Evolution

by Hayden Thorne

* * * *

  I paced outside the Yoshiko Kagawa building, where Channel 3 News was housed. Common sense, or the lack thereof when I formulated my scheme, once again stared me in the face. I had my manifesto in hand, and I didn’t know exactly how to get it to Bambi Bailey without exposing myself in the most obvious way possible. If I had the money, I’d have it sent by special one-day courier or something, but I was some dumb high school kid with no job. Well, a job that paid, anyway.

  You really should get the Trill out and have him help you with these technicalities.

  “Look, how can I expect to grow if I have to keep leaning on someone for what I need? Besides, this identity thing has nothing to do with him. This is all about me.”

  Well, you’re obviously not going anywhere right now.

  “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  Wake me up when you figure something out.

  Yeah, like I had any choice to begin with. I shook my head and gave my skull a slight thump with my hand. After a few minutes of pacing, I decided to withdraw before I got picked up for loitering or for being a terrorist. Besides, the security guy was beginning to give me that I’m-Watching-You-Bucko sidelong glare. Just as I was walking away, someone left the building and headed in the direction of the row of coffee and pastry shops across the street. I recognized him as one of the cameramen who ran around after Miss Bailey. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and I could only guess he was on his way for some super-caffeinated beverage and a bag of super-sugared junk to keep his hours as sleep-deprived as possible. He’d brought a book with him—a fairly large hardcover volume, which would work for me.

  I followed him, my disc ready for planting. I’d made sure to use a permanent marker when I labeled it with Miss Bailey’s name and “urgent” appended to it. A sticky note wouldn’t have done the job, the way things were unfolding.

  He entered the jam-packed Mediterranean Café, which was perfect. I’d easily melt into the crowd. My heart beating wildly, I shadowed him till he was inching his way through the crowd, his head turning left and right as he searched for an empty table. There was none. He got in line—a fairly long and slow-moving one, at that—and I immediately shifted to Plan B.

  I stood behind him, completely ignored by everyone. The café swarmed with late afternoon caffeine addicts. There was constant movement around me, which would camouflage what I needed to do.

  I quickly opened the CD case and popped the disc out, inching closer to the guy as he took to reading his book while waiting his turn. His jacket pocket was within easy reach. With my heart pounding at a near-murderous rate, I reached out and carefully slipped the disc inside his pocket, staying long enough to make sure it disappeared inside the half-yawning slit.

  He stepped forward when the line moved, and I stepped aside, nearly getting tangled with a couple of girls who were trying to get the hell out.

  “Hey, watch it!” one of them cried.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  I pushed past the crowd, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Nope, I was safe. The guy stayed pretty oblivious, and the two business suits who stood behind me were too busy yakking away, sharing a newspaper between them. I didn’t breathe a massive sigh of relief till I was two blocks down the road.

  I was getting really good at this. I nearly laughed. Hopefully the cameraman wasn’t so spaced out that he’d smash my disc before he’d even reach Bambi Bailey’s office. If he screwed up my plan, I’d cloak him real good.

  “Okay, so cloaking might not sound threatening enough, but I’m capable of being hardcore,” I muttered, slowing my pace to an idle one as I made my way home.

  The rush hour crowd swelled, and I was suddenly weaving my way through the bleary-eyed, swarming mass. So many of them were too tired to be more aware of where they were going, and they kept bumping against me, muttering “Oh, sorry” as they pulled away, only to walk straight into someone else. That I didn’t sport bruises when I arrived home came as a surprise.

  It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. I was too fixed on my manifesto and whether or not Miss Bailey received it. With everyone still at work or in school, I ran up to my bedroom and threw myself into homework, glancing at the clock every ten minutes to make sure I was making good progress. I desperately needed to be done with everything by the time dinner was being prepared. If I was slowed down by something, it was an occasional distraction caused by thoughts of Peter.

  Stay strong!

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered, gritting my teeth as I forced my mind on Chemistry.

  I didn’t bother to see if I finished my homework in record time, but it sure felt like it. Mom and Liz had arrived home by the time I was done, and Mom was hollering for me to get my butt downstairs and help out in the kitchen.

  I washed up and dressed down. I’d just stooped to pick up my clothes from the floor when I noticed something sticking out of my jacket pocket. I dropped everything and pulled it out.

  It was a note, scribbled on expensive-looking stationery. I blinked stupidly for a second or two before unfolding it.

  I need to speak with you. Go to the antiques shop tomorrow after school. Oh, and don’t even think of using your powers on me. Brenda Whitaker.

  That was my first coronary that day—Peter’s fanboying of Wade didn’t count. How the hell did she know about me? And how did she get that note inside—oh. Swarms of people, many of whom were bumping into me. She must have been one of them, and I wasn’t even aware of it.

  Pretty clever of her.

  I mulled over the note for a bit longer, my initial shock melting into determination. I wondered if she had powers as well. I suppose I could set my powers on standby or something to that effect, ready to go just in case. Of course, I’d absolutely no clue how to do it, but I could always spend the rest of the night practicing.

  I sighed heavily. “I’ll figure something out in school, I guess,” I grumbled, crumpling the note and tossing it away. The strain of last night’s caffeine frenzy had long showed itself, but it seemed that I’d only then grown aware of it. By the time I made it down to the kitchen to help Mom with dinner, I could barely keep my eyes open.

  No matter. The anticipation of that evening’s news was enough to carry me through the tedium of dinner and the horrible exhaustion and dizziness that came with lack of proper sleep. Liz stayed behind to do the dishes, so I got to watch the news without having to bargain for time.

  When Bambi Bailey appeared before the camera, I held my breath.

  “There’s been a very important development involving Vintage City’s new threat,” she said, looking elegantly grim under all that makeup and hairspray. “This afternoon, a disc was delivered to my desk…”

  My heart skipped as she recounted the arrival of my manifesto via her cameraman. I started chewing a nail, my skin prickling as I listened to my own words being read off to the camera. The thrill of being introduced to the city on live TV was incredible. A quick glance in my parents’ direction kicked up my excitement even more. They both stared at the screen in super rapt attention, eating up every word I wrote. True, my manifesto was one-third the length of the Trill’s, but I’d learned to be concise after all those haikus I’d written.

  Within moments Miss Bailey had reached the end. This was it. My triumph over her. My assertion of independence via a simple process as coming up with an alias. It was going to be a beautiful, beautiful moment.

  “…and the manifesto, ladies and gentlemen, was signed. Our new threat has a name.”

  I grinned against my chewed-up finger. Go on, lady. Say it.

  Bambi Bailey hesitated, drawing the tension out a little longer. God, she was good. I wondered if she took acting classes or something.

  “It’s signed, the Clock.”

  Time froze. So did I. Even Mom and Dad turned to look at each other, totally confused. The what?

  Miss Bailey looked up at the camera, a slight crease forming between her brows. “I don’t understand why he’d
be called the Clock, but that’s how his name’s spelled.” She shrugged weakly. “It’s allegorical, I think.”

  Chapter 16

  “A game—that’s the world to them. That’s all they think about. Games.”

  “So you think he’s just screwing around with us?”

  Peter shot Althea a frown. “What else can we expect from sadistic bastards like them?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Althea replied with a shrug, pausing only to take a sip of her orange juice. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re giving them more credit than they deserve.”

  “Supervillains aren’t that stupid. I mean, we’ve second-guessed ourselves a dozen times over the Trill and the Puppet, and it drives me nuts. Just when we think we’re on to something, they throw us a curve ball. And I hate being proven wrong when it comes to serious stuff like this.”

  Althea snickered, rolling her eyes. “How can naming yourself ‘the Clock’ be a diversion? That’s a pretty dumb way of throwing your enemies off.”

  “Yeah, it could be nothing more than a simple case of a typo,” I snapped as I glared at my lunch, which stayed untouched. It was a typo. God, I wanted to beat myself to a pulp so badly.

  “That’s even stupider than I thought.” Althea laughed. “A typo!”

  “I don’t see anything stupid about that. Dumb shit like this happens every day. Do you see red squiggly lines under ‘clock’ when you type it? Hell, no! It’s not a misspelling, so how can the stupid program catch it?” I shot back.

  Althea waved a hand to shut me up. “Oh, jeez, Eric, chill out. It’s not like those idiots would care what we say about them. All they want is to screw up our lives and come out on top, period. They’re programmed to be psychopaths, remember?”

  “I still think it’s too simple a reason,” Peter cut in, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  I glared at him. “And what does Wade think?”

  “I haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since this morning, before I left for school.”

  “Hoo boy, that’s a record.”

  It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes at me. “God, will you grow up? I’m not sleeping with her, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”

  “Thank you. It’s always good to get that out in the open,” I returned. What control, I thought—my voice staying calm and level, my heartbeat keeping to a pretty steady rhythm. I did notice my arms, which were tightly crossed on my chest the whole time, felt stiff, my hands cold against my shirt. It was taking me all I had to hold myself back. all that pent-up tension from a horrible mix of shitty feelings since yesterday was collecting and growing in me, to the point that I could almost feel myself literally swelling up. My vision was also dangerously shifting to red and yellow, and it was getting harder and harder to control it.

  Althea leaned over the table and formed a “T” with both hands. “Time out, time out, boyfriends,” she said just as Peter opened his mouth to say something. “Quit getting your panties in knots. We’re all in this together, remember, Eric?”

  I held Peter’s gaze all that time, hoping he’d read the challenge in my look. Somehow, something deep in me simply didn’t care anymore. “You’re in it together,” I said. “I’m not one of you. Remember, Althea?”

  Peter shook his head and broke the stare-down. He took a sip of his drink and directed his attention to Althea, and there it stayed for the rest of our lunch period. So they continued the conversation about the Clock and the possibilities behind his being a supreme genius or a sublime moron. I sat by while they debated over me, coming up all kinds of theories about my background, my personality, my IQ, my purpose for being a “sadistic bastard.”

  The Grand Canyon-sized space between us yawned several miles wider in the course of our, no, their, lunchtime conversation. It was one thing to come to some kind of realization regarding my place in their superhero lives while watching them walk out of the school parking lot, lost in conversation and completely oblivious to the fact they’d left me behind. It was another thing to be with them, up close, listening to them yak on and on about me: calling me names, making fun of my spelling skills, my sanity.

  What irony.

  There I was, pretty much their equal in superhuman capabilities, yet all the while still their inferior in everything else—morality, intelligence, personality, whatever. I’d bet the world the source of my powers was considered inferior to theirs, too. Mine was artificial, while theirs was genetically-enhanced. They were allowed to make mistakes while they worked on mastering their powers, and I was laughed at over a typo. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That barely even scratched the surface of my real plans regarding my powers and how I planned to use them, but I figured at that point, what noble plans I might hatch—and all for their benefit, I might add—didn’t really matter.

  As far as they were concerned, I was nothing.

  I managed to force a couple of bites of my sandwich down my gullet, if only to ensure I survived the rest of the day without going berserk over food deprivation and battered pride. I hated feeling all these. I deserved better. Tonight I’d have to sneak out and pay a quick visit to the asylum to see how I’d be able to break the Trill out. Then he’d help kill all emotions in me because feeling all this hurt and anger just plain sucked. I know I said it before, but it deserved to be said again. Besides, my tweaked half was growing tired of being incognito. The romance of independence living as a supervillain called to me, and I couldn’t say no. Was that vulnerability hardwired into me, or did it have everything to do with rebellious adolescent hang-ups? I couldn’t tell.

  What else did you expect?

  “I don’t know,” I admitted in a soft whisper as I walked to my locker. Peter kept at Althea’s side. I could hear them still chatting away even from a distance and with the lunchtime crowd swelling around me. “I really don’t. All I know is I’m going to go crazy if I continue like this, getting torn into two. I don’t know where I belong anymore. The Trill screwed up big time. Why didn’t he just go all the way and turn me into something easy and black-and-white like him? With these Eugenics babies, they’re either good or evil. I’m caught in gray areas, I can’t find my way out, and I hate every damn minute of it.” I switched my books and went straight to my next class alone.

  Listen, who wanted to exert his independence for a while, hmm? Who refused to listen to advice about getting the Trill out, so he can be properly trained? Hmm?

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, smartass.”

  I took my usual spot in my English class, slumping in my chair and waiting for the agonizingly slow ticking of minutes. I didn’t bother to look up when Peter and Althea walked through the door. I gladly ignored them the whole time.

  Things stayed pretty chilly between me and Peter through the rest of the day. I tried not to think about his family and their eagerness and readiness to welcome Wade—a nice, smart girl who went to a private school. Mrs. Barlow herself called Wade’s parents the morning after the Puppet’s attack and invited her over. I couldn’t even remember how long I’d waited for a date to be set, but at that time, it didn’t really matter to me. Wade had already met Mr. Barlow and Trent, while I’d contented myself with a rain check because they were both too busy to meet me. Peter had found a kind of soulmate in her, given the strong parallels in their situations as superheroes.

  No, I could never understand his issues because I wasn’t like him. He could never expect me to empathize the way Wade could. All I could offer him was an open ear and a shoulder to cry on, not a real, deep, psychic connection that only someone with parallel issues could give.

  And you know, what the fuck ever.

  I suppose it was better to realize all this now than later, when I’d invested all of myself into a relationship that wouldn’t have worked out in the end, anyway. We were too different. Even now, with my artificially-generated powers, I still fell far short, and I was just sick and tired of being the laughing stock o
f the elite few. It was either one way or another for me—no gray areas. None. Gray areas only left me wishing that I lived in another city altogether, where I knew no one, the slate was wiped clean, and I was still this stupid, dorky kid with glasses who couldn’t save his Geometry grades if his life depended on it. I wouldn’t care about obscurity in that case.

  At least I’d be left alone, and I could be myself, and I’d be happy chilling with my family. Maybe I’d fall in love with a boy who was just like me, and he’d love me back without reservations.

  I stared glumly at my notes.

  God, I wanted to destroy something.

  The hours came and went in a sluggish, reeking mass of whatever. After my last class, I hustled over to my locker, blindly did what I normally did when I stood in front of it, and hurried out. I didn’t know if Peter or Althea tried to catch me, and I didn’t care. If they were to catch me, it would be because I was helping destroy the city, and I needed to be thrown in jail.

  Bitterness was a pretty addictive thorny pill to swallow.

  Considering how broke I was—the story of my life, really—I just rode my bike to Ms. Whitaker’s antiques shop, feeling silly at the thought that as a supervillain protégé, I was pretty pathetic on the incognito level.

  “God, there I go, feeling miserable again. This has gotta stop,” I ground out as I wove my way through traffic. Well, maneuvering my bike in a way that would make those crazy big city bike messengers proud was probably the only skill I could wear like a badge of honor. Anyone who’d seen me bunny-hop my way through the more pockmarked streets would agree.

  I eventually reached the shop, after a nice, leisurely roll through semi-muddy streets, thick, sickly-hued steam creeping out of grates, and the familiar smell of decaying brick that couldn’t hold on to its make-believe glamour. It was gross. The frightening thing was that it was also so comfortable and familiar. Bleah.

  I hopped off my bike and walked it for the last block. I didn’t even realize till then I’d no idea what to expect from the meeting; I didn’t seem to care much either. I answered Ms. Whitaker’s note as though I were off on some routine errand for my mom. I wasn’t in a panic, but I guess I was still pretty bummed from the crap that’d been going on between me and Peter. If Ms. Whitaker had any hard liquor she could serve me in one of her antique goblets, that would be great. Even better if the goblet looked like the Holy Grail.