The First Scars

I couldn't help but wonder what was so bad about the mask. I mean, really, he must be covered in scars from the war. Why would he act ashamed, of all things, about this one? So this was the answer that came to me.

The First Scars

She'd seen them before. Little patches of fur that were missing. Slight gaps or almost gaping tears in their fur. Criss-crossing across their arms, peppered on their chests, twisting over broad shoulder blades, slicing down their backs. They were there on the backs of their calves and thighs, some obviously whip marks from the Plutarkian prison camp they'd escaped from. Strong hands were covered in little missing patches and stripes, even a few in dangerous spots on a tan wrist. Those were almost always covered by the black wrist band he wore, and she understood why.

Under each missing space of color was a terrible white mark. Blank tissue where no fur could ever grow again. Some of those marks were thick and jagged, a rough and quick job done with a blunt needle and coarse thread in the heat of battle. Those were the longest and undeniably the most painful; one even crossing the entire width of a grey-furred back. Others bore a doctor's touch, the stitching neat and fine. Those tended to be shorter; the injuries they came from were usually ignored on the battlefield, or the distraction would cause more than a scar.

There were awful marks on Modo's shoulder, where his cybernetic arm met with warm flesh. They were so tiny and fine, she almost couldn't see them. But then she realized why they were so seemingly small. The real marks were under the metal; flesh that had been ripped by the landmine's explosion, then carved away to make space for the steel limb at Karbunkle's will.

Throttle's face was not un-marked. Where the mad doctor had implanted the bionic eyes, one could easily see the scars from where the scalpels had scraped, gouged, and cut. The imprint of the stitches of where his eyelids had been sewn back on were particularly hideous to him. His vision was almost back to normal but for sensitivity to light; but he would never take his shades off in public, not even at night.

This wasn't to say that they were ashamed of their scars. Far from it. Most of the time, her boys bragged about their battle scars, retelling stories of dare-devil stunts or incredible rescues and missions completed against all odds. And even though they hated to talk about it, and hated to look at some of the reminders, they were not ashamed of what Karbunkle had done to them.

Except for Vincent.

The mask covered something more, she knew. His bros would never begrudge their bro his mask, or the need to protect his ego. Or, as she had once thought, the last physical reminder he had of his beloved Harley. But all the other scars on his body, he boasted of proudly. He loved to brag about how he got his marks, all but that one.

She could understand the need to cover it up; after all, a spot on your arm was no big deal, but your face was a totally different ball game. But he seemed to act like he had his mask for more than remembrance, and more than just a cosmetic protection. Vincent Van Wham was ashamed of his scars under the mask, and she couldn't really understand why.

Until she saw it.

It was an accident, a glimpse of him through steam in the Quigly Stadium's locker room showers. She'd brought him some clean clothes to wear, and had caught a flash of fur standing in front of a mirror. The girl had stopped out of shock. The familiar silver mask was in his hand, the other reaching up with a cloth to bathe the uncovered side of his face. His eyes, though, never once looked in the mirror. A look of utter disgust and shame was on his face, and his jaw was clenched shut in revulsion.

Charley knew she shouldn't look, absolutely knew that she should respect his privacy, but her feet had rooted her to the spot. She couldn't look away no matter how she tried. But she had just barely stifled the gasp of shock at the sight of his uncovered face, fought back the gag of horror. As soon as what she'd seen really processed in her mind, she'd dropped the clothes to the floor and fled, running as fast as she could out into the stadium's upper balcony.

She'd dropped to her knees, shaking and gasping as tears had run down her face. Her stomach nearly heaved out its contents as she saw it again in her mind's eye. No wonder he hid from it, wouldn't look at it at all. No wonder he was so ashamed of it. Charley knew she would dream of that sight for years to come and wake up screaming every time.

She would never forget the sight of Benjamin Boris Karbunkle's initials gouged deep into the side of the valiant Martian's face.