by Nick Place
We’re both looking around us as we walk.
‘This isn’t what I expected,’ Switchy says.
‘No. I can’t see any big shiny buildings,’ I admit. There’s an empty block full of weeds on the left and suburban houses on the right.
‘What number was it?’ I ask.
‘Number 28,’ Switchy says.
‘We’re at Number 20 . . . it must be just up ahead.’
Number 28 is a small bungalow-style house with a neat picket fence and flowers in the front yard. Switchy and I exchange glances. He double-checks the card.
‘It’s the right one.’
‘Oh well. Here goes.’ I press the buzzer next to the front door. From inside the house we hear a tinny, electronic version of The Chicken Dance.
‘This must be the wrong place,’ Switchy says.
We hear shuffling footsteps approaching. Then there’s the sound of fingers fumbling with locks and handles. At last, with a lurch, the door opens and we’re staring at a man who is about 100 years not out, maybe even as old as Mr Fabulous, and wearing a brown cardigan, a blue shirt and baggy grey trousers.
‘Eh?’ he says.
‘Um,’ I reply.
‘Selling something, are you?’ says the old coot. There are mysterious stains on his cardigan.
‘My name’s Focus,’ I say, veering in and out of visibility. ‘This is Switchy.’
‘What do you want?’ the old man barks. ‘A medal?’
We stare at him.
‘Or a chest to pin it on?’
His shoulders shake and he’s wheezing and I realise he’s laughing, but then it turns into an old-man cough and he hacks for a couple of minutes, almost turning blue before he can breathe again.
‘Ah, sorry about that, young ’uns. Should’ve given up the smokes before I was 70, eh?’
We’re still staring at him. Finally Switchy stammers, ‘I got a letter.’
He holds it out so the old man can squint at it, peering down his nose, mouth working. Then says, ‘Hang on. I’ll need to get my glasses. Come in then, come in.’
And he shuffles off down the hall, leaving the door open.
Switchy and I look at one another again.
‘It’s got to be some kind of Heroically tricked house that looks normal on the outside, but is actually some amazing huge space inside,’ I say.
‘Or maybe it’s a gateway to a massive underground headquarters,’ Switchy says.
We follow the old man into a long hall, with faded pictures on the wall of men and women in capes. The floral carpet is red and blue and almost worn through.
The doors off the hall are closed, and at the end is a lounge room, packed with piles of books, a newish computer and a fireplace.
The old man is standing behind a table by the window, with glasses perched on his nose. He’s flicking through a huge, old book, with vertical columns on each page and handwritten notes. He doesn’t look up as we enter the room.
We wait awkwardly.
Finally, I say, ‘So this is Hero Headquarters?’
The old man peers at me. ‘What did you think it was? A doughnut factory? Of course it’s Hero Headquarters.’
‘It’s not quite what I expected,’ I say.
The old man chuckles again, managing to avoid a full-on laughing-coughing attack. ‘I’ll bet you were expecting some kind of glass cathedral. Too many comic artists letting their imaginations run wild! No kid, this is Hero Headquarters. It’s not much, but it’s all we need.’
‘Oh,’ I say. Switchy is sweating under his hat.
‘What were your Hero names again?’ the old man barks.
‘Focus.’
‘Switchy.’
‘From the OK Team,’ I add.
‘Hmm,’ he frowns, running a gnarled finger down a page of small writing. ‘Ah, the OK Team!’
He reads for a moment, then says, ‘Hmmmm,’ again, in a not very encouraging way. He closes the book, picks up Switchy’s letter and readjusts his glasses on his nose. We watch his lips silently mouth words as he reads.
Finally, he puts down the letter and gives us a mostly-toothless grin.
‘Well, Mr Switchy. Congratulations.’
‘For what?’ asks Switchy.
‘Your upgrade. You’ve been upgraded to Level C. Effective immediately.’
‘Level C!’
Switchy turns pink, POP!s and becomes a gleaming silver trophy. The old man barely blinks.
‘Southern Cross will be here any –’
On cue, there’s a swooshing noise outside and then Southern Cross, a Triple A Hero, and the Secretary of the Australian Federation of Hero Types rushes in through the back door.
‘Switchy! Sorry I’m late. Ah, Focus. You’re here too. Good. How are you both? Good morning, Your Highness.’
This is directed at the old man, which opens up a whole world of questions we don’t have time to ask.
Southern Cross fills the room, standing two metres tall and almost as wide, with pure muscle across his shoulders. His cape hangs well, and the Southern Cross stars across his chest are bright white even in the gloomy room. One thing about the big-time Heroes. It’s hard to miss them.
Switchy POP!s and becomes the youthful blue-suited version of himself. He says, ‘I’ve been upgraded.’
Southern Cross nods. ‘That’s right. Your work has been strong lately. We loved what you did to nail the Trolley King. The magnet was a great idea. Effective immediately you’re Level C . . . but it does come with some conditions.’
Uh oh. Switchy and I sneak a glance.
Southern Cross says, ‘We want you to leave the OK Team.’
I blink. Switchy gasps.
‘You’re young to be a C,’ Southern Cross explains. ‘You’re showing a lot of potential. But it needs to be honed. We feel that right now, you need to enter the AFHT’s Advanced Hero Training Academy.
‘The AFHT AHTA,’ says the old man.
‘That’s right,’ Southern Cross nods.
‘Also pronounced ayeffeighty ayeeighteaaye.’
‘Yes, um, thank you, Your Highness. Switchy, we want to team you with trained Hero tutors and other promising Heroes for expert and intensive tuition.’
I can feel my visibility wavering. I don’t know whether to be thrilled for Switchy or crushed that the OK Team can be dismissed so easily. Not to mention that Switchy is clearly regarded as a better Hero than any of us.
All Switchy says is, ‘When?’
‘No time like the present,’ says Southern Cross.
‘Can I have a moment alone with Focus?’
Southern Cross smiles. ‘Of course.’
We go out the back door into a small backyard paved with concrete. Hanging on the Hills hoist clothes line are three well-worn capes and three pairs of gloves. A huge thick cable runs down the wall from outside, and then through the backdoor and into the house.
‘Focus, I don’t know what to say,’ says Switchy.
‘You don’t have to say anything, mate. It’s a brilliant opportunity. You have to take it.’
‘Oh, I’m going to take it,’ he says, and I realise it hadn’t occurred to him for a second not to, which is a little disheartening. ‘But I feel shocking about leaving the team.’
I sigh. ‘Switchy, Southern Cross is right. You have the potential to be a seriously good Hero, maybe even a great one. The last thing I want is to slow you down. Look how far we all came along with Mr Fabulous training us last year. With this sort of help, you could be amazing.’
‘It will still take years,’ he says.
‘But at least it can happen. We’ll miss you, though,’ and I mean it. Switchy’s abilities have so often been what won us the day.
Southern Cross steps through the back door and blocks out the sun with his sheer bulk.
‘What do you say, Switchy?’
‘I’m in. Of course I’m in.’
‘Great news. Sorry to take away a Team member, Focus, but that’s Heroic life for you.’
>
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you again when we’re both Level Bs, Switchy.’
They both laugh. Only later, trudging back to the city, alone, does it bother me that they laughed so hard.
From The Hero TImes newspaper:
WHAT POWERS THE
SOUTHERN CROSS?
One of the great unanswered questions of the Hero world is what exactly powers all-star Melbourne Hero, Southern Cross?
Other local Heroes such as Golden Boy and Ace, The Rock and Captain Antipode have made no secret of the various radioactive exposure, alien life-forms or strange callings that provided their astonishing abilities, however Southern Cross’s power-source remains open to debate.
The Hero himself says he prefers to retain a little mystery, but there are those who believe his lack of willingness to discuss his power-source is because such a revelation might leave the Triple A Hero with an unexpected vulnerability.
‘I’ve heard all kinds of theories,’ says Hero Chronicler, The Bookworm. ‘The most likely story is that as a teenager he was on a camping trip in the outback and one night he happened to be sitting in the exact spot where the rays from all four stars of the main Southern Cross constellation, Alpha Crucis, Beta Crucis, Gamma Crucis and Delta Crucis, combined and hit the Earth, transmitting their galactic energy into him. His body acted like a lightning rod and the star power that travelled through him seared into the rock he was sitting on and was sealed into a star-shaped stone. However, in that single moment when the energy of the stars was inside his body their combined power transformed the boy into Southern Cross, which is why the stars on his chest actually shine.
‘According to this story, Southern Cross took the star-shaped stone containing the star power to a secret location and has kept it there ever since. Legend has it that he has to physically connect with the star-stone at least once every six months or he loses his power. However, it is also rumoured that overexposure to the energy within the star-stone may have temporary, yet dramatic, negative effects.
‘It’s just a theory, but it makes more sense than the one about Southern Cross bring created by an alien living at the South Pole . . . who was really cross.’>
CHAPTER 6
THE FLYING TIGERS
I barely have time to sit in my room, waning in and out of visibility, and moping about losing Switchy, when my dad comes home. Before long I hear raised voices downstairs as he and Mum start arguing. This has been happening more and more lately, but I try not to think about it. Instead I turn up the volume on Channel 78737 and watch stories of Heroes better than me doing great deeds.
Then my PC screen blings and I click on Hero Skype.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Let’s fire the cannon!’
‘Cannonball? What are you up to?’
‘Outside your house in five minutes. Wearing your costume, and runners.’
‘What? I can’t. It’s late –’ ‘No time for talk. Be there.’
The Hero Skype connection dies and I stare at the screen.
A few minutes later, I creep downstairs to the kitchen, where Mum is staring out the window, arms crossed and eyes blazing. Dad’s in the lounge room, watching television.
‘Mum?’ I say. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine, darling. Fine.’ She flicks a glance at me. ‘Are you going out? You’re always going out these days.’
‘It’s not much fun around here, Mum.’
‘I guess it isn’t.’ She starts to cry and I fade in and out. I hadn’t meant to make her cry.
‘Are you sure you’re okay, Mum?’
‘I’m fine, darling. Just fine.’ She takes a deep breath and dazzles me with a completely fake smile. She takes in my all-silver costume, including the cape. ‘You’re in your little Dungeons and Dragons outfit again, huh? Off to see your nerdy friends.’
‘It’s Magic cards, Mum. We play complicated battles based on the cards. And we’re not nerds.’
‘Of course you’re not. That sounds just like what the cool kids would be doing.’
‘I won’t be late.’
‘All right, dear. Have fun.’
‘See you, Dad,’ I say.
He grunts. I go.
Cannonball is outside, hopping up and down with excitement. Occasionally he rises slightly off the ground.
‘Great! You made it. Parents buy the story again?’
‘Every time. I changed it from World of Warcraft to Magic cards and Mum didn’t even notice. Where are we going?’
‘I’ve got you a present.’
‘You have? What?’
‘Not yet. Come on.’
He grabs me around the chest and yells, ‘Let’s fire the cannon!’
‘Oh no,’ I say, but it’s too late. We shoot into the sky and I feel slightly sick as the houses of my suburb lurch beneath me, only air and gravity between me and certain death if Cannonball lets go.
Only a year ago, Cannonball’s flying control was terrible. Tonight, once we level out, I almost enjoy the flight. Reasonably steady, we head west, past the Bolte Bridge, with its giant AFL goalpost props, and over the Princes Freeway towards Werribee.
‘Where are we going, you caped freak?’ I yell over the wind.
‘Almost there, Blur-brain,’ he yells back happily.
Finally, we start to descend. There’s a massive shed, like a giant warehouse or maybe an aircraft hanger, large enough to stack three jumbo jets end to end, and maybe one on top of the other as well. That big. Truly.
As we land, I notice a huge neon sign on the building: Auto Auction Warehouse.
There is one small door, as though for a backyard shed, like a pimple on the side of the endless wall.
‘Cannonball –’ I begin.
‘Shut up and come on. You’re going to love it. Our game starts in 10 minutes.’
‘Our game?’
‘Yeah, I’ve played once already. It’s better than having your head covered in whipped cream!’
Before I can even ask for an explanation of a typical Cannonball mangled simile, he’s charging through the door. I follow him and find myself in some kind of cavernous sporting arena. There is foam, a couple of metres thick, lining the walls. The foam goes all the way to the roof. Here and there, I can make out scorch marks on the foam, and stains and the occasional dent the size of a large truck. The floor is orange and a kind of rubber matting. At each end of the massive floor space there is a tiny goal, like a hockey goal, but possibly smaller. It’s hard to tell from this far away.
We are standing next to a counter and music is playing softly on a small radio. It’s a Beatles song and it makes me think of Switchy. He loved – loves – The Beatles.
A man with a big stomach and a faded cape stands behind the counter. His arms are folded as he watches us.
‘Which game, Heroes?’
Cannonball steps up to the counter. ‘We’re with the Flying Tigers.’
‘Twenty bucks each. Change Room “Bat Cave”.’
I hand over twenty dollars and follow Cannonball to the change rooms. One reads ‘Fortress of Solitude’. The other is the ‘Bat Cave’. Heroes have always liked their little jokes.
‘Cannonball . . .’
We’re outside the change room and he swings around, eyes shining. ‘Hero Ball, Hazy. Finally, a sport where we can let our powers roam free. I’ve already played and Chameleon was totally right. It rocks. Come and meet the rest of the team.’
In the change room there are two other Heroes in various stages of undress. One guy is AutoMan, half car, half human. He’s a well-ranked Hero, at least in the high Level Cs, maybe even Level B.
Cannonball introduces me to GlueStik, who has his costume off to apply padding to his knees and elbows. He’s a Level D, Grade One.
AutoMan hands me my Flying Tigers team jumper. It’s got a black collar and short sleeves and is bright purple, but with horizontal black and green stripes across the chest, along with stencilled artwork of a ferocious tiger
wearing a cape. The tiger has bright yellow eyes. In green lettering within the black stripe, ‘THE FLYING TIGERS’ is written. Above the stripe is a number: 17. The same number is bigger on the back.
‘Shouldn’t our outfit be yellow and black if we’re tigers?’ I ask.
‘Hero tigers are purple,’ says GlueStik.
‘They are?’ I ask.
‘Apparently. Anyway, its eyes are yellow. What do you want?’
I let it go and pull the guernsey over my head. I’m busy untangling my cape from the back of the jumper’s neck when another Hero walks out of the toilet area.
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ I say.
‘Hi,’ the kid says, putting out his hand. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I once tried out for your crew, the OK Team.’
‘Freeze Frame,’ I say, smiling politely. ‘Great to see you. Are you here to watch the game?’
‘No, idiot. I’m on the team. Eat ’em alive, the Flying Tigers!’
He reaches into his bag and pulls out his purple jumper, with a number 39 on the back.
‘Time to get out there,’ AutoMan says. ‘Focus, just spend the first half getting a feel for the game. Your role is to add an element of surprise to our attacks. I don’t want the opposition knowing where you are at any time, if you can manage to stay invisible that long. Lurk near the goal. Ask Cannonball, if you need advice. Everybody else, fire up! We’re playing the Diamonds today, so we need to be right on top of our game.’
We run through the change room door and see our opponents are already on the playing arena, wearing blue guernseys with a silver diamond logo on the front.
I know all of them at least vaguely from around the Hero traps. Ace is the most famous of them, a Level A Hero with a dazzling array of playing-card powers. Then there’s Legs Raffety, who looks completely normal, but has the ability to change into a giant emu. NightEye is checking that his hair is clear of his luminous eyes. Waterfall is stretching her hamstrings, a number 8 on her back. And finally, I notice a familiar outline, wearing the Diamonds’ guernsey, which has also faded somehow into the foam wall. Chameleon!