by Nick Place
After school, we go around to Cannonball’s house, still in our school uniforms, and ask if Frederick can come out and play. As though we’re a bunch of nine year olds. His mum looks tired, but says it would be good for Frederick to get some fresh air. It takes more than twenty minutes, but finally a pale Frederick appears at the front door and is almost pushed into the street by his mum.
‘How are you, mate?’ Simon asks.
Frederick shrugs. ‘Bad.’
‘Hey, we’ve heard about a new Hero café,’ I say brightly. ‘It sounds awesome. Let’s go check it out.’
‘Nope,’ says Frederick.
‘But we need you to fly us up there. It’s on top of a massive pillar.’
Frederick looks like his eyes are filling with tears. He shakes his head. ‘Nup.’
‘Come on, Cannonball,’ I say, leaning in close. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It will be okay. Let’s fire the cannon to the café.’
‘The cannon is too dangerous.’
‘Well, that’s certainly not true,’ says Simon.
‘Cannonball, let’s go to this new café,’ I say. ‘We’re meeting the rest of the team there. We can try to talk to Golden Boy or somebody from the Federation of Hero Types.’
‘Face other Heroes? No force in this world could make me go there, Focus,’ he says, looking small.
Just then Alexandra arrives home with four of her friends from school. Even out of costume, we know who they are. They are walking in formation again.
‘Hey, Less-Than-OKers! Glad you’re here,’ Alexandra says. ‘Me and the Stars are about to rehearse some moves. You can be our audience. Wonder Wendy and Princess Pinkstar have written some new lyrics.’
Two of the girls strike a pose and start singing,
You might even see us
On Hero TV
Dontchya wish your heroes
Were hot like me
They high-five and giggle. Frederick shudders.
‘Café, here we come. I’ll get suited up,’ he says to Simon and me. ‘Meet you here in three minutes.’
Frederick dashes back into the house, ahead of the G rl-Stars.
Simon looks at me. ‘So where do we get changed?’
I’m looking around Frederick’s front yard. There are a few small shrubs, a letterbox and a pushbike. ‘There’s never an old-style phone box around when you need one.’
We check nobody is watching and then get changed behind a wheelie bin. The glamour of Hero life. I notice that Torch has put the long sleeves back on his costume.
Cannonball’s flying is surprisingly good given how shaken he is, and we’re at the café in no time. It’s on top of one of the two massive pillars that are the centrepiece of the Bolte Bridge, connecting the Tullamarine and West Gate freeways and the Princes Highway, to Melbourne’s western suburbs and Geelong. The Bolte Bridge is often called ‘The Goalposts Bridge’, because the two pillars look exactly like Australian Rules football goalposts, soaring into the sky. The new café is on top of the eastern goalpost, offering a view of the city skyline that non-Heroes would barely dare to believe. As usual, a glimmering Hero heat haze surrounds the actual café so it’s invisible to drivers who happen to look up as their car sails between the goalposts, on the tollway far below. This café rocks.
We are waiting for our toasted Heroic ham sandwiches and Super Shakes when the wind rises outside and my heart rate doubles. Sure enough, a familiar figure in swirling grey lands lightly outside the café’s front door. Cyclone Tracy flicks her cape over her shoulder, shakes her hair, glides to the counter, gives her order, then breaks into a dazzling smile as she spots a couple of Superheroines two tables away from where we’re sitting. She joins them and I realise I have completely lost track of my Team’s conversation.
‘– got to stop blaming yourself, Cannonball.’ Logi-Gal is pleading. ‘Yes, it was a terrible mistake, but you didn’t mean to hurt him.’
The Gamer is unusually quiet, playing with a packet of sugar.
‘I should have checked. I shouldn’t have assumed,’ Cannonball says in a small and sad voice.
‘It’s this S.T.O.M.P., man. We don’t know if we’re on a level playing field anymore.’ Even Torch is continuing to support Cannonball, which is close to a first.
Just then a lemon sails from the other side of the room and smacks Torch in the shoulder. He swings around.
‘ELEPHANT HEAD! GET OVER IT!’
A few tables away, Cyclone Tracy throws back her head and laughs and I notice for the first time that she’s not actually that much older than we are. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. That’s still a few years older than me, but maybe –
‘– Focus? FOCUS?’
‘Huh?’ I say, snapping back to reality.
‘Are you with us, fearless leader?’ Torch’s voice is dripping in sarcasm. A year ago he told me he didn’t want to lead the Team, but now I’m starting to wonder.
‘Yeah, I’m with you. What are we talking about?’
‘There’s only one subject, Focus.’ The Gamer tilts his head at Cannonball. ‘Iron fists here.’
‘Steady, Game-Boy,’ I say, and wonder why that joke has never occurred to me until now. ‘It was a mistake.
Unintentional. The kid he hit will wake up and it will all be okay.’
‘Or not,’ says Logi-Gal. ‘Here comes Southern Cross and he doesn’t look happy.’
Southern Cross approaches and sits down with us. A Triple A Hero joining our motley crew – I check to see if Cyclone Tracy is watching. She’s looking our way and our eyes lock for a moment. I blush as I turn away.
‘How are you feeling, Southern Cross?’ asks Logi-Gal.
‘I’m fine, thanks. Never better,’ he says. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that the Hardware Gang member is awake. We’re still doing tests, but it looks as though he should make a full recovery.’ Cannonball slumps in relief. Southern Cross continues, ‘. . . although he has to get over a nasty and unnecessary concussion.’
‘I know. I know. I’m so sorry.’ Cannonball nods weakly. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘There will be an inquiry,’ Southern Cross says. ‘Level Ds simply aren’t allowed to belt Category 1 crooks that hard. You know that, Cannonball. You might be de-caped, at least for a while.’
‘De-caped?’ He looks up in horror.
‘Maybe. If I was you, and obviously I can’t advise you because I am a senior member of the Australian Federation of Hero Types and any interference in the due process by me would be highly inappropriate . . .’
‘But . . .’ says Torch.
Southern Cross leans forward and speaks very quietly. ‘But I would suggest you emphasise your fear that the opposition had shown signs of using S.T.O.M.P. It’s your best defence, given everybody is so jittery at the moment.’
‘It’s the truth,’ says Cannonball.
‘Then it’s an even better defence,’ he smiles. He turns to me and his face is serious again. ‘Focus, this Knight-Hood Pact you recklessly agreed to is also a problem. Cannonball isn’t the only one who could be de-caped.’
‘What do you mean? Why would I be de-caped? It’s my mess to sort out. What’s the AFHT got to do with it?’
‘Because this Bushranger and his gang are getting more powerful. Very powerful, and causing problems. None of us can step in because of you.’
‘Oh right. By “none of us”, you mean real Heroes. Unlike me.’
‘I mean powerful Heroes who would love to make this Bushranger problem go away, but currently can’t because of a rush of blood that wasn’t particularly mature for a rated Hero.’
I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I shut up.
Southern Cross stands and almost manages a smile. ‘Chin up, little soldiers. Hey Torch, I hear you’ve got a cool new tattoo.’
‘Um, yeah,’ says Torch, looking uncomfortable. ‘It’s a very cool design of my finger shooting flame. Unfortunately I’m wearing sleeves today or I’d show it to y
ou.’
‘I’ve heard it’s quite something,’ says Southern Cross, straight-faced, and then he strides away.
‘I really need help with the Hero media on this one, but Kyle won’t return my calls,’ says Cannonball.
‘You’ll be right, Popgun,’ says Torch, putting an arm around Cannonball’s slumped shoulders. ‘An inquiry will just be for appearance’s sake. As a gesture for the head honchos in Gotham and for Channel 78737 to beam out, showing the incident has been dealt with. It will blow over.’
Blow over. I can’t help myself and glance over at Cyclone Tracy’s table. She’s looking straight at me, and smiling. Poom! I involuntarily turn into a cloud as the others stand up.
‘Oops,’ says Logi-Gal, lurching backwards as though she’s stepped in something icky. ‘Sorry Pancake Pete. I didn’t see you down there.’
CHAPTER 12
A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
The Northland Shopping Centre, long after closing time.
The OK Team approaches the multi-level car park.
‘What’s the G.O.?’ asks Torch, strutting.
‘The what?’
‘The G.O.’
‘Game Operation?’ asks Cannonball.
‘Gold Orders?’ asks Logi-Gal.
‘Good Oil?’ I ask.
‘Game On?’ suggests The Gamer.
Torch looks uncomfortable. ‘Actually, I just meant “What’s the go?”’
‘Then say that, Candle Head,’ says Cannonball. ‘Geez, where are you from? Los Angeles?’
‘If that’s half a world from you, then I wish I was,’ snarls Torch.
‘Ah the bickering begins – things have certainly returned to normal around here,’ says Logi-Gal.
‘Children,’ I say, to break the tension. ‘There are bad guys up ahead. Any chance we could tune in?’
‘Sure, what’s the G.O.?’ Torch gives Cannonball a defiant stare as he says it.
‘I have N.O. idea,’ Cannonball sneers right back at him.
‘Logi-Gal, give us an update,’ I say.
‘The go is that we’re up against some familiar faces,’ Logi-Gal says. ‘Our friend, Bushranger and his team. All still claiming to be Category 1 or 2 so we should be more than equipped to handle them. In fact, Torch, you can’t use open flame on them and Cannonball, watch your strength.’
‘I’m not hitting anybody,’ Cannonball says.
‘Hang on a second,’ I say. ‘We’ve discussed this. Bushranger was too strong last time. His gang members were so-so, but Bushranger was dangerous beyond Catergory 2.’
Torch shrugs. ‘Not in the middle of a shopping centre car park. What’s he going to attack us with? Pot plants?’
‘Good point, Torch,’ I say. ‘Even so, they did get the better of us last time, so be on your game. Let’s make sure we nail these losers, and fast. Let’s be sharp and dazzle them with the OK Team’s collective might.’
The others stare at me, except Cannonball who is looking at the sky. ‘Or we could sit back and just watch as he takes them out,’ he says, pointing as Southern Cross soars into the car park and lands Heroically on the far side of the parking bays.
‘He might need help,’ I say weakly, wondering why we even bother. I put out my silver glove. ‘I’m okay!’
Hands and gloves meet mine. ‘You’re okay!’ they reply.
‘WE’RE OKAY!’
Cannonball says, ‘I’m still not going to hit anyone. As long as we’re clear on that.’
‘With the Cross in the house, Cannonball, you shouldn’t need to.’
And Cannonball flies beside us as we run deeper into the car park.
There are a couple of industrial bins near the entrance to the shops and a few cars parked here and there, but mostly it’s a vast, empty concrete cavern with a low roof and a few cracks in the tarmac.
Southern Cross stands, hands on hips. Facing him is a small monkey.
‘Welcome OK Team,’ he says. ‘I think I can handle it.’
The monkey scratches under an armpit.
‘Monkey Two Point Oh!’ says Torch.
Southern Cross walks slowly towards the monkey until he is only a few metres away. He crouches. ‘Hello little fella,’ he says in a soft soothing voice as though he’s talking to a baby. ‘That’s an unusual name you have. Isn’t that an unusual name? Who’s got an unusual name then? Who’s a clever monkey? Coochie coochie coo.’
‘Eep,’ says the monkey. ‘Ook!’
‘2.0 usually means an upgrade in computer software,’ says Logi-Gal.
‘How do you upgrade a monkey?’ I ask, shaking my head.
‘With S.T.O.M.P.,’ says The Gamer.
The monkey stands on his back legs and bobs up and down, tail floating behind him.
‘Ook,’ he says again.
‘Does anybody speak monkey?’ I ask.
The Gamer says, ‘Only on certain levels if I’ve won the Gantulese Translating Shield.’
‘Of course,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘Is that now?’
‘No,’ he says.
Southern Cross stands up and shrugs. ‘Well, let’s just deliver this little guy to the RSPCA so we can get on with fighting real crime.’
He takes a step towards the monkey and it shrieks – a high-pitched monkey squeal that becomes deeper and angrier and louder. Then Monkey 2.0 is growing. And growing and growing. And changing from a harmless little monkey into an enormous gorilla. And he keeps growing so that soon we’re worried we’re about to take on King Kong in his prime.
Once the gorilla is about four metres high, he lazily swings a long arm and sends Southern Cross crashing into a van near the car park entrance, one hundred metres away. One of Melbourne’s greatest Heroes, he’s immediately back on his feet and ready to launch a counter-strike, right up until he puts a glove to his head and falls as his knees buckle.
‘Southern Cross?’ I yell.
‘Can’t seem to –’ he says groggily and then collapses face forward onto the concrete. We all stare at the gorilla-sized Monkey 2.0 – and I feel a flutter of fear.
‘Category 2 Villain, huh? I think we know what the upgrade is,’ Torch says. He’s preparing to launch an attack and fails to see a rubbish bin hurtling through the air towards him.
‘Torch, duck!’ I yell.
Torch shoots a flame at the bin, knocking it off its path. It bounces away.
There are too many things happening at once. ‘Gamer, keep an eye on the gorilla,’ I yell.
But the gorilla is too fast. It grabs Logi-Gal who screams as she is tucked under the gorilla’s arm. With his free hand, the upgraded Monkey 2.0 climbs a ladder, heading for the roof.
I’m horrified, but The Gamer’s face is pure joy.
‘This is my moment!’ he says. ‘It’s a dream come true. All I need now is for him to start throwing barrels.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask. ‘This is a nightmare. Logi-Gal’s in trouble!’
‘Don’t worry. Logi-Gal will be fine. Leave the ape to me,’ he says, still with that strange grin, and he climbs the ladder and disappears out of sight.
I take a deep breath. ‘Torch, where did the bin come from?’
We both peer into the gloom of the car park. A couple of bays away is a kid wearing a blue bandana and a deep blue bodysuit, with a white arrow on the chest. He’s pointing at another bin, guiding it through the air.
‘Hey,’ I yell to Torch. ‘That’s the kid from the footy match, the one who pointed the ball through the goals!’
Torch approaches him, keeping a wary eye on the floating bin. ‘My name is Torch. I’m a Level D Hero, Third Grade. Who are you and what is your level?’
The kid levitates the new bin through the air. ‘My name is Directo and I’m new to Bushranger’s gang. I’m Category 1.’
‘In that case I can’t shoot my flame directly at you. And I urge you to surrender because if you’re Category 1, you can’t lift anything heavier than that bin. Stop now, and you won’t get hurt.’
<
br /> ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ says Directo, and flicks his hand to send the bin shooting, lightning fast, at Torch. Liquid spills from it and we realise the bin is completely full of water. Torch gets out of the way just in time.
‘Hey!’ yells Torch, outraged.
Directo lifts another bin and prepares to throw it at me, but I’m distracted by what appears to be a big black cat. In fact, it definitely is a panther – one of my greatest secret fears! – standing a metre high and with very long and razor-sharp teeth. He growls and stalks towards me.
‘Cannonball, where are you?’ I yell.
‘Sort of busy,’ I hear from above. I look up and my friend is a red and black blur in a high-speed dog fight with a yellow opponent who is streaking like a shooting star between the car park pylons.
I become invisible and tiptoe fast to my right to escape the panther. It sniffs the air, trying to follow my scent. Directo’s bin slams into the ground where I had been and the panther leaps it, snarling and hissing as water gushes onto the ground.
Southern Cross is finally back on his feet, but he’s doubled over, holding his stomach as if trying to stop his appendix from bursting.
‘Are you okay?’ I yell.
‘Focus. I can’t help you,’ he says.
‘What do you mean? We need you.’
‘The Knight-Hood Pact. You have to face Bushranger alone.’
‘He’s not even here.’
‘Yes, he is. I wasn’t knocked out by that over-sized monkey. Bushranger’s nearby because my strength is draining. I can’t stay or I’ll faint.’
This isn’t making any sense, but there’s no time for debate. Southern Cross rises wonkily into the sky and then flies off. I can’t see Bushranger anywhere.
Meanwhile, Cannonball screeches to a halt and Swoop Swoop does too, hovering twenty metres away. Cannonball is panting. ‘Swoop Swoop flies like a Category 6er. I can’t keep up. No way.’
‘She’s supposed to be Category 2,’ I say, turning solid.
‘It sucks to be you,’ says Blink who appears right in front of us, and punches me squarely in the nose. Then he’s gone.