“Ow.” Chained Angel held an ice pack to her forehead. “Who has the aspirin? I’ll be seeing double for a week. John Matrix has trained his team well. That fellow, Stormstar, beat me like a piñata. Then his friend, Lone Chip Starr, came over and walked all over me while I was broken on the ground.”
El Rey, HowlingMoon, and The Unstoppable Nightmask nodded in agreement as they nursed their own wounds. Between their twelve limbs, twenty-six of them had been dislocated, displaced, or dissected in one form or another.
The Infinite Tempest laid his head against the back of his chair as his hand clutched a white piece of gauze, now stained red, and pinched his nose. “I didn’t know I had this much blood inside of me. Grave isn’t his name. I think it is a forewarning of where you’re going to end up when he’s done with you.”
“What did you all think of that Mongolian Mauler?” Prysmatica held her arm tenderly as she adjusted the sling she carried it in. “I think he had a personal grudge against me. Some held over rage from Alexander the Great invading or something. No Greek should ever be put in the ring again.”
“The aspirin, please. One of you has to have the bottle.” Chained Angel winced as she sat up and searched the table for a relief. “I need a painkiller. Even the Angel of Death inside of me is complaining about how bad it hurts.”
“Did you say Painkiller?” The Infinite Tempest raised his head slightly. “Yeah, I fought him too. I wish he’d knocked me out.”
“No, Tempest. I need them.” Chained Angel stretched out her wings, which were missing several large feathers. “OOOOWWWW. I didn’t think wing-holds were regulation anymore. Tit4tat grabbed ahold of mine and tried to ride me like an ostrich. She actually yelled out ‘Yea-ha’ and kicked me in the kidneys when she did it.”
A nurse dressed in white entered the medical bay where the team was being treated. Previously dubbed the Recovery Room in other league wars, the current staff seemed to prefer the new name of the Busted Chop-Shop. “You’re other two league-mates are out of surgery. They should be here in a just a few.”
“How bad was Catalyst hurt?” Chained Angel asked. He went into his rounds after she had been dragged off the field.
“Mr. Marcus?” She smiled warmly. “Mostly scrapes and bruises, but there was a laceration to his forehead that needed the attention of a plastic surgeon. Powerman almost removed most of his scalp when he performed the popular god-smash maneuver. You know, the one when they grab their opponent and swing them from side to side and beat them into the ground.”
“Yes, we know what it is.” The Star Force collectively nodded and grimaced as they replied in unison, the memory of having it done to them by Powerman still fresh in their recollection.
The door to the room swung open and Wyldfyre was rolled in in a wheelchair. He glared at them, not in his typically brusque manner, but with the glossy-eyed vacant stare of heavy medication.
“Are you OK, Wyldfyre,” Chained Angel asked.
“Mmmmm mmmmm mmm, Mmmm...” His head fell to one side as he tried to focus his eyes.
“He won’t be able to answer you vocally for a couple of months.” She took out a small spiral notepad and a pen from her apron. Placing it on his lap, she patted him on the shoulder. “There, there, sir. Try to get some rest.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Prysmatica leaned forward, trying to find a comfortable position in her chair.
“During his second fight with Slayer B.A.S., he took a right hook to the face. She shattered his jaw.” She set the brake on Wyldfyre’s chair as he tried to say something. Metal surgical wiring glistened in the harsh white glare of the room's fluorescent lights. “They had to immobilize his jaw so it would heal.”
Despite the pain, Chained Angel busted out into laughter. “I guess we did win something for our third-round efforts after all.”
(Thank you to all the doctors, nurses, and medical professionals for everything you do for us in our times of need.)
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