Action Figures - Issue Four: Cruel Summer

by Michael C Bailey

  “You’re coming with us?” I say. “But you’re --”

  “Yeah, grounded, I know, but Mom and Dad aren’t going to be home from work until, like, five-thirty. As long as I’m home by then...”

  Stuart raises a defiant fist. “Rock on. Fight the power.”

  “Not helping,” I say, but I don’t push the issue further.

  The weather has been erratic lately, warm and sunny one day, cold and rainy the next — typical of New England as it stumbles and lurches through the spring. Today is more on the pleasant side, so it makes for a nice walk into town. Missy shares more anecdotes from her vacation, which keeps my mind off the increasing tension between Sara and her father. I can’t really fault Sara for her defiance, but speaking as someone with a history of thumbing her nose at parental authority, it never ends well. I don’t want her emulating my poor judgment.

  Then again, as Granddad once told me, people sometimes have to make their own mistakes, and all you can do is be there for them to deal with the aftermath.

  Sure, stand by and do nothing. That’s me all over.

  We reach the edge of the center of town, a transition zone in which the homes dwindle away and the businesses become more numerous. A block or so away from Main Street, a police cruiser roars past us, lights flickering and siren wailing. It barely slows down as it veers onto Main Street. I expect the siren to fade to silence, but when it doesn’t...

  “Something’s up,” Matt says. “What do you think?”

  “Get changed,” I say as I dig my headset out of my backpack. “I’ll scout ahead.”

  The great thing about living in a town that exists in the gray area between rural and suburban is that there are plenty of undeveloped areas around, patches of woodland small and large. Even in the center of town there are convenient smatterings of greenery dense enough to hide a group of teenagers who need to change into their work clothing. I follow the gang into one such spot and activate my headset.

  “Save some for us,” Matt says as he slips into his magic gloves.

  (I’ll take “Phrases That Will Never Not Sound Weird” for one hundred, Alex.)

  “If there’s anything to save. This could be nothing.”

  The siren abruptly cuts out, its scream replaced by the rattle of machine-gun fire.

  “Or...” Matt says.

  Along with aerial combat tactics, Concorde’s been teaching me how to respond effectively to various threats, and his number one piece of advice is to assess the situation from a safe distance whenever possible. I rocket skyward, climbing high enough to get a bird’s-eye view of the scene. The cruiser sits at an odd angle to the sidewalk in front of the Kingsport Credit Union, but it isn’t until I start to descend that I pick up on a chilling detail: the dark shape of a police officer lying on the ground near his cruiser, curled into a ball and writhing.

  After assessment comes identifying the threat. In this case, if I had to make a guess, that would be the four men advancing on the cop. I fire off a pair of warning shots at their feet (really, I am aiming for their feet). They back off in a hurry. One of the men — who, I see now, are all dressed like construction workers — raises a gun, a small black box of a thing, and opens fire. In response I show him one of my new tricks: with my left hand I generate a wall of energy that deflects the bullets, and when his gun runs dry, I throw with my right hand a blast that catches the gunman square in the gut. He crumples with a bark of pain. His buddies circle around him protectively.

  I hold back a laugh as I get my first good look at this crew, and man, are they sad. They’re wearing white tank-top undershirts, jeans, boots, hard hats, safety goggles...the overall impression is that they’re wearing construction worker costumes rather than actual work clothing. The outfits have been fancied up with pointless elbow and knee pads, and the letters “DI” are written on their hard hats and undershirts in red magic marker.

  Less amusing, but only slightly, are their weapons. I assume that’s what they are, anyway. One guy has chainsaw blades on each arm, jutting from clunky gauntlets; another has a similar rig sporting absurdly long drill bits; the third man, who is on-par with Stuart in terms of build, is wearing the top halves of sledgehammers strapped to his forearms.

  I land near the cop, nearly planting my foot in a pool of blood. It’s not a lot, but blood leaking out of the human body, regardless of the quantity, is generally a bad thing. On the plus side: he’s alive and conscious, but in a truckload of pain.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” I say, “how about you all put your...uh, tools down and surrender?”

  “We can take her,” chainsaw guy says to hammer hands.

  “Lightstorm, what’s going on?” Matt says over the comm system.

  “The Village People are in town and they’ve robbed a Home Depot,” I say, loud enough for the men to hear. “Better hurry up. They think they can take me.”

  No sooner do I finish speaking than Matt, Sara, and Stuart arrive on the scene in bits and pieces of their full outfits. It’s enough to obscure their identities, but we all look decidedly un-super-heroic.

  Don’t judge. Doing a quick-change out of one set of clothes and into another is not easy.

  “Um. Yeah. Okay,” Matt says, eyeing our opponents.

  “We can still take ‘em,” chainsaw guy says.

  “Damage Inc., let’s make a name for ourselves,” hammer hands says, and they strike defensive positions.

  “Damage Inc.? You’re desecrating classic Metallica?” Stuart says. “Oh, dude, now it’s all kinds of personal.”

  “Trencher, you wanted me to save some for you,” I say. “Here you go. You’re welcome.”

  Matt, Stuart, and Sara hold a quick conference via the brainphone — which, to our opponents, appears to be nothing more than an exchange of glances.

  The poor idiots never see it coming.

  Sara strikes first. She makes an emphatic stop gesture, a visualization technique she learned from Mindforce to help her focus her powers. Drill guy flies backwards, catching some serious air. He lands several yards away and doesn’t get back up.

  Matt’s takedown is somehow more impressive. When drill guy goes airborne, his startled buddies take their eyes off us. That means chainsaw guy is wide open when Matt sprints toward him, jumps, and throws a flying knee into his solar plexus. He drops and curls into a fetal position, a tiny, high-pitched gasping noise leaking out of his mouth like he’s a tire slowly losing air.

  Stuart strolls on up to hammer hands, who regains his composure long enough to get in one punch. It lands with absolutely no effect; Stuart barely flinches as the makeshift steel boxing glove glances off his chin. With a snort, Stuart taps hammer hands on the forehead with a single finger. His head snaps back, as though he took a full-force punch, and collapses to the street.

  “We got dressed up for this?” Stuart says.

  Additional cops converge on the scene less than a minute later, officially kicking off the wrap-up phase — a lengthy process that involves filing preliminary statements with the police, assessing injuries and damage to the property, interviewing witnesses, and making statements to the local media. Today’s media presence consists of reporters from each of the town’s two competing newspapers, their respective photographers, and one guy who single-handedly runs a news blog that, frankly, puts the papers to shame.

  Since I’m the recognized team leader, the privilege of making statements to the press belongs to me and Lieutenant Riggs of the Kingsport PD. I’m content to let Lt. Riggs do most of the talking, and what he tells the reporters is this: this afternoon, four males entered the Kingsport Credit Union on Main Street and allegedly committed an armed robbery. The weapons used were homemade, cobbled together from common household tools. The suspects have self-identified themselves by aliases, and I swear I am not making these names up: Driller Killer, Chainsaw Charlie, Hammerman, and the Riveter, collectively known as Damage Inc.

  “So these men are super-villains?” one of the reporters asks.
r />   “I would not classify them as such, no,” Lt. Riggs says with an amused smirk.

  “Then why was the Hero Squad called in?”

  Sure, don’t ask me that question. I’m only standing right here. Not like we did all the work or anything...

  “The Hero Squad was not called in. Patrol Officer Brad Cartwright of the Kingsport PD responded to a silent alarm activated by one of the bank’s tellers. Officer Cartwright was in the vicinity and was the first officer at the scene. The Hero Squad arrived soon after Officer Cartwright was allegedly shot by one of the suspects, and their response to this incident was purely coincidental.”

  “Why wasn’t the Protectorate called in? Why did their inexperienced apprentices handle the call?” the other reporter says. Inexperienced apprentices? Thanks a lot, jerkface.

  “They weren’t called in,” the blogger says with a weary sigh. “God, pay attention, Dorian.”

  “Shut up, Walt,” the reporter snipes.

  “Lightstorm?” one of the photographers says.

  I perk up and put on my best professional face. “Yes?”

  “Could you stop glowing for a second? Or move over there?” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I can’t get a clear picture of Lt. Riggs.”

  Sigh.

  “Lieutenant, I think you have this well in hand.” I turn away to rejoin the others, who are making their statements to one of the cops, and that’s when it finally hits me: Matt, Sara, and Stuart are making statements — just Matt, Sara, and Stuart.

  I look around and find Missy standing well outside the crime scene, behind the barrier of yellow sawhorses marked CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER ringing the area. She’s in her civilian clothing, our backpacks slung over her shoulders like she’s the world’s most adorable pack mule. She’s been on the sidelines this whole time.

  Why does that bother me so much?

  It takes about two hours for us to wrap things up, by which time none of us are much in the mood for coffee anymore. Man, what an afternoon this turned out to be.

  On the bright side, I’ll have something interesting to talk about at the Protectorate’s monthly meeting.

  FOUR

  That’s right; I go to their meetings now.

  On the last Friday of every month, the Protectorate — Edison, Bart, Natalie, Astrid, and Catherine — get together in the common room at HQ to review recent cases; discuss matters of possible future interest, such as pending legislation that could affect the super-hero community; and go over HQ infrastructure issues (computer system upgrades, maintenance and repairs, et cetera). I’m there as the Hero Squad’s official representative and, when Mr. Crenshaw is indisposed (such is the case this evening), to act as his liaison. It’s dry, dull stuff.

  On the other hand, there’s plentiful Chinese food that I didn’t have to pay for, so there’s that.

  And, surprisingly, the meetings are not the dour, mirthless affairs I expected; Edison allows for a certain amount of side-conversations, digressions, and goofing around before he feels compelled to bang the gavel — which I mean literally. The man has his own gavel. Of course he does.

  “Astrid,” Edison says, “anything to report? How are things going in Salem?”

  “I spoke to Barbara in the mayor’s office the other day, checked in to see how things are going at Winter Island,” Astrid says, referring to the lovely little spit of land we torched a few months ago.

  Correction: we didn’t torch it, Astrid’s demon-lord father did. Well, more accurately, the man who was possessed years ago by Astrid’s demon-lord father and acted as Kysztykc’s avatar on this plane of existence —

  Oh, never mind. I was there, and the whole thing confuses the heck out of me.

  Suffice to say, a huge chunk of Winter Island was reduced to ash, and now that the weather is finally improving, the city is hard at work repairing the damage, hoping to reclaim the island before the start of the summer tourist season. Astrid says city officials are optimistic and believe the city can meet that goal.

  “Good. Anything else?” Edison says.

  “Nope,” Astrid says as she tips out a container of dumplings onto her plate.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” Edison stares at her expectantly. “There’s nothing going on in my personal life of potential interest to the team. I promise.”

  “Natalie?”

  “Oh, boy, is it that time already?” Natalie says with mock cheer. This is her least favorite part of the meetings. After the Black Betty incident, Astrid was placed on probation for behavior unbecoming of a super-hero. Natalie was assigned to keep tabs on her. I can’t imagine it’s any fun playing parole officer for your best friend.

  “It’s okay, Nat, go ahead,” Astrid says.

  “Since the beginning of her probationary period, Dr. Enigma has not engaged in any activities that, in my professional opinion, reflect poorly on herself or the team,” Natalie drones. “Her reports on her encounter with Doris Jones and the individual calling himself Lucifer Toomes were thorough and detailed, and reports delivered through follow-up oral testimony were consistent with her written reports, therefore indicating that her accounts were accurate and truthful. The end.”

  Natalie finishes by standing and taking a bow.

  “Very mature,” Edison says. Natalie shrugs: whatever.

  “I’d like to move that we terminate Astrid’s probationary status and reinstate her as a full member of the Protectorate,” Edison says. Astrid fumbles her chopsticks, dropping a dumpling onto the table. I share her surprise; Edison is the last person at the table I’d expect to make that motion.

  Bart turns toward Astrid. “I agree. I think you made the most of your second chance and it’s time to return to the team full-time.”

  “I’m with Bart,” Catherine says — another notable statement, considering that she joined Edison in voting to throw Astrid off the team.

  “I vote a resounding duh,” Natalie says.

  Edison looks at me. “Carrie?”

  “Oh, right, I vote on this stuff now, don’t I? Yeah, definitely.”

  Astrid slips me a grateful smile. When the team was discussing her possible ouster, mine was the swing vote that kept her around, so that’s two she owes me. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.

  “If there are no other votes?” Edison prompts, raising his gavel. I look around the room for the Entity, who, I’m told, never attends meetings but does have a habit of popping up out of the clear blue. Edison drops the gavel. “Motion passes. Welcome back, Astrid.”

  Astrid clears her throat. “Thank you,” she says to the table as a whole.

  “All right, Carrie, you’re up,” Edison says, signaling that it’s my turn to stop eating and start talking.

  “Well, first I have some paperwork from Mr. Crenshaw that requires signatures from Edison and Bart,” I say, digging out said paperwork from my backpack. “It’s nothing major, just an acknowledgement that you’re both renewing your LCFs.”

  For the record, an LCF is a Lazarus Contingency Form, the colloquial name for what must be one of the weirdest documents in the history of American law. If a super-hero is ever declared legally dead and he or she has an active LCF, all of his or her personal property and financial holdings are placed in escrow for a period of three years. If the holder of the LCF should return from the dead within that time period, he or she can reclaim his or her assets without having to jump through a million legal hoops, thus enabling the individual in question to re-establish his or her life with relative ease. It’s like a will with a take-backsies clause.

  Yes, this is a real thing, but Mr. Crenshaw said he’s never heard of anyone ever taking advantage of an LCF by genuinely returning from the dead. A few super-heroes over the years have faked their deaths for various reasons, but as for an honest-to-God resurrection? “No such thing,” he told me. “Dead is dead.”

  “Natalie, Astrid, you really should have one of these,” Edison says, scribbling his signature at the bottom of
the form.

  “Why? I don’t have any assets to protect. I don’t own a house, I don’t own a car,” Natalie says. “All I have are a metric ton of DVDs and books, and no way do I want to come back to life after accruing three years’ worth of interest on my student loans.”

  “Astrid? What about you?”

  Astrid gets this strange look in her eyes, distant and disconnected. “Carrie, could you ask Sullivan to set me up with one of those forms?” she says.

  “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely,” I say, and I make a note to myself on my phone: Get LCF for AE. “Uh, that’s really it from Mr. Crenshaw.”

  “What’s going on with the Squad?” Edison says. “How’s the training going?”

  “Sara and Matt seem to be doing well. I help Sara practice sometimes and her control over her telekinesis has been getting better every day, and Matt — well, he’s in constant pain but he’s not complaining about it, which is a statement in and of itself.”

  “He’s not the only hurtin’ puppy around here. Matt’s starting to give as well as he gets,” Natalie says, a proud teacher doting on her prize student. “He’s got a lot of natural talent as a fighter, he learns fast, and he doesn’t know when to quit.”

  “Sara’s also been a very eager student,” Bart says, “but she has some stubborn self-confidence issues. If she could learn to have more faith in her powers, in herself, she’d be a serious force to be reckoned with.”

  Edison nods. “Where are we with Stuart and Missy?”

  “Stuart continues to insist that he wouldn’t benefit from training,” I say with a frustrated sigh, “and Missy’s not back on active duty yet, and I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.”

  “What’s going on with her?”

  “She’s enjoying her time off is all. She’s reconnected with her dad and I think she doesn’t want to screw that up by coming back to the team,” I say, adding quickly, “too early. I’m not inclined to push her. She’ll return when she’s ready.”

  Yet I wonder if that’s true anymore, despite her repeated insistences that her sabbatical is temporary. Missy never expressed any regret over sitting out the fight with Damage Inc., and she shuts down whenever the rest of us talk about team stuff, as if she feels like she’s no longer welcome on the Squad — or no longer interested in it.