“I thought you said you had a hard time making friends,” she said.
“I never said that. And where did you learn to fight?”
“I have brothers. They liked to play superhero in the backyard. They let me be the bad guy.”
A passing teacher clicked his tongue and pointed to a clock mounted on a wall.
“Will you need me to escort you between classes?” Tina asked. “I charge for this, you know.”
“I’ll see you later. And Tina? Thanks.”
“No problem. Cesar.”
***
The A.V. Club all sat in the lounge that evening, watching a recap of the week’s supers activity. It didn’t feature any action they hadn’t seen before. The only prominent fighter caught on camera in the past few days was a square fireplug of a hero who carried a wand wired to an electronics-laden belt. A touch of the wand made anyone he was fighting throw up. Poser had tried to christen him Commander Brown Sound, but in the end Tina’s name won out: Captain Puke.
In his fight with a hooded pair who rode a scooter that spat flames from its chrome tailpipe, Captain Puke had been disarmed of his wand, and his belt and uniform were destroyed. They had rammed the super with their scooter and tried to beat him with bats. Fortunately for Captain Puke, he’d recovered quickly and knew how to box, and with a series of devastating blows he beat both bad guys into the ground.
They had watched the fight three times already, but someone had submitted new footage. The anchors went over each moment of the action like it was a world championship MMA match. The image paused at the end of the fight, and a martial arts consultant drew red lines and circles on the screen over the combatants.
“Looks like he might have twisted an ankle,” Vlad said.
“Yeah, they mentioned that yesterday,” Tina said. “An EMT that treated Captain P said he had a concussion from the crash with the scooter.”
“I don’t get why more of them don’t wear helmets,” Brendan said.
“Their hairdos,” Poser said. “The amount of money some of these guys invest in product is obscene. Trust me, I know.”
They all got quiet as the ads played. Each had brought a bag of food from the restaurant, and they nibbled at their to-go sandwiches and salads in the flickering light of the television.
“We have a situation,” Tina said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. She crumpled up the wrapper of her now-eaten pastrami and hummus sandwich. No one else was even halfway finished. “Anyone else have Lucille Bowman in their class? She’s becoming a problem. She tried to pick a fight with Brendan and me today.”
Brendan waited for Tina to tease him about his real first name, but she didn’t mention it.
“Again?” Poser asked. “She must really have it out for you.”
“She’s academically challenged,” Brendan said. “I’m not sure how she got into this school.”
Vlad tapped his lips. “Maybe her middle school grades on a curve, and everyone else there was that much dumber.”
“She got in the same way she got her two jock apes to do her bidding,” Tina said.
“Something sexual? I’m listening…”
“Maybe it’s a new superpower,” said a scrawny blond kid named Soren.
“Bribery,” Tina said. “Just a guess. But does it really matter? She’s angling to start something that’s going to get people kicked out of school. She’s like a kid with a magnifying glass and a bunch of ants, except she seems to get off on having someone else hold the glass and do the burning.”
“I killed a chicken once,” Soren said.
Everyone looked at him.
“Uh, thanks,” Tina said. “I preferred it when you were quiet.”
Brendan cleared his throat. “Look, I appreciate you wanting to help, but I can’t have you getting into trouble over this. My strategy is to keep my head on a swivel and just avoid her. I’m not going to play her game, and making this a group project that gets us all booted isn’t going to accomplish anything.”
“Very noble of you,” Vlad said. “But I see her around, and if she’s not the center of attention, she looks angry. Her game works with her two boys and with some others, I’ve noticed. But in this school, it’s academics that will get you to rise to the top.”
Brendan laughed. “Is this some sort of polite way to say our sports teams suck?”
“They do. But no one comes here to play football. What I’m saying is that she’s only going to get angrier as she keeps failing in her attempts to be the cool girl.”
“Tina has that role buttoned up already,” Poser said.
Tina blew him a raspberry.
“You think she’s going to flunk out?” Brendan asked.
“I don’t know,” Vlad said. “But maybe she knows her time here is limited and she’s going to try to take someone with her.”
“That’s a bit dramatic. But no worries, I’m onto them. I’m going to avoid them, and she’ll fixate on someone else soon enough. So don’t do anything on my behalf that only makes things worse for you.”
“No heroics,” Poser said. “Check. Most of us have classes with each other throughout the day. At the very least, we can watch each other’s backs.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
A red banner on the television flashed a news alert that the Mannequin Gang had been spotted getting off the late commuter train at Grand Central Terminal in full costume. A publicist appeared, vowing the supers he represented including Silver Eagle, would be responding within the hour. Someone turned the volume up. Brendan checked the time on his phone and decided to go up to the roof to finally test his booster.
9. New York City
The phone booster worked.
Brendan’s hands trembled and he accidentally called his aunt’s number, but he hung up before anyone could answer. His mom picked up on her home number, having just come home from an evening shift at the hospital. They talked. He told her about his classes, making friends, and the food. She asked about his plans for the next day, and when he said he would be going to class as usual she reminded him it was Friday night. How could he have lost track of what day it was? They had a laugh. He explained how it had gone the previous weekend. Students would do their personal laundry and clean their rooms. There were several activities on and off campus. Senior students and staff organized chaperoned sports, hikes, and outings to the local theater. A couple of groups took the hyperloop to various museums that had survived the L.A. disaster. A rumor had spread that one group of seniors was put to work by the USGS, taking surveys around the mountains and high desert areas to gather clues as to what had triggered the killer quake event some two years before.
Then ten o’clock came, and the line went dead mid-conversation. The phone still had power, as did his booster, but he now had no signal. Thanks, school signal blocker. At least he’d gotten his call in. He took in the view of the night sky before heading down.
Poser was in his room, judging by the sounds coming through the door, a percussive series of metallic clangs accompanied by fingernails scraping an electric guitar’s strings. The volume was low enough that no one was out in the halls to complain. After tucking his booster away in his closet, Brendan closed his own door and tried to sleep.
Then he thought about Charlotte and got up again.
***
He checked the window first but didn’t see anyone in the electronics lab. The shadows were his friend. He clung to them and saw the guard pass him by. Brendan went to where he could see the front door of the science building. He stayed crouched and ignored the bush branches poking his skin. Voices of students echoed, the sounds getting louder, but he couldn’t tell from where. Others were out past the curfew, so the security guards would have something to distract them.
Thirty minutes passed before he saw movement. It was Charlotte. She stepped into the cool lights by the door. She pressed something against the lock and pulled the door open. Brendan rose and sprinted forward, hobbled by pins and needles play
ing down both legs. He wouldn’t make it in time.
Just before the door snapped shut he called out, “Wait!”
The door closed and he tugged at it. She startled him when she appeared on the opposite side of the door.
“Go away,” she said through the glass.
“Come on, don’t make me climb in through a window again.”
“They’re all closed. I checked.”
“I left one open earlier,” he said. She scowled and gave the bar on the door a push. She led him around a corner towards the lab but stopped him there.
“Look, do you have another project to work on? I can let you in the lab, and you can close the door on the way out.”
“I just wanted to talk to you. We missed our dinner conversation.”
“I’m sorry about that. Something came up. Look, Brendan, I’m not here to meet people and socialize. I have work to do.”
“Then let me help.”
She studied him, but her expression told him she wasn’t changing her mind. Before she could say anything, he added, “You’re not in any classes.”
“We just have different schedules.”
“I thought that too. But there’s only so many places you could go, even as an upperclassman. So what’s the deal? Are you so far past the rest that you have tutors for everything?”
She turned and headed for the lab.
“Are you coming?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Do I get to help?”
“No, but you can watch if, and only if, you stop asking questions. Is that a deal?”
She knew her way around the lab, and her tiny electric lockpick got her into every toolbox, including Ms. Hayes’s private collection. She was working on a set of small circuit boards using a depth-controlled milling machine she had set up. Every time she looked like she needed a third hand, he got up from his perch on a nearby stool, but she adeptly used all her fingers like a seasoned lab worker. At one point, her headlamp slid down to the bridge of her nose while she was in the middle of a precise solder.
“May I?” he asked.
“Please,” she said. He pushed the lamp back to her forehead and held up his phone’s flashlight to help illuminate her work, and she thanked him. She examined the board with a hand magnifier and appeared pleased.
“I take it your signal booster did the trick?” she asked.
“It did. I got to talk to my mom for about ten minutes. Then whole cell network cut out again, but at least I know it works. Thank you.”
She nodded. “I think it’ll be a relief to everyone here when all of these outages stop. People can get back to their social networks and keeping in contact with their families.”
“Agreed. So where’s your family?”
“Close enough. I don’t even have to get on a plane.”
“Southern California?”
“Something like that. Yours?”
Jail via the hospital. And on YouTube. “New York City.”
She began putting her tools away.
“Quitting already?”
“It’s three. We do have to sleep eventually. So will you be ambushing me every night?”
“There’s no way to say yes without it sounding creepy.”
“Well, you skulking about doubles our chance of getting caught. How about we meet in front of your dorm tomorrow at eleven?”
“You didn’t show the last time we made an appointment.”
“I’ll be there, unless you’re out of town over the weekend.”
“Nope. I’ll be there too.”
He paused and there was an awkward silence, until finally she let out a small yawn and they left the building together.
***
The dorm lounges were full the following morning, packed with students either half-dressed or still wearing their sweats or sleeping clothes. He was surprised so many people were up early on a Saturday. All the televisions were tuned to the same event, as it was being covered on multiple networks. Brendan had hoped to shuffle down to the restaurant and grab a muffin or piece of fruit and return to his room without incident, but it looked like some disaster or national emergency was afoot.
“What’s going on?” Brendan asked an upperclassman standing in a lounge doorway. The boy was craning his head. Brendan could see nothing.
“Some kind of battle royale in New York.”
Brendan went down the hall to his usual lounge. It too was packed with students. The crowd here was louder, and he heard Poser’s and Tina’s voices from somewhere in front cheering on whatever action was taking place. Too many heads and shoulders were in the way, and he had a slight headache. He went for breakfast.
The handful of students in the restaurant buzzed about the news.
Brendan remembered a time as a child when the supers fad remained in the background and wasn’t the obsession it had become. The Los Angeles event changed all that. When the big earthquake struck, a hundred thousand people died, and the L.A. basin turned into a saltwater lake. As a natural disaster, it was easily the worst ever in the United States. But what had happened wasn’t exactly clear. Eyewitness accounts and seismological data pointed to some kind of pressure wave striking the city, like something caused by an atomic bomb. This, some scientists speculated, triggered the tectonic plate shift that caused the earthquake a second later. Real facts were hard to come by, and a dozen government agencies continued to work in the Los Angeles area. A spectrum of theories had gone viral, postulating causes ranging from criminal and terrorist to extraterrestrial and divine. Scientists weighed in with hypotheses that included comet strikes and miniature black holes. Arising from the internet rumors came the oddest notion: that the disaster had been caused by an unnamed supervillain. This struck a nerve. A supervillain could be responded to and fought, or as some preferred, allied with.
Folks donned costumes with a manic fervor and started to beat the crap out of each other at every opportunity. For some it just became an outlet for violence. Others used their super suits to demonstrate technical expertise or to show off advanced training. Some just used them to display their body modifications. Supers—and a few villains—became profitable trademarks and received endorsements from companies willing to take on a risky mascot who might at any moment commit a felony. Supers became the new post-adolescent dream: a mix of Saturday morning cartoons and professional wrestling, idols wrapped up in tights and wearing masks. The acts of real violence evolved from fad to fetish to fixation in the public eye.
Brendan couldn’t get enough superhero action even before the disaster. He started fighting other kids who were infected with the same bug. He would come home with bloody noses and swollen eyes, ready to go out for more, once he’d found an appropriate costume change so he could be rechristened with a new superhero name.
His mom had tried grounding him, until he saw his own room more than any other place besides school. She canceled the television and internet and took his phone in hopes of breaking his fascination.
It didn’t help that Brendan’s father was a supervillain.
Brendan’s mother weaned him off the supers news and kept him away from the kids fighting play battles in the neighborhood streets. He was able to avoid most overt confrontations with other kids, and his mother rewarded him with increased privacy and access to the internet. From that point forward he keep up with his father in secret.
He grabbed a Granny Smith apple and a muffin crusted with brown sugar from the breakfast buffet and went back to the dorm to see what was going on.
Brendan managed to squeeze into his usual lounge. Some of the students had left, but most of the A.V. Club were front and center as the onscreen action continued.
The Mannequin Gang was still running amok. They had converged on the financial district and were in the process of robbing three banks at the same time. Their numbers had grown, according to a sidebar, from eight to the thirty that were now participating in their latest crime wave. Police had cordoned off the entire city block. A hero named
Green Shrike was in the middle of the street, exchanging fire with a trio of gang members who had him pinned down. His energy weapon had limited range. The Mannequin Gang was using shotguns. Green Shrike wasn’t going anywhere, despite the news anchors’ suggestions as to what kind of tactics would be appropriate for this kind of engagement.
“Here’s where confidence in his armor would play to his advantage,” one anchor said. “Two years ago, we saw him take a slug to the chest and keep fighting.”
“Green Shrike has to know he’s in trouble,” the other anchor said. “As soon as more gang members emerge from the Federal Union Bank across the street, he’ll be in a crossfire.”
The camera cut to a shot of the bank. A window shattered. A gang member wearing a baby-doll mask with pouty red lips fell across the window’s broken frame. A short woman with an athletic build and a black swirling costume was squaring off with two burly masked men. She brandished a pair of sais that reflected the sunlight. The men had knuckle dusters.
“Is that…?” Tina shouted. Her voice was raw from yelling at the television.
“It has to be,” Poser said.
In unison they cheered, “Please Don’t Sue Me Girl!”
A bio popped up, pushing the action into one corner and revealing Wendy Wainright, a former actor, singer, video host, and model. Her alias list was long, with twelve different iterations of W.W. names, each of which had only lasted a few weeks. Trademark lawsuits followed her every new incarnation. Her endorsements kept up with her, even though her current name, “Wind Woman, Mistress of Fear,” had encouraged social media trolls to dub her “Scary Fart Queen.”
“Didn’t think she’d ever show up for a serious fight,” Poser said.
“She’s local,” Tina said. “Plus her publicist has been begging for some action on her social media feed. But she actually knows how to fight, so give her a break.”
Supervillain High Page 7