Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect

by Michael Bailey

  “I’m fine,” Missy says. “Where are we?”

  “Izzy says it was supposed to be a fancy theater, but the money ran out and they never finished it. Cool, huh?” Joy says.

  “Oh, yeah, real cool. What, is this your new secret super-villain lair or something?”

  “We ain’t sticking around long enough to get comfy. We just got one piece of business to take care of, so you sit tight. I have to address the troops.”

  With that, Joy whirls around, spreading her arms like a circus ringmaster welcoming her eager young audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” she crows. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here today. We got some real important stuff to talk about, so keep your mouths shut. Looking at you, Wyatt.”

  Twitchy shrinks in his seat.

  “When I recruited Izzy yesterday, he said something that got stuck in my head. I told him he was nothing but that son-of-a-bitch’s freaky science experiment,” Joy says, jabbing a finger at Dr. Hamill, “and you know what he said to me? ‘So what? Not like we can do anything about it.’

  “Well, you look at it one way, he ain’t wrong. We are what we are, and there’s no changing that. We’re always going to be freaks of nature. But then I got to thinking, and I realized, there is something we can do about it: We can make damn sure the people who made us never want to make that same mistake twice.”

  “Killing him isn’t going to make any difference,” Kurt says, nodding toward Dr. Hamill. “You said this was some government project. They’ll just hand it over to some other guy. We sure as hell can’t kill every scientist in the world.”

  “We can try,” Ivy rumbles.

  “Or we can be smart about it,” Joy says.

  “That’d be a first,” Missy says.

  “Hey! I’m not an idiot! I know how the world works. We’re part of a secret government project, right?” Joy says, sweeping her hand in presentation over her followers. “So what would happen if the secret got out? What would happen if the entire world knew what they did and saw what kind of messed-up psychopaths they made? The government would be so embarrassed, they’d bury that project in the deepest, darkest hole they could find and pretend it never happened.”

  “That’s your master plan? You’re going to snitch on the government?”

  “And while they’re running around trying to cover their asses, we make a run for Mexico and spend the rest of our lives on the beach, drinking cheap beer and smoking primo weed.”

  Missy snorts. “Sounds great.”

  “Glad you think so, cupcake, because I’m giving you a chance to get with the winning team.”

  “Y-you...you’re what?” Missy stammers.

  “I’m going to give it to you straight, girl,” Joy says, hunkering down to better look Missy in the eye. “Your daddy’s not getting out of here alive. He’s going to pay for what he did to us — to you, and you got two choices: Die with him, or come with us. It’s not a tough choice, I think. Way I see it, you belong with us, not with daddy, and not with your super-hero buddies. You’re one of us.”

  “I’m nothing like you. I’m not crazy.”

  Joy laughs. “Yeah? You think so? I saw it in your eyes last time we threw down. There’s something going on in there,” Joy says, tapping Missy on the forehead. “You kept it caged up, but I know it’s there. You’re just as monkeyhouse nuts as the rest of us, cupcake, and the sooner you admit it —”

  “I am not crazy,” Missy insists. “I was demonically possessed once and it tainted my soul and sometimes I lose control but I’m working on it, but that’s totally different than being crazy. Totally.”

  “Right. Whatever helps you sleep at night. What’s it going to be? You walking out with us, or are you joining Daddy for Take Your Daughter to the Morgue Day?”

  “...I need to think about it.”

  “Two minutes,” Joy says, withdrawing to the edge of the stage.

  “You were...demonically possessed?” Dr. Hamill says.

  “Once,” Missy says. “For a few minutes. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “I don’t believe there’s going to be a later...not for me, certainly.” Dr. Hamill shakes his head. “It’s no less than I deserve. What I did to you is unforgiveable.”

  “Daddy...”

  “Let me speak. Please.” Missy nods. “I love you, Missy. I never said that as often as I should have. I never treated you the way such a wonderful child as you deserved to be treated. I’ve committed so many sins in my life but my sins against you are the worst, and I’d give all that I had for one more chance to make things right between us.”

  “Aww, that is so friggin’ touching,” Joy smirks, thumping her chest. “Gets me right here. What, you think some pathetic deathbed confession is going to get you off the hook? Yeah, you’re right, doc, you screwed a lot of people, but you screwed your little girl worst of all, so you go ahead,” she says, turning to Missy. “You tell him exactly what you think of him. You tell him that he’s a bigger monster than all of us put together.”

  “My father is not a monster. Neither am I. Neither are you. Neither are any of you,” Missy says, shouting past Joy. “None of you are monsters.”

  Dr. Hamill smiles for his brave, compassionate little girl and he silently thanks God, because he can think of no better sight to take with him into the next world.

  Missy gives him something better anyway.

  “Bunch of whiny drama queens is what you are. Whah whah whah, the mean old scientist man made us monsters, we’re so damaged, nothing’s our fault, we can’t help being crazy,” Missy taunts. “Please. You’re the reason you’re a mess, Joyce — not my father, you. Your life sucks because you suck, so why don’t you stop acting like a ginormous loser and stop blaming everyone else for your own stupid decisions?”

  “SHUT UP!” Joy bellows. “Shut your damn mouth or I swear to God I’ll —!”

  “What? Kill me? Pft. Whatever. You’re not scary, you know. You’re not scary, you’re not intimidating — you know what else you’re not? Smart.” Missy grins. “A smart person would’ve realized, like, ten minutes ago I’m totally distracting you.”

  And that is what we in the super-hero business call an opening.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’d never call Missy a coward. I’d never question her bravery or say she was less of a hero than any of us, but the way she kept her head together is nothing short of epic.

  The minute she regained consciousness, Missy put out a telepathic distress call to Sara, then relayed to us intel on her location as she learned it. From that, Matt was able to puzzle out Joy’s makeshift hideout: The Kingsport Center for the Performing Arts. The ambitious project to construct a community concert hall and theater fell apart late last year when critical state funding dried up. The husk of the complex sits in northeastern Kingsport, off a secondary road on a moderately wooded property, practically invisible to passers-by. Even the cops sometimes forget it’s there.

  While we were en route, Missy kept feeding us info on the layout of the auditorium, how many hostiles we’d be facing — everything we’d need for a quick takedown.

  In theory. With Missy incapacitated the raw numbers aren’t in our favor, and Joy’s crew has certain advantages: They’re unpredictable, willing to kill, and will be fighting their way out of a corner. They have nothing left to lose but their freedom, and no one gives that up without a hell of a fight (except maybe me, but that’s beside the point).

  What do we have? Experience, loyalty to one another, a just cause and, thanks to Sara repeating that cool trick she used to sneak us into the hospital, the element of surprise. Buzzkill Joy has no idea we’re standing ten feet away from her, not until Sara drops her telepathic camouflage and nails the little psycho with a telekinetic force blast. Let me tell you, the only thing more satisfying than watching Joy hurtle the length of the auditorium is the solid thud she makes when she smacks face-first into the back wall.

  Our shock-and-awe tactic f
ails to fluster Joy’s crew. They retaliate immediately, no hesitation whatsoever. The big guy, the one Joy called Kurt, is on the stage in a flash, followed by Ivy, who throws a little shock and awe back in our faces when she tackles Stuart and drives him through — through the stage floor.

  The crack of hardwood planks shattering sounds a lot like the starting gun for the All Hell Breaks Loose 5K.

  Matt whips out a cricket bat and starts swinging, while I get ready to zap anyone dumb enough to give me a clear shot (the auditorium may have a nice high ceiling, but I’m no good in the air unless I have open sky to work in. Something to correct later). The boy Missy dubbed Bug-eyes bounces toward us like a turbo-charged kangaroo, easily clearing the distance between the row of seats and the stage, while the girl built like a drinking straw, Skinny, skitters towards us on all fours. Both of them are moving fast, too fast for me to get a bead on them, yet neither of them comes at us. Instead, they try to circle around to attack our rear — or to take out Missy and Dr. Hamill, who are still trussed up and helpless.

  Stuart was supposed to free them but, as the saying goes, no plan survives contact with the enemy — which is why you have a back-up plan. In this case, Sara is our Plan B. She spins, tracking Bug-eyes and Skinny, and takes them out with a double telekinetic slam as they move in for the kill. Once they’re out of the way, Sara turns her power on the chain wrapped around Missy’s wrists and ankles. Missy scrambles to her feet, slices through her father’s bonds, and the two of them join us in what becomes a defensive circle.

  Kurt and his remaining three allies counter our positions, a rather lame attempt at surrounding us. Kurt growls, a low rumble of distant thunder, and bares his teeth at us. This prompts similar displays from his buddies, who put on their best fight faces, assume aggressive stances, and give us little displays of their abilities. Isaac rises a foot off the stage. Twitchy, a.k.a. Wyatt, emits a buzzing, crackling sound that reminds me of a bug zapper, and pure white fire engulfs Flamey’s hands (gee, big surprise there).

  “Not bad,” I say. “Squad, let’s show them what we bring to the party.”

  (I know, it’s a cheesy line, but that’s showbiz.)

  To my left, Matt channels his inner Neo and pulls out of his trench coat a pair of unnervingly realistic machine pistols. To my right, Sara grabs some debris off the stage and aims jagged chunks of hardwood at Twitchy. Behind me, Missy returns Kurt’s animalistic snarling with a sharp hiss. Me, I crank my aura up to eleven and rise off the stage, matching Isaac’s altitude.

  Their bravado falters.

  That’s right, we’re bad.

  Two things happen then, almost simultaneously, causing our Mexican standoff to careen right back into total chaos. A screech of rage precedes Buzzkill Joy’s return to the fight and, thank God, gives Missy the split-second warning she needs to duck under a vicious swipe that could have torn her face off. A heartbeat later, the stage behind me explodes and Stuart arcs through the air. He crashes to the theater floor, his landing leaving a shallow crater in the concrete. I catch a glimpse of Ivy leaping up through the hole, putting the numbers back in favor of Team Bad Guy, if barely.

  It doesn’t last long. Twitchy lunges for Matt, who spins out of the way like a matador dodging a charging bull. Twitchy crashes into Flamey, who goes rigid and screams through clenched teeth as (best guess here) Twitchy makes like a human bug zapper and stuns his teammate with an electrical shock. Matt follows up by unloading his guns into Twitchy’s back.

  “OH MY GOD!” I squeal. “Those are real guns?!”

  “Yeah! Loaded with hornet rounds,” Matt says. “Those suckers work, trust me.”

  Hornet rounds? That’s only slightly comforting. Matt’s never been a gun guy, and I seriously do not like the thought of him getting a taste for it.

  Add it to the list of problems for another day, Carrie, because now we’re down to the toughest and most dangerous members of Team Bad Guy — also the smartest, because Joy, sensing the tide has turned against her but good, shouts over the din to “screw this noise” (paraphrasing; her version is more R-rated).

  “Every man for himself!” she cries, bolting for the back entrances. Kurt, Ivy, and Isaac take the hint and chase after her.

  “Psyche, stay here, you’re on prison guard duty,” I say, and she nods in acknowledgement. I hate to bench Sara like this, but she’s been pushing hard and looks like she’s about to faint.

  The rest of the team falls in behind me, but we refrain from following Team Bad Guy all the way out of the building. We don’t want to get caught in any crossfire.

  Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that, didn’t I? Obviously I flew here, but the rest of the team had to hitch a ride. Fortunately, the Kingsport Police Department’s Special Response Team was more than happy to give them a lift in their heavily armored mobile headquarters.

  We hang back as Team Bad Guy crosses the building’s foyer, a space designed to hold an entire audience awaiting entrance into the auditorium, and bursts through the front doors, only to freeze in place as a powerful spotlight flares to life. For a moment, before my eyes adjust, I see their harsh, crisp silhouettes against a backdrop of pure white. My vision shifts, bringing every detail into perfect focus. A line of a dozen or so cops, laden with military-grade body armor, brace their automatic rifles against their shoulders and order Team Bad Guy to freeze, get down on the ground, put your hands behind your heads. Red threads of light cross the distance between the cops’ weapons and Joy’s crew, sending a clear message: Do not resist, do not try to escape, do as you’re told and you will not be cut down in a hail of flying molten lead.

  The fatal flaw in that scenario: Ivy doesn’t sweat pesky little things like bullets. She charges the officers, bellowing a challenge. The cops’ laser sights converge on Ivy. There is no final warning. They open fire.

  Ivy plunges headlong into the barrage, the bullets THWMP THWMP THWMPing off her body. Contrary to popular belief, bullets do not make a sharp PTWANG! noise when they strike invulnerable skin (it’s skin, people, not steel). They also do not ricochet more than a few inches, but Joy, Kurt, and Isaac aren’t taking any chances when they make their breaks for freedom. Joy darts to the right, Kurt to the left, Isaac goes up.

  No sooner do they split than the roar of gunfire peters out and is replaced by shouts and screams.

  We rush outside. I don’t have to tell the others who their targets are. They know their jobs.

  Of all of us, I have the easiest time of things. Isaac rockets straight up in a blind panic, oblivious to my presence. I tag him with a relatively gentle force blast. He spins out of control, stalls out, then starts to fall. I grab him by the belt and he hangs there, completely limp. I descend and touch down at the edge of the main parking lot, which has become a gladiatorial arena for Stuart and Ivy.

  The cops who are still on their feet drag their unconscious (God, I hope they’re just unconscious) comrades clear of the mayhem — not that said mayhem is contained to one spot. Ivy throws wild haymakers that bat Stuart around like a hockey puck, and for some reason he isn’t swinging back.

  Ivy senses his reluctance to fight and cranks up the violence. A kick to the chest throws Stuart across the lot. He rolls to a stop at my feet, sighs, and looks up at me.

  “Hey. Question,” he says. “If I punch her, am I, like, a huge ass for hitting a girl, or am I all enlightened and stuff because I don’t see gender when I’m fighting a bad guy?”

  “On behalf of women everywhere, I give you permission to cave her face in,” I say.

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  Ivy goes down on the first punch.

  Soon after the Archimedes case, Matt designed for himself a training regimen to whip him into proper shape for life as a super-hero. His gloves were great tools, but he knew that success or failure ultimately rested on how sound his mind and body were. He wakes up early every morning to work out at the gym down the road from his house, and most mornings he runs to school rather than walking or taking the bus
. The last time he clocked himself, he covered the two miles’ worth of woodland paths between home and school in fifteen minutes.

  Judging by how quickly Kurt is pulling away, Matt guesses he could cover two miles in half the time.

  Matt brings his pistols up and fires. He doesn’t expect to hit his fleeing target, given that his practical experience with firearms is limited to the occasional game of laser tag or paintball with Stuart, and in this he is not disappointed; the hornet rounds fly wild. Kurt, startled by the burst of gunfire, stumbles — the true intended effect.

  Matt drops the guns, closes the distance, and flings himself at Kurt’s exposed back, leading with the point of his elbow. His aim is high and, instead of connecting with the base of Kurt’s skull, Matt’s elbow glances off the scalp — painful, but not the knockout move he’d hoped for.

  The pain galvanizes Kurt, bringing his senses into razor-sharp focus. Matt blocks a series of roundhouse punches that land with punishing force. A punch to the gut lifts him off his feet, leaving him vulnerable to a stiff fist to the face. His mask does little to brunt the impact; red-hot pain splashes across Matt’s face. He falls to his knees, head spinning. Kurt advances slowly, deliberately, lips curled away to expose canines ending in wicked points.

  When your life is on the line, there is no such thing as dirty fighting.

  Matt’s uppercut finds its target between Kurt’s legs. Kurt yelps, a high-pitched bark of sudden agony, and he doubles over, slowly, as if deflating. Matt jumps to his feet and, as he rises, snakes an arm around Kurt’s neck.

  A concussion for sure, maybe a skull fracture, probably a neck wrenched so badly it will need a brace for two months.

  Matt cinches the headlock in, shifts his weight, and throws his feet up.

  Without a headset of her own, I’m forced to locate Missy visually. Not the easiest thing in the world, to put it mildly. I’m far enough above the ground that I can see everything for a few miles in any direction, but I lose all the telling details I need to pick out Missy from the many other dots moving around beneath me.