“I don’t think I can help you,” I say.
Mr. Masters stands up straight and hovers over me. I can hear him grinding his teeth. He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see it in his eyes. And I’m pretty sure that he knows something I don’t. Maybe a lot of somethings.
And I start to wonder a bit.
Mr. Masters, who runs the H.E.R.O. program. Who is tapped directly into the network. Who knows all our secret identities. Who has access to tons of classified information. Mr. Masters, who once worked for the Department of Homeland Security’s Supernormal Activities Department. Mr. Masters’s hand grips my shoulder, a little harder than last time, and I look for his other hand, the one that is tucked into his pocket. The one with the watch.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His expression softens; his hand releases me. He musters a smile, though I can tell it is a challenge for him. “Just worried, is all. If you should see him, tell him that I’m looking for him. That I he needs to come find me.”
The bell rings again.
“You’re late for class. Better hurry,” he says, turning to head back into his office.
I nod again and take off for the stairs, but when I’m at the top, I pause, thinking maybe I’ve heard my name.
It’s not a mistake. I hear Mr. Masters whisper, “I know you’re listening, Drew.”
And then I hear him whisper, “Be careful who you trust.”
And I feel a chill sweep over me as I slide out from behind the snack machine and into the hall, deciding that from this point on, I will take Mr. Masters’s advice.
Maybe starting with Mr. Masters.
14
THE CALL
Being a Super isn’t easy. Just think about the stress. To be available at a moment’s notice. To drop everything you are doing and squeeze into your tights when nobody’s looking, cramming yourself into the backseat of an unlocked car because there aren’t any phone booths anymore, trying to pull your jeans off over your spandex and getting them caught around your ankles, pulling your mask clumsily over your head and somehow getting it twisted around one ear. Seeing your signal blaze in the night sky while you are in the middle of your ravioli al forno, taking one last sip of wine as you grab your jet pack and leap out your window, accidentally frying a pigeon on the way. Missing the end of a movie or your favorite show, coming back to find that your coffee is cold or your boyfriend got tired of waiting for you and left, slamming the door so hard on his way out that it knocked pictures off your walls. Canceling Thanksgiving dinner because some whack job in a mole costume decides to sabotage the city’s generators to send the world into total darkness so that only he can see. It’s always something. Your time is not your own, unless you have a magic watch, and even then your life is measured out in minutes.
Add to that the fact you’ve got lives in your hands. Trains with failed brake systems and jumbo jets full of panicked passengers plummeting into the ocean. Reporters falling off buildings and little kids somersaulting over the Hoover Dam. And that always-nagging thought that maybe this time, you aren’t going to be able to save them. Maybe this time, your laser vision will fail or your vulcan hand cannon will jam or the lace on your boot will come loose and you will trip at the last moment while the reporter does her best pancake impression on the sidewalk before you can catch her. Not to mention the bad guys always giving you the “choice” between chasing after them or rescuing hundreds of OCs who are about to have a building fall on them or the cables on a suspension bridge snap, knowing full well that you will follow the Code, that you aren’t going to just sit back and let civilians die (though imagine the look on the bad guy’s face if you did. “Sure,” you’d say, “six hundred innocent people drowned today, but at least I caught you, you jerk”).
Oh. And then there’s the money. Being a Super is expensive. Over half of all Supers are funded through grants from the National Endowment for Superheroes and Crime Fighters. But still, even your average-sized 7,500-square-foot top-secret underground headquarters, modestly outfitted and reasonably priced, runs at least two mill in the burbs, and twice that if you want to be downtown for easy access to crime and shopping. Then there’re uniforms, gadgets, weapons, upgrades, computers, jet planes, personalized body armor, nuclear reactors, guided missile systems, global tracking satellites, grappling hooks, utility belts, utility hooks, grappling belts, butlers, blasters, bunkers, cryogenic containment labs, and all that other junk. It just adds up. Time. Stress. Money.
Yet every Super who has ever been asked about the hardest part of the job will tell you it’s not the deadly combat or the sleepless nights or the pressure of thwarting giant alien death rays aimed at the planet. It’s keeping the secret. They have manuals on how to deal with all that other stuff. How do you deal with the loneliness? The fact that, on some basic level, you do everything for everybody and no one even bothers to say thanks, because they don’t even know who you are?
So you let something slip. Maybe while having a drink after work, you say something about the time you punched a hole through the roof of a car or accidentally set your living-room couch on fire with your heat vision. Sometimes you forget a little detail. The scorch marks on your boots or the radio-active goop that is still somehow tangled in your hair from your run-in with extraterrestrial terrorists.
Sometimes you do it on purpose—a casual comment to someone you care about, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she will figure it out and guess your secret. Because then you no longer have to bear the burden alone. Because somebody knows. Somebody else has to carry it with you. But by then it is too late. Your secret is out. You’ve been compromised. The best Supers are the ones who can stay behind the mask. Who never show their hand.
Take the Fox. Nobody knows very much about her. I only happen to know her secret identity because Jenna told me, swearing me to absolute secrecy. In fact, it’s the only time I know of that Jenna’s broken the Code. And if she hadn’t told me, I would never have guessed. The Fox has short, flaming red hair, sparkling blue eyes, and stands about five foot seven. Kyla Kaden has long, flowing raven-black hair, light-brown eyes, and stands at least six feet, though if you looked in her closet you’d probably find rows of high-heeled shoes and a few wigs. Kyla wears sharp business suits and lots of makeup. The Fox wears a white-and-red jump suit and a matching white mask that covers half of her face. Stand them next to each other, and you would swear you were looking at two different people.
A disguise is about playing to expectations. Helping people believe what they want to believe. Kyla Kaden is the founder and CEO of Kaden Enterprises. She came to this country at the age of twenty-two to start her own business. The heiress to a huge estate left to her by a father who supposedly died in a fire when she was a teen, Kyla applied her genius-level IQ to the field of weapons engineering, developing satellite-guided missile systems for the army. She was wealthy, accomplished, and beautiful.
She couldn’t possibly have time to be a superhero too.
But that’s the thing about the Fox. Like the best of them, she’s hard to pin down.
That night, as I’m finishing the third act of Julius Caesar (Et tu, Brute?), I hear my father groan from the living room. My mother asks him what’s wrong, and he tells her the crazies are on TV again. They’ve interrupted Jeopardy! for some kind of special announcement. I wonder which group of crazies he’s talking about—there are a lot to choose from—but then I hear the Fox’s name mentioned and practically trip over myself careening down the stairs. I turn down the hall to find my parents sitting on the couch, staring at her. Her wavy red locks stream out from beneath the white mask she wears. Her blue eyes blaze. Though her sword isn’t strapped on, she still looks every bit as dangerous as she did when she was cutting down drones back at the pool. She stands at a podium, her hands gripping the sides as if she’s about to tear it out of the ground. She could, of course. With ease.
My mother notices me and pats a spot beside her on the couch. As I sit,
she puts a hand on my knee, comforting and uncomfortable all at once.
On TV the Fox stares into the camera. A small crowd stands behind her—all stars from the forces of goodness and light. The mayor and the Justicia police commissioner stand to her left. Cryos stands behind her, his cybernetic eye glowing like a hot coal, his cold-fusion blaster arm hanging by his side. And beside him, Hotshot, Gavin’s Super, is dressed in his customary orange and yellow, with swirling red flames trailing down the sleeves of his fireproof suit, a halo of blue flames flickering from his crown. No sign of the Rocket. Apparently Mike’s Super still hasn’t left the house.
No sign of the Titan either.
Not that they need him. There’s enough power behind that podium to take down a deck full of villains. It’s actually kind of thrilling to see them standing there together.
But they aren’t really together. This isn’t the Legion of Justice. The other Supers stand behind the Fox, like backup singers waiting for the chorus. The camera is focused on her.
“Hello, citizens,” she says in her growling, gravelly voice that Mike calls sultry. “Please excuse this interruption, but I want to take this opportunity to assure you that, despite recent events, there is no cause for alarm. The superhero community is doing everything it can to assist both government offices and local law enforcement agencies in apprehending the criminals known as the Suits.” The Fox takes a moment to acknowledge the mayor and the commissioner, both of whom look down at their polished shoes. Then she continues. “I promise that it is only a matter of time before the Dealer and his men are brought to justice. Until then, I ask all of you to remain calm and go about your ordinary lives. I also ask that all Supers and anyone charged with supporting their efforts remain vigilant and answer the call that their Code commands. I give you my personal assurance that those responsible will answer for their crimes. Thank you.”
The camera zooms in and freezes for a moment on Justicia’s white-masked crime fighter and she does that thing again, with the little wreathes of electricity around her eyes. I try to imagine the Dealer, sitting in his cave or his secret hideout or whatever hole he’s found, watching her. It would be enough to make me pack up the Suits and find an island volcano to retire in.
“Oh, well then, I guess we have nothing to worry about, do we?” Dad says. “The electrified vixen in the white suit’s going to take care of everything.”
It doesn’t take extraordinary senses to detect my father’s sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t call her a vixen, honey. Vixens are mean. She’s not mean.”
“She certainly looks mean,” Dad says. “Did you see that thing she did with her eyes? It’s a wonder she still has any eyebrows left. And that man with his head on fire. These people are a walking hazard.”
“I think the mayor looked worried,” Mom adds. “Do you think he looked worried? And who was the robot man in the background? Not sure I’ve seen him before.”
“Cyborg, Mom,” I say, though I realize maybe that’s not something I should know.
“Cyborg, of course,” Dad says. “I always said we needed a good cyborg in this city. Not enough of them around.” Dad shakes his head and changes the channel, but the Fox is everywhere. The message is being replayed and analyzed. Finally he just turns it off.
“Who’s up for a game of cards?” he says, slapping his knees and standing. He looks down at me and smiles, but I can’t help but stare at the television, still picturing the Fox, standing there, commanding everyone to answer the call.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I’ve still got work to do.”
15
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
It’s Tuesday, the third Tuesday of the month. And according to the menu magneted to our fridge, that means it’s chicken nugget day, which is all well and good providing you don’t think about all the parts of a chicken you wouldn’t eat if you knew better, which is a lot of it, really. It doesn’t matter how much fried batter you put around a thing, it can still be awful at the core.
It’s Tuesday, and the Fox’s announcement seems to have restored some of the public’s faith. The morning headlines are boldface, all caps. FOX VOWS TO BRING DOWN DEALER. CITY’S CHAMPION PROMISES JUSTICE. There’s even a quote in one article, supposedly from the Fox herself, saying that she will do “what the Supers who came before me never could.” I suppose if anyone can, it’s her, yet I can’t seem to shake this feeling in my gut. That there’s something we’re all missing.
Which is why I’m on my bike when I should be at school. Riding to the south end of town, past the graffiti-covered tunnels and the stinking sewer grates, wondering what my parents would say if they knew what I’m doing. If they knew that I am skipping school to go to a bar. To meet up with my superhero mentor. Again.
Twice we have spoken since he dumped me outside Bob’s Bowlarama. Twice I have tried to convince him that he has a responsibility—if not to me, then at least to the Code, to the community. To truth, justice, freedom of assembly—I don’t care, as long as it’s something. Both times he’s blown me off, swatting me away like a gnat. The second time, I swore it was the last. I gave up.
But that was before Mr. Masters pulled me aside. Before the three remaining Jacks escaped from prison. Before the last villain the Titan ever faced, the man who had supposedly died at his own hands, came back from the dead.
Mr. Masters was worried, and though I still felt like there was something the head of H.E.R.O. was hiding from me, I couldn’t deny the logic. Whatever happened between the Dealer and the Titan so many years ago was enough to send the leader of the Legion of Justice into a downward spiral. Now the Dealer was back. And the group of heroes who stopped him was no more, its members either retired, missing, or dead.
Except for one.
Which is why I’m skipping school.
Convincing my parents to let me stay home was the easy part. I only had to throw up. Twice. All I needed was a trigger—something to get the stomach rolling. Like the smell of rotting garbage in the Randals’ driveway, tipped in the night by a raccoon. Eggs overdue and a gallon of putrid milk plus one finger in the throat, and last night’s dinner is on the esophageal express to toilet town.
“No fever,” my mom said, shaking the thermometer the way she has seen them do in old movies even though it’s digital and goes in my ear. “I guess it’s just something you ate.”
I told her I’d be fine. That she was late for work. She told me she’d call me at lunch to see how I was feeling. I made a note of it, then waited for the sound of her van turning the corner before I bothered to get dressed.
The ride to the Last Hurrah seems to take a lot longer this time. Along the way, I plan what I’m going to say. Something about the Dealer and the three Jacks and Mr. Masters, and how the world needs the Titan to come back and do his job. I won’t make it about me. He’s made it clear that I’m not one of his priorities. I’ll appeal to his sense of justice and honor. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll tell him he’s in mortal danger. And I suppose if that doesn’t work, I’ll call him a chicken and make those squawking noises like we did in first grade to kids who wouldn’t jump off the swings. I hated that.
My bicycle is the only thing parked outside the Last Hurrah at nine thirty in the morning. The sign says OPERATING HOURS: NOON TO THREE A.M. I peer through the window. The lights in the bar are off, but I can make out a faint glow coming from the back hall, enough to see that the place is empty.
I sit on the steps, letting my back slide down the door, my head resting in my hands. I don’t know what I expected. To find him still on the stool, maybe, or passed out on the floor. Or maybe sleeping on a bench outside. I look around. A man walking his dog. An older woman carrying her basket of clothes from the Laundromat next door. Two guys in black jackets standing at the corner. One of them looks at me, and I quickly look away.
I think maybe I’ll just sit here for the next five hours and hope he shows up.
Or maybe I’ll just walk around the seediest part of tow
n I can find until somebody mugs me or kidnaps me, on the off chance that this time he will show up.
I’m debating my options when there’s a click and I nearly fall backward as the door I’m leaning against swings open. I turn to see the Last Hurrah’s bartender standing in the frame. He’s wearing a bathrobe cinched tight and a hat that says PICK UP THE TAB.
“Little early to be lookin’ for a drink,” he says. “Little young, too.”
“Sorry,” I say, standing up and straightening myself out. “I was . . . I mean, I am looking for someone. I think he comes here a lot.”
The man scratches his chin and then rests his hand on the natural shelf of his belly. He smells like cigarettes, beer, and maple syrup. “A lot of people come here a lot,” he replies.
“Yeah, but this guy you’d remember. Tall. Big arms. Big chest. Big everything. Sits back in the corner . . .” I can tell by the look in the man’s glossy eyes that he knows exactly who I’m talking about.
“Sorry, kid, but I haven’t seen him in almost a week. Not since you came in last.” The bartender smiles, and I see he’s got one silver tooth, like a pirate. If I look hard enough, I can see my reflection it. “Don’t get too many customers your age,” he explains. “Besides . . . he told me you might come lookin’ for him.”
“He did?” That doesn’t sound like the Titan.
The bartender nods. “He said to tell you to just stop already. Stop botherin’ him. Stop lookin’ for him. Stop even thinkin’ about him. He says you’re better off if you just forget about him entirely.”
Never mind. That sounds exactly like him. I look down at the steps for a moment, then back up at the silver tooth.
“I don’t suppose you know where he went or where I could find him?”
The pirate bartender shakes his head. “You don’t hear too well, do you?”
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