Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect

by Michael Bailey

  “I don’t think so,” I grunt as I stand. The world wobbles, gives a final little spin, then settles back to normal. “What was that? Feedback on the comm system?”

  “Not feedback. I’d know that sound anywhere: It was Harpy,” Concorde says. A ball of ice forms in my stomach and my pulse ratchets up to a thousand beats a minute. The last time I encountered Harpy, she was with —

  “Manticore. Is he—?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t shown himself, but we can’t assume anything.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You be ready.”

  Easier said than done, boss. I’ve had three run-ins with Manticore and none of them ended well for me. The first time, he totally owned me. The second, he carved the source of my power out of my hands and left me to bleed out. The third time, he dropped a nuke in the middle of Boston. I’ve gotten a better handle on my powers since then. I’ve learned how to handle myself, but the thought of going face-to-face with Manticore again...I’m not ready for that, physically or emotionally.

  My headset comes alive with a cacophony of shouts and noises: the sounds of combat. Concorde calls out for Mindforce, for Nina, Captain Dekes, anyone, but all we get in reply are grunts, yelling, cries of pain.

  “We’re blowing the door! Stand clear! Stand clear!” Concorde barks. “Lightstorm, on my mark. Center seam, full power.”

  I take a breath. Power hums in my hands. My vision narrows until I see nothing but the dark line running up the center of the garage doors. Amazing what knowing your friends are in trouble can do for one’s focus.

  “Go.”

  We fire in perfect unison. The combined power of Concorde’s concussion burst and my force blast caves the door in, splitting it down the center, almost ripping it off its hinges.

  We charge in. It takes me a moment to recognize the Bestiary because they’re in someone else’s work uniforms; Hydra’s heat ray array is the big giveaway (and, since he’s sprawled out on the floor, apparently unconscious, I’m able to get a really good look at it). Harpy is curled up nearby, clutching at her throat and hacking like she’s about to barf up her lungs. Nina has Kobold face-down on the ground in some kind of hammerlock that’s making the little guy scream like a girl. The last man standing on the Bestiary’s side is a tall, muscular hulk whose stolen guard uniform is easily two sizes too small. Stuart’s going to town on him, but the man’s not going down easily.

  “Superbeast! Clear!” Concorde says. Stuart hesitates, looks around, spots Concorde, and pays for taking his eyes off his enemy: The big man nails him with an uppercut that literally launches Stuart into the ceiling. He bounces off the concrete and lands with an undignified splat.

  Silver lining number one: Stuart can take that kind of intense punishment. Silver lining two: At least he’s clear. Concorde tags the big man with a concussion blast that blows him across the garage.

  “Whoever you are, stand down,” Concorde says, “or the next one will knock you into Connecticut.”

  The man sits up, glares at us, considers his options, then compliantly slips his hands behind his head in surrender.

  “Call in,” Concorde says over the comm.

  “Nina Nitro calling in. I have Kobold,” Nina says. “Someone needs to secure Harpy.”

  “Mindforce calling in. I’ll get her.”

  “Um, Psyche calling in? Is that right?”

  “Lightstorm calling in, covering the big guy with Concorde.”

  “That’s the new Minotaur, I think,” Stuart says. “Oh, uh, Superbeast calling in and whatever.”

  And then nothing.

  “Trenchcoat, Kunoichi, call in,” Concorde says. More nothing. “Call in! Where are you?”

  “I-I’m here,” Missy sobs. “I’m...oh, God...someone help me...”

  “Minotaur, get Archimedes out of there,” Hydra says. Minotaur casually tosses two of the guards to the floor, unburying the Bestiary’s prize — as well as the man who once laid claim to the Minotaur identity. “Oliver?”

  “What? Oliver’s in there?” Kobold says.

  “Uh-huh. Hey, Ollie, you okay? Hey. Hey! Anyone home?” Hydra says, snapping his fingers at Minotaur the First. Oliver blinks at Hydra, squints at him vacantly. “Guess not. Good news, new guy: You get to keep your job.”

  “Found the control unit,” Harpy says, waving a small black box. “Collars are deactivated, locks have been popped.”

  “Hey, we’re not leaving Ollie here, are we?” Kobold says.

  “Oliver wasn’t part of the plan,” Hydra says. “Besides, he’s dead weight. No offense, Ollie, but you’re useless.”

  “Behind you,” Oliver says.

  Her equilibrium is off, she’s outnumbered, almost certainly outgunned, and if things go south, there’s no guarantee any of her teammates will have recovered sufficiently to save her. All things considered, it’s the height of recklessness to take on the Bestiary by herself.

  Fortunately for her, reckless is what Nina Nitro does best.

  A leaping palm-heel strike to the base of the skull sends Hydra sprawling. A knife-edge chop to the throat, to Harpy’s cybernetically enhanced vocal chords, short-circuits her sonic scream. A spinning mule kick crushes Kobold’s nose. He collapses to his knees, blood spurting from between his fingers.

  Three down, one to go: a tower of muscle, shocked into inaction by Nina’s whirlwind assault. Big man. Strong. Probably invulnerable, she reasons — which means setting off a fireball in his face won’t seriously hurt him.

  In theory.

  The garage reverberates with the deep fwhoomp of oxygen igniting, suddenly and violently. Minotaur staggers back, tears pouring from eyes that cannot see anything but searing white. He’s as vulnerable as he’s going to get, but Nina knows better than to directly engage a tank.

  “Superbeast! Get punching!”

  Nina’s command ends there. A pair of manacles, still binding their wearer, crashes down on her head. Buzzkill Joy gives her a kick to the gut for good measure, then scrambles back into the hearse.

  “Hey, mungo, do a girl a favor and get me out of these things, huh?” Joy says, presenting her cuffs to Oliver. The restraints, designed to withstand Joy’s physical strength, part easily when subjected to Oliver’s superior might. “You’re a doll. Toodles.”

  “Wait!” Archimedes cries out. “Wait for me!”

  Joy laughs. “And why the hell would I do that? You’re on your own, freakshow.”

  She hesitates a moment longer to snatch up an assault rifle from one of her fallen captors. Not her thing, guns, but better safe than sorry.

  Recalling her last visit to the courthouse, Joy dashes toward the heavy door separating the garage from the detention area — a door that is normally closed and locked. She does not notice the hole, blackened and melted around the edges, right where the push-button combination lock used to be — just as she fails to notice Matt’s clumsy effort to snag her foot as she sprints by.

  “Crud!” Matt scans the garage, looking for someone, anyone else who appears remotely functional. “Hey, Kunoichi! C’mon, we’ve got an escapee!”

  Missy rises to her feet and shakes the last of the disorientation from her brain. “Shouldn’t we wait for the —”

  “Come on!”

  “...back-up,” Missy says to no one.

  She follows Matt into the holding cell area, a narrow corridor that is solid wall on one side and a series of sliding steel doors on the other, then into another hallway — this one wider, more welcoming than the dank gray cell block, but empty. A door at the far end eases closed.

  “I got her,” Missy says.

  Matt has to sprint to keep up with Missy as she charges through the door. As Matt clears the doorway, the world downshifts into slow motion. Every detail becomes razor-sharp and crystal clear. It’s another hallway, wide and tall, meant to accommodate several people at once. Doors with fogged glass windows line the hall, each of them marked with black plastic signs that jut out above the doors like flags in a stiff wind. White let
tering indicates where the COURT CLERK and RECORDS and other offices are. Wooden benches are spaced along either wall, providing ample seating. The tile floor, gleaming from its most recent polishing, reflects a watery ghost of Buzzkill Joy, bright in her prison jumpsuit, and of the rifle in her hands, raised and ready.

  Matt seizes Missy from behind, wrapping her in his arms. He lets his momentum spin them around. He closes his eyes.

  Thunder erupts.

  Missy squeals as Matt’s grip on her tightens, squeezing the breath from her body. Just as suddenly, his arms go slack. He slides off of her, settling into a pile at her feet.

  Missy turns, locking eyes with Buzzkill Joy through a haze of gunsmoke. Joy smirks at her weapon, at her handiwork, at Missy, then jams the rifle’s stock into her shoulder. She squeezes the trigger. The rifle tries to jump from her hands, but this time she’s ready for it; she holds the firearm steady. Her aim is true.

  So are Missy’s reflexes.

  The first spray cuts through the space occupied a split-second earlier by Missy’s head. Joy shifts her stance, adjusts her aim, and lays into the trigger. Bullets stitch the walls, chasing after the black blur as it closes the distance.

  Missy lunges, hitting Joy low. They tumble to the floor. Missy rips the rifle from Joy’s grip and flings it away, then Missy’s nails slide out from the recesses in her fingertips.

  So do Joy’s.

  Missy strikes first, her claws plunging deep into Joy’s shoulder. Joy bites back a scream, then responds by sinking her hooked fingernails into Missy’s ribcage. Joy gets a leg between them and shoves, kicking Missy off. Missy rolls with the momentum and lands on all fours, then hisses challenge at her foe.

  “You’re pretty bad-ass, girl,” Joy says, pressing a hand to her wound. “You want to go another round? I’m cool with that. Your boy there, he might not be.”

  Matt.

  “Him or me, cupcake.” Joy backs away a step, making a show of it: a silent dare. “Him or me.”

  Missy doesn’t take her eyes off of Joy until she slips out of sight. She spends those precious seconds memorizing the girl’s face.

  “Trenchcoat, Kunoichi, call in,” Concorde barks in her ear. “Call in! Where are you?”

  “I-I’m here,” Missy sobs. “I’m...oh, God...someone help me...Matt’s been shot.”

  ELEVEN

  The words hit me like a brick to the face, stunning me into silence.

  “Did...did she say Matt got shot?” Sara says.

  “Mindforce, take over here. Nina,” Concorde says.

  “Right,” Nina says.

  I chase after Concorde and Nina, weaving through a series of hallways, but my body is acting on its own; my mind is somewhere else, unable — unwilling — to process what Missy said. We burst through one last door and nearly fall over Matt.

  Nothing’s right here. Matt’s on the floor, curled on his side, not moving. Missy kneels at his head, her hood in her hands, her face red and wet from crying. Concorde pulls her away, giving Nina room to work. She peels off Matt’s facemask, presses two fingers to his neck.

  “He got hurt protecting me,” Missy whimpers. “That girl had a gun and she was going to shoot me and Matt grabbed me and...” The rest is lost to racking sobs.

  “There’s no blood,” I say. I feel disconnected from my own body. It’s like someone else is speaking. “Is that good? That’s good, right?”

  “Nina, dammit, talk to me,” Concorde says, and I hear something in his voice I’ve never heard before: gut-wrenching fear.

  “Hold on,” Nina says, rolling Matt onto his stomach. She runs her hand across his back, brushing off a layer of dust or powder coating Matt’s coat – which, I realize, is neither bloody nor riddled with bullet holes. She sniffs her fingertips, winces, then breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s okay. He’s okay.”

  “Says you,” Matt slurs, and my God, I have never been so relieved, so overjoyed to hear Matt’s snark.

  “Hey, you only got pelted by hornet rounds. Lucky for you Byrne likes to take its escapees down alive. C’mon, let’s sit you up.” Matt bites back a groan as Nina assists him in rolling onto his back, then into a sitting position. “Congratulations, buddy: You just took your first gunshot in the line of duty. Today you are a man, my son. Mazel tov.”

  “I’m so happy you can joke about this,” Concorde growls, pushing — shoving Missy away, practically throwing her to the floor. “What if he’d been shot with real bullets, huh? What if this kid was lying at your feet dead? Would you be laughing then?!”

  “Chill, boss. You know stuff like this is a work-related hazard. It happens.”

  “Not anymore it doesn’t. They’re done.”

  “We’re what? What are you saying?” I say.

  “I’ve let this go on too long,” Concorde says with all the finality of a cheesed-off father sending his kids to their rooms because he’s had it up to here with us. “I’m putting an end to the Hero Squad.”

  Concorde, roaring like a drill sergeant, orders Nina to escort us back to the Pelican, keep us there, and take care of any injuries. She shoots him a cold glare but does as told, refraining from any sass-back. A bleeding teenage girl does wonders for keeping your priorities straight.

  “Carrie, break out the first-aid kit, will you? Okay, Missy, here we go,” Nina says. She gently pulls Missy’s top up, peeling it away from her blood-soaked skin, to reveal a set of nasty puncture wounds in her left side, just under the line of her ribcage. Nina presses a wad of gauze to the injuries. “Hold this in place, kiddo, and keep pressure on it.”

  “Jeez, that girl did that to you?” Stuart says.

  “She had claws like me,” Missy says.

  Claws? Claws like her? No one else blinks at that little bombshell, but it sure doesn’t escape my notice.

  “Guess Concorde wasn’t kidding when he said she was like an evil you.”

  “Speaking of Concorde, what did he mean, he’s putting an end to the team?” Sara says.

  “Don’t listen to him. It’s Concorde being Concorde,” Nina says. “Matt, you’re up.”

  Matt shrugs off his coat easily enough, but it takes him a solid minute to worm out of his shirt, and no wonder he’s in agony: Matt’s back is a mass of red welts.

  “Oh, Matt,” I gasp.

  “Man, you took a pounding all right,” Nina says, as though impressed by Matt’s war wounds (which, knowing her, she is). “Imagine how much this would’ve hurt if you hadn’t’ve had your swanky new gear on.”

  “Lucky me,” Matt grunts.

  “Buck up, bud, doesn’t look like you took any serious damage. My advice: regular doses of Tylenol, lots of ice packs, sleep on your stomach, you’ll be good in a few days.”

  “Any advice on how to deal with Concorde?”

  “Carrie, I told you, it’s nothing to worry about. Concorde freaks out about stuff, that’s his thing. He lost his mind the first time I got hurt on the job, too. Give him a day to cool down and everything will go back to normal.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen Concorde lose it before. This time was different.”

  “I’ve seen Concorde lose it before a lot more often than you have, so trust me when I say: he’ll get over it.”

  Looks like we’re about to find out: the bay door slides open and Concorde steps inside. “Nina, give us a moment,” he says.

  Nina slips me an I told you so look and hops out of the Pelican, closing the door behind her. Concorde folds his arms, sighs.

  “Today was an unmitigated disaster,” he begins, and it definitely sounds like one of Concorde’s standard dress-downs. “Too much went wrong. Too many people got hurt. I will not allow it to happen again. Carrie.” Concorde holds out a hand. “Your headset.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Give me your headset. Now.”

  “How am I supposed to fly if I don’t have my transponder?”

  “You don’t,” Concorde snaps. “You’re not a super-hero anymore, you understand me? None
of you are.”

  “Seriously, we’re going through this again?” Matt says. “Come on, Concorde, you’ve tried to stop us before —”

  Concorde has yelled at us plenty of times. He’s chewed us out, criticized us, insulted us, but he has never once gotten physical with us — until now, when he shoves Matt, slamming him back into the bulkhead.

  “And look what it got you!” Concorde then rounds on Missy, snatching the blood-soaked gauze out of her hand. “Look what it got you!” he says, throwing the gauze in Matt’s face. “Do you know how close you came to getting killed?”

  “We’ve had close calls before,” I point out.

  “And you know what’s kept you alive? Dumb luck. Well, guess what, Carrie? Luck runs out!” Concorde says as he rips my headset right off my face and throws it across the bay. “I will not have your blood on my hands.”

  Concorde throws open the bay door and storms off, shouldering past Nina, who, judging by her stunned expression, heard everything. I brush by her and chase after Concorde, because there is no way I’m going to let this go without a fight.

  “Concorde. Concorde! Dammit, will you talk to me?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says without stopping.

  “The hell there isn’t. You can’t disband our team! You’re not our father, Concorde, you can’t ground us!”

  Concorde whirls around. He glares at me through his smoked outer visor, giving nothing away.

  “We’ve had this discussion before,” I say, although that “discussion” was as much of a shouting match as this one is. “What I do with my life is my decision, not yours, and you can’t stop me.”

  “I’m going to spell this out for you, Carrie, so you’d be wise to listen very closely,” Concorde says in a low growl. “You are, as of this second, an unregistered superhuman flyer. If you go up, for any reason, I’ll have no choice but to report you to the Department of Homeland Security, and they’ll send men to arrest you. You’ll end up in Byrne. Is that what you want?”