Thanks to the broken arm, it took him a month of near constant work, but at least it was clean. He had never expected the Good Doctor to have had such a large headquarters, but then again, the bastard had to create his fleet somewhere. That's not to say the place was really massive. Patchwork estimated the entire place took up about as much area as a good sized warehouse, but spread out across several acres of city sewer and natural cave formation.
I'm not trying to be the Bat. He told himself again. This was the Gestalt's old hide-out. I'm just following my usual pattern. The hero's "usual pattern" in this case being to copy, rip off, or otherwise steal the Good Doctor's tech and use it for his own devices, something that's made his life considerably easier as he's improved in his heroing. His eyes flittered back to his newest version of his costume, smiling slightly as he saw the barest glint of polarized steel from his new 'hooks. The old ones were fantastic, but the electromagnetic grip held much stronger in this version, and used less power. And with the new place, he'd be able to make them even more efficent.
From that point, he checked one of the computer monitors to look at his latest toy. The mortorcycle's tires looked flat at first glance, but the hero could just faintly make out their design dispite the poor resolution. The "tires" were actually thousands of strong, telescoping legs with rubber tips on the end. As the bike rode, sensors in the nose and back sent data to the wheels, telling the spokes when to extend and contract, and which portion of the pad would grant the most traction. The spokes would extend out if a pothole was ahead, or retract if a speedbump was coming up. Coupled with the GPS that tracked weather reports, the end result was amazing: Patchwork could drive that baby through a rockslide and not feel a jolt.
Granted, he did have the same type of system in his boots, with the wheels doubling as threads, but he was never able to get them to contstruct a motor for those wheels, and had to resort into his now famous latchings onto traffic.
He glanced back to the area where their latest climatic final battle occured, in the section of tunnel that connected the main area to the methane powered generator (which, on Patchwork's' cruder days, he called the Shit Stirrer), and wondered how long it would take the spirit to return to harrass him again. Luckily, the Good Doctor would leave his current hold alone, since it was a place he had been defeated at. Spirits were weird, the hero guessed. Didn't like to revisit horrible memories.
Still, the tech was nice, but he was glad to still rely on a few standards unchanged. The rebar quarterstaff still hung in its standard harness next to his utility belt with its "boomerhangers". Roots were important to him now. They were all he had left. The vicious scars left on the top of his skull (Thanks Lobo-timizer, he thought ruefully), were just too hard to disguise normally, and he refused to start wearing a hat like that damned Cowboy. Besides, the family didn't need to hear from him nearly as much since the cousins got adopted. They were alot happier, thinking their boy had died a hero, saving the city from Samson and Duluth in their attempt to purge the land and create a new Eden. Fucken morons. He thought, and took a bite of his ice cream. Oh, they probably knew it wasn't Joseph that took up the mantle after his untimely death, but they never tried to get in touch with him, and he never tried to reach them. It was just, better this way.
He glanced up at the engraving that rested above his costume. He had made it shortly after his first horrific night of heroing. It was his promise to himself, the city, and the world.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I am the one. I am Disposable.