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Another scumbag saved.
The Tinkerer felt absolutely nothing about it.
It wasn't like the bastard he'd just operated on would go on to make the world a better place. If anything, Thomas Bonning would probably continue to poison the great American gene pool. Not Henry's problem.
It wasn't as if all the people who sought him out were desperate saints. If anything, most of them were either evil or idiotic.
The truth was simple — truly decent people didn't beg for free miracles. They worked within their means, made smart choices, and managed to survive. Not rich, maybe, but rarely hopeless.
After half a year of treating the city's forgotten underbelly, Henry had drawn a simple conclusion:
People who came to him were either corrupt… or catastrophically stupid.
"Pitiful people are usually just pitiful because they earned it," he thought. "That saying didn't come out of nowhere."
The drunk who drank himself into liver cancer, the chain-smoker who coughed his lungs black, the betel-nut chewer with a rotten jaw, the pleasure-seeker who caught AIDS — were any of them really "good people"? Maybe weak, sure. But not good.
And then there were the parents who'd spend their last dime on drugs instead of medicine for their children, or the fools who refused treatment until death was already licking at their heels.
If he turned patients away based on morality, he'd never have anyone to practice on. His goal was never altruism — it was experience. Every life he "saved" was just another free test subject, another step toward mastery.
Compared to those scientists who performed inhumane human experiments, Henry's work was practically merciful — at least he kept his subjects alive.
Leaving Cedars–Sinai Medical Center, Henry planned to find a blind spot — somewhere without security cameras — to slip away using Kryptonian speed.
Los Angeles in this era wasn't yet blanketed in surveillance like the future would be, but a hospital that treated the world's rich and powerful couldn't afford to be careless. Cameras were everywhere around Cedars–Sinai — covering every sidewalk, every gate.
That meant he either had to go a few blocks out… or cut through a narrow fire lane between two old apartment buildings.
He preferred not to use his powers in public — especially while wearing the Tinkerer 's face. It wasn't that he couldn't, just that being caught on video was… inconvenient.
But when he stepped into the alley, he realized someone had beaten him there.
A car was parked halfway down the narrow lane — engine idling, windows tinted. Inside, three silhouettes.
He hesitated. Turning back now would draw attention. Too obvious. So he decided to keep walking — just a man passing through.
Halfway down the alley, though, the men inside stirred. Their posture changed — alert, agitated.
Henry's instincts flared. "Should I turn back? Or… see where this goes?"
By the time he made up his mind, it was too late.
All three doors opened at once. The men stepped out and fanned around him — two at his back, one blocking his path.
Running now would only make him look guilty. Better to play along, at least for the moment.
The man in front — a graying agent with sharp eyes — flashed a badge.
"FBI," he said. "Senior Special Agent James. I'd like to ask for your cooperation in an ongoing investigation."
His tone was civil, but the two agents behind already had their hands on their holstered guns.
Henry adjusted his grip on his medical bag. "Do you have a warrant?"
The aluminum bat he'd used earlier had been melted down and flattened before he left the hospital — no evidence left behind. Still, he cursed himself for acting too quickly. Should've dumped it farther away.
Agent James smiled thinly. "No warrant. That's why I said cooperation, not arrest."
"And if I refuse?" Henry asked.
"There are always ways to encourage consent."
The Tinkerer sighed inwardly. Typical. Power always came with the ability to make things mandatory.
Unless you had an army of lawyers behind you, there was no winning against people like this. Reading a few law books didn't make you bulletproof. That license — that little laminated shield — was what truly scared law enforcement. Without it, you were just another name in their files.
He could refuse, sure. But refusal could turn "voluntary questioning" into "resisting arrest" in seconds — and bullets had a way of making the distinction moot.
Even if he later proved innocent, good luck suing the Bureau without a licensed attorney. Regular citizens might be right on paper, but their complaints just gathered dust.
So Henry asked the only question that mattered: "Mind telling me what this is about?"
Could it be the surgery? he wondered.
But no — Cedars–Sinai wouldn't report him. If the hospital admitted to lending him an operating room, they'd be implicating themselves. That would be brand suicide.
Agent James spared him the guesswork. "We're investigating your connection to a known organized crime figure — Andrew Saxon."
Ah. So it was that.
Henry's mind flicked through possibilities. It had to be about the million-dollar payment.
They couldn't touch Saxon without testimony, and Henry had nothing incriminating to offer. But that didn't mean they couldn't make his life difficult — maybe seize his assets, force a confession, anything to clean up the paperwork.
He exhaled softly. "I see. I assume this doesn't require handcuffs?"
James shook his head and opened the car door, gesturing politely. "Of course not. Let's continue this conversation somewhere more private."
Henry chuckled to himself. "Yeah… this isn't my first FBI 'invitation.' Seems you guys really like that word."
He got into the car, still thinking.
Maybe later, he'd look up just how legal these "voluntary interviews" really were. Something told him most of them were just dressed-up intimidation tactics.
Maybe next time, he'd test what happened when someone actually said no
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