“You won’t get the answer from me up here!” I say. “You need to read the rest of the series to find out.”
I hold up the comic book for everyone to see. For some, it is the first time they’ve seen the cover. For many, they have salivated while they waited for today. This is the day that the beginning of the end of my father’s series will finally be put in motion. Nothing will stop this train until the final issue hits shelves - and thankfully, I have every issue mapped out.
I just need to make sure that I don’t give anything away accidentally.
The announcer takes my answer in stride and looks out at the audience.
“I’m sure all of you are looking forward to the book signing after this, so how about we take a few questions from the audience before we get to all the good stuff?”
Dozens of hands shoot into the air, and it’s like people are competing to get noticed. There are plenty of smiling faces and people laughing at the situation. I’m about to make a comment that there will also be a chance to ask me things during the signing when a face that isn’t happy catches my eyes.
In fact, this face looks like it doesn’t belong in this crowd of people at all. The face belongs to an older man with sunken eyes and heavy eyebrows. He’s wearing a black baseball hat that says simply ‘Justice’ in red lettering, and his attire looks like it belongs more at an outdoor survival situation than at a comic convention.
I try to turn my attention back to the people waiting to ask me questions, coming down the aisle to a microphone that is set up near the front, but the serious man’s face keeps drawing me back. His eyes are dark and they bore into my own as if he is trying to communicate with me telepathically.
For a moment I fear that he will communicate with me telepathically, but then I shake my head. That’s a stupid idea. Nobody has that kind of power in real life. The only person who does have power similar to that is Austin Spencer, and he’s hiding out somewhere so that I don’t catch him and send him to prison for being a crazed, terrorizing lunatic bent on world domination.
The man continues to stare, his mouth a stern line across his face, and after another five or six seconds of returning his stare I am distracted by a question.
I continue to answer questions, putting on a happy face and laughing when I need to. But, I can’t shake the unease that I feel whenever I look over to the edge of the crowd and see the man staring up at me seriously.
Whoever he is, he looks incredibly out of place.
I answer a few more questions before my time on the stage runs out.
“Alright,” says the announcer. “Who’s ready for the book signing?”
The cheers aren’t as loud as they were when I walked on the stage, mainly because people are starting to get worn out. But, the excitement is in the air like a haze and I get to my feet.
Mr. Crichton claps me on the back.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks with a smile.
I take a moment to let the reality of this question sink in and at last I nod.
“I think so,” I say.
“Good,” Mr. Crichton replies. “I’ll meet you down there with security.”
He heads off to the opposite end of the stage and I turn to go back the way I came where there is a volunteer waiting to lead me. I’m already stretching my writing hand to keep from cramping up. I don’t want to disappoint anyone today. This is the beginning of everything for my career.
As I go to step off the stage, the serious man comes to mind for whatever reason. I wonder what his problem is, being so stone-faced while everyone else is animated or at least appears to want to be here. The feeling I got when I first spotted the man was unease.
When I glance back to where the man in the black baseball cap was sitting, I now see only an empty seat. He is already gone.
5
Ghosts of the Past
The line for autographs stretches so far that I can’t see the end of it. Thankfully the chair that I have is comfortable. I just hope my hand holds out with all these signatures. It’s important to me that I don’t look at this as an obligation, but more as a thank-you to all the fans who have shown support for my taking of the reins on Super Guy.
“Alright,” I say to the volunteers holding back the start of the line. “Let’s get this party started.”
I am allocated two hours of signature time, and half of that flies by quickly. I meet so many different people from all walks of life. That was always a positive aspect of Super Guy, according to my father - that the story touches many different generations and unites them. I close my eyes for a moment and send up a silent prayer to my father, knowing that he must be watching me from up in the clouds. I bet he’s laughing at how nervous I am.
It feels like I’ve signed my seven-hundredth autograph, and I wonder when this sharpie is going to run out of ink, when a familiar face steps in front of the signing table.
“You’re in high demand today,” says the dark-haired girl with a pink streak through her hair.
“Mae?” I reply as I take her copy of Issue #1 of the new Super Guy arc. “What are you doing here?”
“Seeing the sights,” she replies. “This is quite a busy place. You’d think Robert Downey, Jr. was here or something.”
I smirk with my pen poised to sign her comic book.
“Anything specific you want this to say?” I ask with a wink.
Mae presses her lips together, unable to hide her amusement.
“How about, ‘To the greatest partner an Aberrant could ever ask for’?”
I roll my eyes. Of course Mae would bring up that old joke from the summer. I refused to call her my partner, instead using the term ‘sidekick’, much to her frustration.
“I think we’ve moved past that stage,” I say, beginning to write. “But, your wish is my command.”
With a single breath of air on the ink to dry it I hand the comic book back to Mae who admires it hungrily. I have to chuckle because if anyone has seen the contents of this story already, it would have to be Mae. She’s over my place nearly every afternoon. In fact, she’s the one who helped me convert the spare room on the second floor of my mother’s townhouse into an art studio. I decided to leave the one my father used as the shrine it’s always been since his death. The office at the publishing house is too stuffy to get any actual work done.
“Thank-you very much, sir,” she says. The volunteers to my right try to hurry Mae along, so I know my time chatting with her is up.
“Any last words?” I ask.
Mae steps forward and leans across the signing table, holding out something to me that she has balled up in her fist. I open my own hand and she presses something cold and a little sharp into my palm. When she takes her hand away, I see, with wide eyes, that she’s handed me the Vestige. The star-shaped medallion is strung on a fine chain that flows like liquid around the ancient relic - from a time and place that nobody has been able to pin down.
This medallion, of which Mae also possesses a stray shard, gives us our Aberrant abilities.
Up until this moment the Vestige was hidden in a box tucked away in Mae’s basement. I raise my eyebrows as I string the medallion around my neck.
“For later,” says Mae, obviously being as vague as possible so that anyone around won’t hear something they aren’t supposed to. “Meet me once you’re done signing. I think I saw a crazy booth that was selling Super Guy action figures. We should check it out.”
At this point the volunteers are getting antsy, so I wave Mae goodbye and she disappears into the massive sea of nerds, geeks, and other people hurrying from booth to booth.
So, I guess we’re flying later, I think with a small shake of my head. I haven’t flown in what feels like forever. Ever since The Cloak, a.k.a. Austin Spencer, betrayed me and tried to recruit me to his conspiracy theory organization in order to get an easy grasp on the Vestige, I have taken a break from using my powers.
However, it’s been months since I and anyone else have hea
rd from Austin, so perhaps Mae is thinking that it’s safe to use our abilities. No doubt we’re a bit rusty. A little practice would be a good thing.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on another autograph when a second familiar face steps in front of my table, and this time it isn’t warm and welcoming.
The man who was sitting stone-faced in the audience during my Q&A stands before me with the same serious expression plastered on his features. Up close I can smell soil and sweat coming from him, and it’s clear that some of that smell is coming from his hiking boots, which look like the kind with steel toes.
The man doesn’t have a comic book in his hand, so I take one from the stack beside me.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming out.”
“Shaun Boding,” the man says, his voice grizzled.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, so I raise my eyebrows with an awkward smile.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say. “Do you have a name you want this signed to, or anything specific you want this to say?”
The man grunts. “My name’s Jean Smith. You don’t have to put anything special, but I have something that I need to say to you.”
Mr. Smith reaches into his jacket and the security all around jumps to attention. One is about to pull out his baton, but Mr. Smith stops them all with a hand held high.
“Take it easy,” he says. “I just want to give him this.”
He drops a photograph onto the table before me.
“What is this?” I ask, picking up the photograph.
“That’s a picture of Cassidy, my daughter,” Mr. Smith says as I glance down at the girl in the picture. The photo is obviously from an older time, but the girl can’t be older than twenty. She’s very pretty with piercing eyes. I go to hand the picture back to Mr. Smith when he says, “She was murdered by Bill Flagrant twenty years ago.”
My stomach drops.
Bill Flagrant?
That is a name that I never expected to hear uttered in a place like this, and it sends chills along my arms. My hand trembles slightly as Mr. Smith takes the picture back from me with a grunt.
I don’t know what else to say besides, “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Smith.”
The man tucks the photo away.
“I’m not the only one whose life has been affected by Bill Flagrant’s villainy,” Mr. Smith continues. “Your father also had his run-ins. Many run-ins, if I’m not mistaken.” He pins his stare on me and I feel fidgety.
What does he expect me to say? Thankfully he goes on before I say something stupid.
“Your father turned in that bastard once upon a time. He was a good man. He certainly deserved all the praise that he got. But, you, on the other hand…” His voice trails off and he places a hand on the table in front of my face. “You, I’m not so sure of.”
I lean back.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, my brow knitting together.
“Let me ask you something,” he says, looking me in the eye. “If you knew where Flagrant was, would you turn him in to the authorities?”
I frown.
“Of course I would,” I answer. “He tried to kill my friends and my family. Why wouldn’t I turn him over?”
“Some people have their reasons,” Mr. Smith says. “Sometimes they become weak. Sympathetic. It can get ugly. It can get pretty damn disgusting. Soon they shorten a man’s sentence. They let a cold blooded murderer back on the street and say that he served enough time. Then, when nobody’s paying attention, that murderer tries to take another life. Then another until it seems like the cycle will never end.”
The man clenches his fist on the table in front of me, just under my chin.
“I’m just making sure that you and I are on the same page and prepared to put a stop to that vicious cycle. I want to make sure you stand for justice like your father did.” He nods to the stack of comic books beside me. “I want true justice for my daughter. I think she deserves that, even if the so-called justice system has let her down in death.”
I press my lips together and swallow the lump in my throat.
“I do stand for justice,” I say, handing him back the picture of his daughter. “You can count on that.”
“Good.”
Mr. Smith removes his hand from the table and straightens up, nodding to the security guards who are still prepared for anything. But, Mr. Smith isn’t lingering any longer. He steps away from the booth and drops another piece of thick card stock on the table before turning to leave.
“If you come across any new information,” he says over his shoulder, “be sure to give me a call.”
Then the man is gone, disappeared into the crowd of people hurrying around the convention.
I pick up the piece of card stock and realize that it’s a business card, of sorts. A very minimalistic business card. Amid the white there are only two pieces of information: Mr. Smith’s name, and a phone number.
“Are you alright, sir?” asks one of the security guards, and I tuck the card away in my pocket.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m fine. Next person, please?”
6
The Convention Floor
“It’s a good thing this convention is on a weekend,” Mae says as we sneak away from my booth once the signing is done. We head out into the vast expanse of costumed people, large cardboard displays, and lots and lots of merchandise for sale. “If you had to take one more day off from school for your publishing, I think all of your teachers would’ve had a heart attack.”
I know exactly what she means. It’s only November, and already I’ve had to take close to two weeks off from classes at the high school. Most of those times were so that I could attend meetings, or go over my promotional schedule. The actual work of writing and drawing Super Guy is usually done in the evenings during the week. It’s very relaxing, and I’ve gotten better at balancing my schedule between school during the day, writing and drawing the comic at night, and also getting done my homework after that.
That’s not to say that by the time I’m done all of that, I’m not exhausted. I usually fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow.
But, now that the first issue of Super Guy’s final arc is officially released I will be getting a nice couple of months to myself. What the public doesn’t know is that I’ve already finished six out of the eight issues of this volume. All that’s left to do with issues seven and eight are the inking and the coloring, which are the most fun and the most therapeutic. My new tablet makes that part of the job incredibly easy and portable.
I follow Mae along a row of booths and give her a nod in reply to her statement about my teachers.
“It’s a good thing that the convention is actually in Boston,” I say with a chuckle. “Can you imagine what it would be like if I had to go all the way to San Diego?”
Mae raises an eyebrow as she gives me a side glance.
“That would be really expensive. Just the plane tickets alone would set you back, and I’m sure your mom wouldn’t appreciate you being so far away.”
“You’re right about that,” I reply. I have to admit that Mom’s been taking my early comic book career pretty well. Like my teachers, she didn’t exactly like me skipping classes to go to meetings, but she agrees with me that I should be looking at the big picture. This career is going to be the long game for me. I don’t want to let my publisher down or my fans - who really are my father’s fans.
I don’t want to let my father down.
Judging by the happy faces that I saw during my Q&A and the signing line I’d say I haven’t let him down.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
“You never know,” I say. “If I could just use my powers to fly all the way to San Diego, that would cost me nothing.”
“Nothing besides energy,” Mae adds. We stop at the booth she was talking about earlier, the one with the Super Guy action figures. She picks up one of the main character who is 6 inches tall, a convention exclusive, and
incredibly expensive, and says, “That’s one of the reasons why I brought the medallion with me. I was hoping once the convention is over we could go for a little fly.” She glances at me and I can see the smile in her eyes. “I think it’s time we start testing our abilities again. We both know that you can throw a mean pulse blast. But, I think if we both have the ability to fly, we should be using that ability to our advantage. No doubt it would be a good way to get away from it all,” she adds as three girls come up to me, giggling when they recognize me. It’s nearly impossible to ignore the look of frustration on Mae’s face as I quickly sign some memorabilia for the girls and send them on their way. Mae rolls her eyes and I wonder for a moment if I’m enjoying all the attention a little bit too much for her liking.
“Your time is becoming more and more valuable,” she says, placing the action figure back on the rack.
My shoulders slump and we continue our walk.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Giving my attention to people comes with the job. I can’t really afford to be rude to anybody.”
Mae brushes her hair out of her face.
“It’s all right,” she says, though I know it’s only halfhearted. “I just was hoping that we would have a little bit more time this year, seeing as were Seniors, to do some of the traditional stuff.”
We stop at another booth and I raise my eyebrows at her.
“What kind of traditional stuff?” I ask.
Mae shrugs. “I don’t know. Did you even order a yearbook?”
I laugh. “Of course I ordered a yearbook,” I reply. “What is this really about?”
Mae hesitates, and I crossed my arms as I wait for her to answer me, but she never gets a chance because a familiar voice calls out to me.
“Hey! Shaun!”
I turn to see a pudgy boy with thick glasses and a mop of brown hair pushing his way through a crowd of people. He waves a hand up in the air and gives me a huge grin as I recognize him.
“Robby?” I say, opening my arms as he makes it over to me. He nearly crushes me in a bear hug that is so tight it betrays his appearance and the breath is forced from my lungs. We separate and I struggle to regain my breath. “What are you doing here?” I manage, my face no doubt red now.
The Aberrant Series (Book 3): Super Villain Page 3