Sidekicks

by Jack D. Ferraiolo

  So being a plus/plus hero used to be awesome, but the past few years, things started to change. First of all, the plus/plus population started to dwindle, and no one was sure why. Phantom’s theory is that the supers that disappeared either got “seduced from their responsibilities by the peace of a normal life” or became “cowards who succumbed to the fear of evil.” I’ve looked on the Internet for information, but it’s mostly just people with crackpot theories. One guy thinks that most of the pluses moved underground, formed a hidden network, and are now trying to root out some great evil. Another guy thinks that all the pluses are actually aliens, and the ones who disappeared were just “called home.”

  But really, my own hero image had been changing for a while; I just hadn’t noticed. The younger kids were still huge fans of Bright Boy, but everyone else from third grade up made fun of him … me. They laughed at the outfit. They started thinking of him/me as a freak of nature (and not in a good way).

  The less popular my Bright Boy persona got, the more I realized that my Scott Hutchinson persona wasn’t very popular, either. I wasn’t hated or anything; I just didn’t have any close friends. I sat with a set of kids at lunch, but they were all kids who didn’t quite fit into school. We got along as long as no one said much, or really made eye contact.

  I realized that the years of avoiding sports teams, extracurricular activities, birthday parties, and even simple invitations to “come over and play” had made me invisible to my classmates. Somewhere along the line, they started to realize that I was always going to say no—to everything—and so they just stopped asking. And I had been so busy, that I hadn’t even noticed.

  Not that it mattered, anyway. Even if I had a close friend, I’d never really be able to share things with them. I wouldn’t be able to have them over to Trent’s house. I’d always have to run off at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t risk someone getting close to me and discovering who I really am. It would jeopardize everything Trent and I work for, not to mention endanger norms like Louis who are close to us. Sure, Louis can take care of himself, but that doesn’t mean I want to make him hostage bait to all of our enemies.

  I don’t have anything in common with my classmates, anyway. They talk about movies and TV shows I haven’t seen, or music that I haven’t listened to … I don’t even know what I’m interested in, besides running around the city at night and smacking bad guys around. So really, there’s no sense in trying to have friends. I’ll just wait until I’m older. Maybe when you’re an adult, these things don’t matter as much.

  “Well, lookee who we have here … If it isn’t Snot Hutchinson!”

  Oh man … I was so lost in thought that I wasn’t scoping the hallway, and now I have to deal with Jake Berkshire and his three goons.

  “Hello, Snot!” Jake says with mock enthusiasm. His friends laugh, as if changing my name from Scott to Snot is the funniest thing any of them has ever heard. Jake and his friends are a few years older than me, but we’re in the same grade. I wouldn’t say they’re as dumb as a bag of hammers, but only because that would be an insult to the hammers.

  “I said, hello, Snot.” They all cackle again. Jake and his friends are the only kids in school who actually notice me, and they don’t seem happy about it.

  “I have to get to class,” I say as meekly as I can, but I’m having a hard time mustering the energy to pretend I’m scared of them today.

  “Awww … poor, wittle Snot has to get to class,” Jake says. The idiots chime in with their own “Awwws.” Jake’s face gets hard and mean all of a sudden. “You’ll go where I tell you to go, when I tell you to go there, got it?” He gives me a shove. Part of me doesn’t want to budge, but then I’m afraid Jake’ll dislocate his elbow … so I let my shoulder go limp and roll with it. His friends then follow suit and push me around. So far, I’m controlling the urge to knock them all out, but it’s getting harder with each shove.

  Things are about to escalate when Shane, one of the idiot friends, notices Dr. White, the foreign languages teacher, coming around the corner. “Jake! Teach!” he whispers loudly.

  Jake, like the weasel he is, gets a panicked look on his face. I can’t believe that my “bully” is scared to death of a teacher. It makes it so hard to fake taking him seriously. “See you around, Snot,” he says, then knocks the books out of my hands as a parting shot. I let him, but only because if I didn’t, he’d probably break his hand.

  I manage to grab my books and slip into my first period social studies class right before the chime sounds. Three girls walk in after me: Olivia Duchamp, Allison Mendes, and Charlene O’Malley. They’re giggling about whatever it is that girls my age giggle about, and Mr. Privet tells them to quiet down, but he’s got a smile on his face, as if he doesn’t really care that they’re giggling. And why should he? Olivia, Allison, and Charlene are model students: pretty, smart, popular without being stuck-up, walking the tightrope between good student and teacher’s pet.

  I’ve tried to build up the courage to walk over and talk to them, but it just hasn’t happened yet … which is ridiculous considering what I build up the courage to do every night. I mean, really, it’s not like one of them is going to throw me off a building or blast me with a laser. The messed-up thing is, it might be easier for me to talk to them if I thought they might. But they’re just regular girls … and what the heck can I say to regular girls? “Hi, I’m Scott! Any of you girls looking to hang out with a guy who can’t tell you much about himself, who you can’t count on for anything, who may be completely incommunicado for long stretches of time. I’ll hardly ever be able to go anywhere or do anything! I’ll agree to meet you places and then stand you up and not be able to give you a reason! Doesn’t that sound awesome?”

  Before I have a chance to pull my laptop out of my bag, the intercom statics to life. Everyone else in class pauses, too, to see if it’s them getting called out of class. “Scott Hutchinson, please report to the front desk. Scott Hutchinson.”

  I get up from my seat and walk toward the door as everyone else goes about their business. No one looks up at me. Even Mr. Privet doesn’t miss a beat. He’s already into the lesson before I reach the hallway. That’s another reason this school is so perfect for me … kids of politicians and entertainers are always getting pulled out of school for one reason or another, so they don’t even blink when it happens to me.

  I find myself walking pretty quickly toward the front desk … almost, but not quite, slipping into a bit of plus speed. It’s funny … even with all my concerns over being a social outcast, I still can’t wait to get out of here and become Bright Boy again.

  I just wish I had a better costume.

  the Fortress, the official secret hideout of Phantom Justice and Bright Boy. It sits underground, about a thousand feet below Trent’s mansion. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure why we even need the Fortress. It’s full of all this crime-fighting equipment that Trent bought, that we never really use. The only thing we do use is the MCC, or Main Crime Computer, and that thing is a couple of years old now. I’m pretty sure I can do on my phone ninety percent of what the MCC does.

  I walk past the costume room and the armory, past the revolving platform that the Stealth Phantom is parked on, and there he is—Trent Clancy, aka Phantom Justice, standing with his back to me, staring up at the giant, wall-size monitor. Even in civilian clothes, he’s impressive. Six feet three inches, 220 pounds of solid muscle, Trent is plus/plus, speed and strength, like me. Even just standing there in civilian clothes, looking up at the giant monitor, I could feel his intensity. His posture is intense. His hair is intense. If I could see his face, I bet it would have an intense look on it. And when he speaks, his voice is intense.

  “Dr. Chaotic escaped from prison this morning.”

  Several pictures of Dr. Chaotic pop up on the monitor, in various forms of dress and disguises.

  “Dr. Chaotic. Real name: unknown. Known Aliases: Richard Fairweather, Harold Riesling, James Conant. Former
Location: San Raphael Maximum Security Prison. Current location: unknown. Attributes: plus intelligence. Dr. Chaotic is quite possibly the most intelligent human on the planet. Although lacking plus speed or strength, Chaotic has the ability to create and implement an unlimited amount of armor and weaponry. These devices are highly sophisticated. They enhance his physical attributes to near plus capacities, and are often capable of massive destruction. Threat level: highest.” Trent recites the information from memory, as if he’s reading from a case file. Unfortunately, he talks like this a lot.

  “How did this happen?” I ask.

  “They’re not sure. They’re still piecing together the details, but it appears that he constructed a small laser out of wood, a battery pack, and circuitry from an old television.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Trent turns and gives me an intense look. “No. I’m not.”

  I sigh. “No, I know … it’s just an expression.”

  Trent continues to stare at me for a couple of uncomfortable beats, then finally turns back to the monitor.

  “It took him a little more than three weeks,” he says.

  “That’s it? Holy crud.”

  Trent turns again, this time with a stern look. He doesn’t like it when I use words like crud, even though it’s not a swear word, and even when it’s in response to news that our most dangerous foe escaped from prison.

  “Sorry.”

  Trent glares at me for a moment too long again, then turns back to the monitor. “He’s been in prison for five years. The method of his escape suggests that he could have left whenever he wanted. So why now?” Trent asks.

  He’s not necessarily asking me; he’s asking the room, and himself. My job is to answer, so he can get the answers that are obviously wrong out of the way. “Because he had the opportunity?”

  “Someone who can make a laser out of wood and an old TV is going to have a lot of opportunities,” he responds.

  “Good point. It could be anything.”

  “Yes. Looks like we’re going to have to wait until he makes the first move,” he says, like he’s not happy about it. “He had a sidekick, correct? Plus/plus, speed and strength, like us. Code-named—”

  “Monkeywrench,” I say, and shudder. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and not because he wasn’t memorable. I had purposely blocked him. What a weasel. Unfortunately, when we caught Dr. Chaotic, Monkeywrench had gotten away. I would’ve loved to see that little jerk go to jail, too.

  “Monkeywrench. Right.” Trent quietly looks at the monitors. His shoulders sag a bit, something I’ve never seen before.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem OK.”

  Trent takes a deep breath. “Dr. Chaotic almost killed me last time.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t.”

  “Because I got lucky.”

  I nodded. Trent wasn’t trying to be modest. The last time we faced off against Dr. Chaotic, Trent got destroyed.

  Five years ago, Champion Motor Company was working on a project code-named Destiny. They had developed a car with a special motor that could get eighty miles per gallon, without using hybrid technology. Pretty cool, right? It got even cooler. Destiny was also capable of going zero-to-sixty in under four seconds. The thing hauled. Other companies were developing similar cars, but Champion was poised to get there first. That’s when Dr. Chaotic and Monkeywrench tried to step in.

  Dr. Chaotic knew that all the companies competing for the pole position in the fuel economy race would do whatever they needed to do to get those plans. So, his plan was pretty straightforward: Steal the plans and sell them to the highest bidder.

  Their first crime was at Champion’s headquarters. Chaotic and Monkeywrench managed to get the plans out of the building, but Champion had just installed a state-of-the-art security system, which managed to stall Chaotic and Monkeywrench long enough for Phantom and me to get there. We battled them on the roof of the Champion building for half an hour before they escaped … without the plans. That’s because as they were making their escape in Dr. Chaotic’s helicopter, I managed to snag the plans away from Monkeywrench. Sure, I almost plummeted 1,500 feet to my death, but seeing the look on that little weasel’s face after snatching those plans from him was totally worth it.

  After that, Champion split the Destiny plans up, and hid parts of them all over the city. Dr. Chaotic and Monkeywrench spent the whole rest of the summer searching for them. They managed to snag a few, but more often than not, Phantom Justice and I were able to thwart them. They did, however, always manage to escape capture. I guess the frustration was getting to them, because by the end of August, their robbery attempts were getting more reckless, more dangerous. Then, in the last week of August, things came to a head.

  Dr. Chaotic decided to stop looking for the plans and start looking for the one working prototype of the car. He figured that if he could get his hands on the prototype, he’d be able to auction that instead of the plans. He and Monkeywrench found it in a warehouse on the docks, hidden in a large crate marked Coffeemakers.

  By the time we arrived, Monkeywrench had already hooked up the prototype to Dr. Chaotic’s helicopter (which, even I’ll admit, is pretty impressive for an eight-year-old). Monkey-boy and I started fighting as Phantom Justice tried to pull the helicopter down all by himself. Chaotic had modded the copter with some jet turbines, so it almost ripped Phantom’s arms out of their sockets. Phantom then switched to Plan B, which was to lodge the car in the doorway of the warehouse. Chaotic’s copter couldn’t take off with the car anchoring it to the ground, but he was too stubborn to leave without it. He gunned the engines, hoping he had enough juice to break the car free. He didn’t. His helicopter slammed into the ground, exploding on impact.

  Dr. Chaotic managed to escape the wreckage but not without taking major damage. Phantom Justice had him cornered when Chaotic pulled out a new weapon, something he said he had been saving for just such an occasion. It was brand-new—so new that he didn’t even have a name for it yet. Chaotic said it was supposed to target the unique biological makeup of a plus/plus, and somehow short-circuit their nervous system … or something. We still don’t know if it worked the way he intended, because the thing exploded.

  Monkeywrench and I were fighting a short distance away. Dr. Chaotic had just cackled evilly and proclaimed himself the victor against Phantom Justice then he pulled the trigger. The weapon exploded. I knew it was a small-blast radius, because Monkeywrench and I were fighting about thirty yards away, and we only went into minor convulsions. Phantom Justice and Dr. Chaotic had been standing only a few feet away from each other, and they were having full-blown seizures.

  After that point, the night got a little hazy for me. I remember abandoning my fight with Monkeywrench. I remember feeling a surge of adrenaline, grabbing both Dr. Chaotic and Phantom Justice, and just hauling to the hospital. I remember the doctors meeting me outside and taking over. I remember leaving the hospital and rocketing through the city, thinking that I HAD to find Monkeywrench and arrest him before Phantom woke up, or Phantom was going to be angry. I remember waking up on the fire escape of an abandoned building the next morning, not sure if the events from the night were real or just a vivid dream. I went to the hospital to find out.

  Dr. Chaotic was there, dazed, but healthy. He was under heavy security, and heading to jail when he fully recovered. No one knew anything about Monkeywrench; it seemed that he had just cut and run. Phantom Justice had checked himself out. I went home and slept for the next thirty-six hours. Trent slept for three days. When he finally came out of his room, he looked shaken, a little weak, but pretty much OK. It took him a couple of days to get back up to full strength. Luckily for the city, and us, there wasn’t a major crime for a week or so after that.

  Trent hasn’t talked about it again until today. He hasn’t had to. Chaotic’s been in prison.

  “And now he’s out,” Trent says. “The one man who made me
feel fear, down to the core of my being.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He will not have that power over me. Justice has no weaknesses … I will not feel fear again.”

  “OK … sure,” I say. “Listen, speaking of not wanting to feel certain … uhh … feelings, did Louis talk to you.”

  He looks annoyed, as if I’m interrupting something. “About what?”

  “About my uhh … costume?”

  “Yes.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.

  “Oh … well … have you seen the news?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “OK … uhh … well …” I stammer, trying to fill in the big, uncomfortable space. “I don’t think my costume fits me anymore.”

  “We’ll get you a larger size.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Well, I mean, it’s part of what I meant. But the other part is that I don’t really like it anymore.”

  “Oh.” He continues to stare at me.

  “It’s just REALLY bright.”

  “Your name is Bright Boy.”

  “No, I know … It’s just, do we have to be so obvious about it? You did see the news, right?”

  “Yes, and I wanted to talk to you about that. I know you’re at ‘that age’ …”

  I take a deep breath, and ready myself for what kids at school always called “the talk.” Really, Trent should have given me “the talk” a couple of years ago, but he always found a way to put it off. Not like I really needed him to give it to me … I mean, I’ve had three classes on the subject, and whatever wasn’t covered in there, Louis filled me in on. So, Trent’s pretty late to the party.

  “I know it can be … awkward,” Trent continues. “But we are heroes … trying to uphold an image. And we just can’t allow something like that to happen again. It’s impure, and I won’t allow it.”