Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect

by Michael Bailey

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m Mr. Lerner’s attorney, Drew Coleco,” Leonard’s companion says with an air of authority. He produces a business card from his tailored suit jacket and slaps it on the table. “I’ve already advised my client of his rights, and I’ll thank you to address all your questions to Mr. Lerner through me.”

  “He’s court-appointed,” Leonard smirks. “Can you tell?”

  “Mr. Coleco, we’re going to make this very easy on you and your client,” Mindforce says. “We’re not interested in you, Leonard.”

  “No?”

  “We want whoever hired you,” Concorde says.

  “Whoever hired me,” Leonard parrots.

  “Come on, Leonard, don’t insult us by playing dumb. Last year someone hires Manticore to hunt down Archimedes,” Concorde says, counting off his points on his fingers. “We get to him first, then Manticore takes another crack at him, backed up by a bunch of cutting-edge battlesuits. We take down the battlesuits, then the entire Bestiary shows up at our headquarters to steal the suits back. We track the lot of you back to a secret facility outside of Boston, where we find — guess who? – Archimedes, who’s been sprung from imprisonment again. Yesterday, the Bestiary shows up to bust out Archimedes yet again. Don’t tell me these dots aren’t connected.”

  “We’ve already spoken with the district attorney. He’s agreed to drop the most serious of the felony charges you’ve racked up and let you plead out on the rest,” Mindforce says. “All you have to do is give up your employer.”

  “The DA’s put it all down on paper for you,” Concorde adds.

  “I’d like a few minutes to consult with my client,” Coleco says. “In private.”

  “Oh, calm down, mouthpiece,” Leonard says. “Look, guys, I’d love to take you up on the offer — I mean, for real, because this place is seriously depressing, but unfortunately for me, there’s no one to sell out. This was all us.”

  “Mr. Lerner —!”

  “Hey, pal, this isn’t my first rodeo. I know when I can weasel out and when I’m screwed. Today, I am well and truly screwed. If I want to see the outside world again before I’m a drooling old fart, my best bet is to let it all hang out.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Concorde says.

  “I figured. So, I’m formally waiving my right to remain silent,” Leonard says, prompting his attorney to throw up his hands in surrender.

  “Go ahead,” Mindforce says.

  “Here’s the deal: Manticore cut us loose last year,” Leonard begins. “We lost a lot of points with him after the raid on your headquarters went sideways, but when Oliver went rogue and started that brawl with the kid from your Little League team, that was it. We were no longer reliable subcontractors, he said.

  “We thought hey, no big deal, we had a rep, we had contacts, we didn’t need Manticore’s leftovers — except when word got out Manticore kicked us to the curb, well, no one wanted us. We were practically blacklisted.”

  “My heart bleeds,” Concorde says. “Get to the part where you decided to spring Archimedes.”

  “Not much to tell there,” Leonard says. “We were sitting around one night, brainstorming over a case of tallboys, and we remembered that that Archimedes guy could hack into, like, any computer in the world with his brain, and figured we could use him to revive the business...maybe branch out, you know? Blackmail can be real profitable if you squeeze the right people.”

  “While we appreciate your entrepreneurial spirit,” Mindforce says, “you had to know you were playing with a stacked deck, attacking a supermax prison transport detail.”

  “No guts, no glory. Besides, we didn’t know you guys were going to be riding shotgun.” Leonard smiles. “Live and learn. Am I right?”

  FOURTEEN

  Sara called it: Matt never showed up to school.

  He wasn’t in homeroom, but I held out hope he’d put on a brave face and soldier through the day. I gave up on that when we were a member short at lunchtime.

  As has become our tradition, Malcolm and I meet in the main hallway to walk together to our web design class. Malcolm senses I’m in a mood and asks me what’s wrong. I ask to defer that conversation until the end of the day. He’s cool with that. Public displays of affection, as a rule, are frowned upon in school, but he manages to sneak in a brief reassuring hand squeeze. He’s a good boyfriend.

  Did I just call him my boyfriend? I can’t call him the B-word yet, we’ve only been on two official dates. Okay, more like one and two-thirds (thank you Soulblack), but that means I have even less reason to call him my boyfriend. God, if I’d said that aloud, I’d have sent Malcolm screaming out of the building.

  No, no, stop, no. Slow down, Carrie, take a breath. No need to add pointless romantic anxiety to your already very full stress load.

  The final bell rings, and once we’re in the hall and the other students have dispersed, I infodump. Obviously, I omit entirely the mess with Concorde, and out of respect for Matt’s privacy I’m vague about his woes, but Malcolm gets the full color, widescreen, 3-D, digital surround sound story of Ben’s epic transgression.

  When I finish, Malcolm takes me in his arms and holds me. The tension melts away.

  “I want to preface this by assuring you that I’m completely on your side and Ben was out of line,” Malcolm says, “but it sounds to me like he was looking out for your well-being.”

  I pull away to give Malcolm some mild stink-eye.

  “I repeat: He was out of line, but I don’t think he was trying to be a jerk,” Malcolm says. “Besides, your grandfather saved the day, so it’s all good, right?”

  “Except for the part where Mom is still dating the guy,” I gripe, “and that he expects me to apologize to Ben. Like that’s going to happen.”

  “It’ll happen.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because you’re a good person who knows it’s always better to take the high road.”

  Well-played, Mr. Forth.

  “Now, did I hear you say you have a birthday coming up?”

  “You did. Tuesday. The big one-six.”

  “And you didn’t think to share this information with me earlier?” Malcolm says, playfully scolding me. “That is the sort of thing I should be made aware of, you know, in case I wanted to do something with you to celebrate the big day.”

  “In case.”

  “In case. Not saying I do want to do something, like take you out to a nice dinner, but in case I did...”

  “Well then, in case you wanted to do something for my birthday, I already have plans for Saturday and Tuesday, but all other days are wide open.”

  “I’ll try to remember that. In case I want to do something with you on, hypothetically speaking, Friday night?”

  “You two are so adorable it’s disgusting,” Sara says as she and Missy stroll up to us.

  “Disgusting in a good way,” Missy says, “like a huge hot fudge sundae that’s totally covered in jimmies and M&Ms and Oreo bits and is soooooo goooood but makes you kind of sick after, like, three bites. Like that. Hi, Malcolm!”

  “Hi, Missy. Sorry, didn’t mean to hog Carrie to myself.”

  “You should be sorry,” Sara says. “She was ours first.”

  She’s joking, but Sara’s remark makes me realize I’ve unwittingly segregated Malcolm from my friends, and for no good reason. I can’t even claim I’ve done it to ensure that no Hero Squad stuff accidentally comes up in front of Malcolm (although that is a legit concern).

  Let’s rectify that. “Malcolm, you want to hang out with us at the Coffee Experience?” I say. “We don’t do anything special, just sit and caffeinate and complain about school.”

  “Yeah, come with us,” Sara the ever-supportive says. Missy nods emphatically, making it unanimous.

  Malcolm smiles. “Sure. I’ll drive.”

  Stuart continues the trend in good friendship practices. He’s not only totally cool with Malcolm joining us for after-sch
ool coffee and socialization, he spends the car ride into town chatting up my boyfr— uh, chatting up Malcolm like he’s an old buddy. There’s none of that getting-to-know-you awkwardness, no standoffishness from either side of two very different cliques as they interact for the first time; Malcolm slides into group dynamic effortlessly. I’m a little ashamed I didn’t bridge this gap earlier.

  We file into Coffee E, and right away Jill catches my eye and nods at the far corner of the shop, a grave look on her face. I turn to see Matt stuffed into a seat, eyes narrowed and jaw set, like he’s getting ready to belt someone.

  “Guys,” I say, drawing their attention to our wayward fifth member.

  Matt glances up as we approach. “What’s he doing here?” he says, glowering at Malcolm.

  “He came with us to hang out. Have you been here all day?”

  Matt’s scowl intensifies. “I’m not going to say anything in front of him.”

  “What? Come on, Matt, Malcolm isn’t —”

  “Maybe I should give you guys some privacy,” Malcolm says. I start to protest but he holds up a hand, cutting me off. “No, look, he needs to talk and he obviously won’t in front of me. It’s okay. Your friend needs you.”

  It slips out. “You’re a good boyfriend.”

  “You’re a good girlfriend. I have to keep up, don’t I?”

  Malcolm kisses me before he leaves. Jill slips me an approving smile and a thumbs-up.

  Cherish the warm fuzzies, girl, because it’s not going to last.

  We join Matt at the table, which is littered with empty coffee cups and paper plates that, judging by the crumbs, once held a variety of cookies and pastries. Great, so he’s supremely cheesed off and hopped up on massive amounts of sugar and caffeine.

  “Mom kicked Dad out of the house,” Matt says. This news is not surprising, but I’d describe the resulting silence as stunned nevertheless.

  “Where did he go?” I say. Conventional wisdom may insist there is no such thing as a dumb question, but in situations like this, all questions feel dumb.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Matt says, bristling. “Bastard’s been cheating on Mom for three months. He started screwing his receptionist at his office Christmas party. Two days before friggin’ Christmas. All those times he said he was working late, all those weekends he went in because it was tax time and he was soooooo busy? It was all crap. He was going to see her.”

  Matt says her in a low hiss, like it was a swear word so terrible it’d cause old ladies to faint and paint to peel off the walls if he said it too loudly.

  Sara slides a hand over Matt’s clenched fist. The rage that had been building throughout his story, threatening to erupt in a display of violence or screaming profanity, it all drains out of him. His body seems to deflate, and he collapses in on himself.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers.

  I know this specific flavor of despair. I know what it’s like to see your family disintegrate before your eyes, to wish with all your heart and soul that you could do something, anything to stop it, yet know you’re powerless to do so. I know how that helplessness crushes you and tears you to pieces and makes you want to curl into a ball and die just so you don’t have to feel anything anymore.

  I’m so sorry, Matt. There is nothing you can do.

  Natalie, her head light from skipping lunch, enters the common room and swoons from the smell of fresh pizza, zesty and spicy. “You suck, Edison,” she says. “You ordered pizza and you didn’t get one for me?”

  “There’s a Hawaiian sitting in the oven keeping warm,” Edison says. “You’re welcome.”

  “Very good. All is forgiven.” Natalie retrieves her pizza, grabs a soda from the refrigerator, then joins her teammates at the table. “All right, fill me in. How’d it go?”

  “I’m undecided,” Bart says.

  “Okay...”

  “The Bestiary was very cooperative. They didn’t inveigle or obfuscate in the slightest...”

  “I love it when you use big words. It’s hot.”

  “...but they also didn’t give up anything.”

  “Meaning whoever hired them?”

  “That’s the weird part. They swore no one hired them,” Edison says. “They all claimed breaking out Archimedes was their idea.”

  Natalie laughs through a mouthful of pizza. “Please. Those idiots have never had an original thought in their lives.”

  “I don’t disagree, and their story stinks to high heaven. Their testimonies were virtually identical, down to the last detail, which tells me —”

  “It’s a cover story they worked out in advance,” Natalie concludes, “which means they’re protecting themselves and/or their boss.”

  “There’s one problem with that theory,” Bart says. “None of them were lying. I didn’t catch a single whiff of deception from any of them.”

  “I don’t buy that for a second. Every instinct tells me they’re covering for whoever’s really behind their little stunt,” Edison says.

  “There is a little too much coincidence for it to be coincidence, isn’t there?” Natalie says.

  “Exactly. Unfortunately, a hunch isn’t going to convince any judge in the state to issue a search warrant so Bart can perform a deep telepathic reading.”

  “So we’re stuck, is what you’re saying.”

  “Maybe not. We have one more avenue to try: Archimedes,” Bart says.

  “We tried to talk to him, but all he said to us was ‘I would like to exercise my rights under the Fifth Amendment, please go to hell,’” Edison says. “But if the Bestiary somehow made contact with him in advance, tipped him off about the breakout...”

  “They are dumb enough to tip their hand like that,” Natalie says.

  “Let’s hope they hold true to form. Byrne records every visitation, so if they did send someone in to give Archimedes a head’s up, we’d have evidence enough to get that search warrant.”

  “Sounds like a good Plan B. Got a Plan C if that doesn’t pan out?”

  “If Plan B flops, we’re back to spinning our wheels,” Bart says. “There’s a very remote chance that the Morana girl heard something, but we can’t count on that.”

  Natalie grunts. “Not that that matters since no one can find her. Girl’s dropped off the radar, big time.”

  “She’s a psychotic teenage girl with serious impulse control issues and no family or friends to turn to,” Edison says. “Don’t worry, she’ll turn up.”

  Lester Baron glances at his watch and blows a long, hissing breath through his nose: almost seven o’clock. What should have been a half-hour ride on the T between Roxbury and Cambridge turned into two hours thanks to, according to the prerecorded voice that informs passengers of such things, “mechanical difficulties.” He tells himself it’s still better than driving to and from the office, if for no other reason than it eliminates the chances of his BMW getting stolen while at work, but it does little to console him.

  A light but steady rain causes Baron to quicken his pace, but middle-aged bulk does not allow him to maintain it for long. He arrives home soaked through, and in a fouler mood than before.

  His mood darkens further upon entering his brownstone; the smell of dinner on the stove is absent. Again. Carla is a lovely woman, but almost certainly the worst housekeeper he’s ever had when it comes to preparing his evening meal in a timely manner.

  Baron throws the kitchen door open, expecting to find Carla once again sitting at the table reading one of those trashy romance novels she adores. He’s correct on two out of three counts.

  “Heya, doc,” Joy says with a cold smile. She waves a dog-eared paperback at him. “Tell me this stupid thing is yours.”

  Baron swallows hard. “Joyce,” he says.

  Joy slaps the book down. “Joy. My name’s Joy. Not Joyce.”

  “Joy.”

  “Sit down.” Baron risks a glance over his shoulder, weighing his chances of making it to the door. Joy tenses. Her eyes narrow and he
r smile turns wolfish. “Go ahead. Try to run.”

  He sits.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I’ve been doing, doc?” Joy says. “That’s usually the first question out of your mouth whenever you see me.”

  “H-how have you been doing, Joyce — Joy?”

  “Been in prison. You? Been up to anything interesting? Like maybe taking weird notes on some of your patients? Me, for example?”

  The last of the color drains from Baron’s face. “I don’t know what you’re —”

  Joy shoves the table, ramming the opposite edge into Baron’s gut with enough force to drive the breath from him. Her grin vanishes.

  “Don’t screw with me, man. Don’t you even.” Baron nods. “Okay. So long as we understand each other...which is kind of my problem here. You seem to understand me, better than I understand myself, but I don’t get you at all. You’re, like, a normal old doctor, but you know all kinds of stuff about my...”

  Baron, hesitantly, fills in the blank. “Special abilities.”

  “Special abilities.” Joy reaches into her stolen jacket and produces the contents of the file she...found? That sounds right. She must have found it, but damned if she can recall where. She unfolds a page and reads from it as best as she can. “Subject ten has displayed signs of greatly...ac-cel-er-a-ted reflexes, superior physical strength as compared to baseline blah blah blah — ah, here it is. Initial blood screens recorded dis-pro-por-tion-ate levels of ho-mo-van-illic acid and five-hydro...umm...

  “Five-hydroxyindoleacetic acid,” Baron says.

  “Yeah, that. As well as high levels of test-os-ter-one and low levels of ser-o-to-nin. Further, personal observations of subject’s behavior, see attached add-en-dum, suggest high likelihood that subject ten suffers from mild to moderate psy-cho-sis, additional screenings are strongly recommended to blah blah blah.”

  Buzzkill Joy lays the paper on the kitchen table and bares yellowed teeth in a crooked grin. A wave of flop-sweat breaks free and cascades down Baron’s forehead.

  “Are you saying I’m crazy?” Joy chirps. Baron’s throat constricts, choking off any response. Joy’s face goes slack, settling into a perfect neutrality that betrays no emotion, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft, bland, flat. “I asked you a question, doc. Are you saying I’m crazy?”