer noticed the flinch, but didn't seem at all offended and easily segued into a new question. "What does matter is, what did you do to Sunder?"
Peter felt vaguely embarrassed by the older man's attention, more so for having realized he'd been perhaps a second away from taking the man's power if he hadn't pulled back.
Caliban gestured to the closest bed. "You should put him down first so Healer can take a better look."
"Yes, yes. Of course," Healer said, watching carefully as Peter laid the larger man down on one of the beds. Unfortunately Sunder was so large that his feet stuck out over the edge of the single bed.