by Barry Lyga
But the Mad Mask didn’t care about being unmasked or getting hurt or anything. It made Kyle rethink his method of operation so far. Maybe he could be a bit … bolder.
At home, he went down into the basement. There on a shelf was his first (and so far, only) trophy as the Azure Avenger: a heavy, leaded stoppered jar filled with dirt. This was no ordinary dirt, though. As Kyle turned the jar over in his hands, the dirt pulsated with a faint glow. When he held it up to his ear, he could hear a slight high-pitched whine. This dirt had come from the spot on the Bouring Middle School football field where the plasma curtain had touched down, bringing Mighty Mike to Earth and giving Kyle his powers.
And, apparently, scarring the Mad Mask for life.
Mighty Mike had a lot to answer for, Kyle thought. His arrival on Earth had caused all sorts of problems already, like the ASE that almost killed Mairi. It was a tough situation — if Mike hadn’t come to Earth, then Kyle wouldn’t have his powers and his heightened intelligence. So there was a bit of good from Mike’s arrival. But all things being equal, Kyle would rather have things the way they used to be. He would give up his powers in an instant if it meant no Mighty Mike. But that was just a dream. Things weren’t going to get any better unless Kyle did something about it.
He dragged an old lawn chair over to his workbench and flicked on the overhead lamp, then settled in with the electronic slate. He couldn’t believe the sheer size and complexity of Ultitron. There was over a thousand gigabytes of information on its elbow alone. This was going to be a massive undertaking.
“The plans are … complicated, to say the least,” Erasmus said.
“Did you grab them all?”
“Yes. I’ve downloaded them all to my hard drive. Speaking of which … I think I’m going to need an upgrade if you want me to hold on to all this data. It’s getting a little crowded in here.”
Kyle sighed. He would have to go steal a bigger hard drive. He would rather buy one, but his allowance had run out on the last round of upgrades for Erasmus. Being a pioneer in the field of artificial intelligence was tough on the wallet.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do. What do you think of these plans?”
Erasmus hesitated before answering. “Well, realize that I haven’t had time to go through all of them yet …”
“Spit it out.”
“I don’t get it.” Kyle knew it pained the AI to admit this because it also pained him to admit it. “The Mad Mask must be several generations ahead of us in terms of robotics, cybernetics, artificial intelligence, fuzzy logic programming…. Makes me wonder, Kyle: Why does he need your help?”
Kyle nodded thoughtfully, flicking through screens on the slate. “Because working together, we can finish this thing faster than him working alone. Duh. Even he can only work so fast.”
“I don’t know …”
“I have to admit: It’s nice to have another genius around. Someone I can talk to, maybe.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t be offended, Erasmus. You’re patterned on my own brain waves. It’s not the same.”
The AI went into a sulky electronic silence.
“Still …” Kyle mused, tapping the slate, where a blueprint of Ultitron’s right hand appeared. “All of this work in service of what? Destroying beauty? I guess it makes sense….”
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Destroying beauty was a perfectly valid goal, he decided. The world was so superficial. Kyle knew that already. People became famous just because they were good-looking, even if they hadn’t done anything to deserve it. That didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t people be famous for doing something, not for being something? What did a beautiful person contribute to the world? Something nice to look at? Who cared?
In a way, the Mad Mask’s philosophy jibed with Kyle’s. The Prankster Manifesto, after all, said that people took themselves too seriously and had to be pranked in order to understand that they weren’t worthy of being taken so seriously. Similarly, the Mad Mask was trying to show the world that beauty was nothing worth having, that what mattered was …
“What matters is what’s inside,” Kyle muttered. It was a simplistic formula, one that his parents had told him since he was young. And yet it was undeniably true.
He flicked to another screen. Then another. And another. Absorbing the schematics. He would help the Mad Mask. Together, they would finish Ultitron and destroy Mighty Mike. And then … Then they would go about the even more difficult task of teaching the world how to be a better place.
In the end, maybe they wouldn’t just be allies. Maybe they would also be … friends.
The next day, Bouring Middle School buzzed with the news: There was a new “bad guy” in town! Mighty Mike had found him and the Blue Freak planning to blow up the lighthouse and stopped them. Unfortunately, they got away. But at least Mike saved the lighthouse.
Kyle tried to block out the buzz, seething. Even though it was against school rules, he slipped Erasmus’s earbuds in whenever he could, just to block out the chatter. But he knew what people were saying.
Blow up the lighthouse? Idiots! He and the Mad Mask had no such plans. Where did people come up with this stuff?
The school gossip mill was good for one thing, at least — it filled Kyle in on what happened after he left Mike and the Mad Mask to pummel each other. Apparently, the Mad Mask staved off Mike’s attacks with his force field, then used a variation of Kyle’s laser-chaff to blind Mike and make good his escape. From the sound of it, he’d improved the laser-chaff in a number of ways, including mounting a firing mechanism in one of his gauntlets. Kyle liked that idea — he could spray laser-chaff wherever he pointed his fingers. He told Erasmus to start working on schematics for that.
“Crowded in here …” Erasmus complained.
“I’ll get you a bigger hard drive soon, I promise.”
Kyle was so happy that the Mad Mask had used his idea that he wasn’t even upset at being ripped off. They were allies, right? Allies helped each other; they shared. The Mad Mask was going to let Kyle use Ultitron, so the least Kyle could do was let him use the laser-chaff idea.
The day would have been in balance between the buzz and the happiness Kyle felt at having met his new friend if not for Mairi.
She was still angry at him. On the bus, she had refused to sit next to him. And when he approached her after getting off the bus, she just snorted, turned away, and stomped off into school. Kyle did not like this behavior at all, but he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He was willing to apologize to Mairi, but if she wasn’t willing to listen … Well, then everything was her fault, really. If she wouldn’t listen to his apology, that was her fault, not his.
Still, he felt unsettled all day. Usually, he and Mairi would talk throughout the day, making snarky comments and rolling their eyes at each other whenever someone did or said something stupid (which was always). But today she ignored him.
His unsettled feeling lasted until after lunch (which he ate alone in a corner as Mighty Mike entertained an overflowing table of kids with the story of how he chased away two “bad guys” at once), when he went to gym class. Mairi wasn’t in Kyle’s gym class, but Mike was. Kyle had always hated gym, and now he hated it even more. And today, he would hate it even more than more.
“This is Physical Fitness Week!” Mr. Rogers, the gym teacher, announced as everyone groaned. Kyle joined in the groaning. Physical Fitness Week! That was the worst. As boring as gym class usually was, at least it was never demanding — they ran around and played soccer or volleyball or baseball or touch football. Pointless, but sort of fun and not annoying.
But during Physical Fitness Week, they would have to do exercises and keep track of their “progress” for the week. This would be done in front of everyone, meaning that for one class a day for the week, Kyle would spend most of his time sitting and watching someone else do sit-ups and push-ups and pull-ups and all that nonsense. When it was his turn, he would have to be careful no
t to reveal his powers. Great. One more thing on his mind. (Kyle’s mind, of course, was enormous, but that didn’t mean he wanted lots of useless clutter junking up the place. He liked a nice, neat, orderly mind.)
“Mike,” Mr. Rogers said, “you, of course, are exempt from Physical Fitness Week.”
Kyle gnashed his teeth. Of course Mike would get a pass on Physical Fitness Week. Everyone just had to bend over backward for that little punk. Look at him, standing there in his T-shirt and gym shorts, pretending to be like everyone else. A “Gosh, really?” expression plastered on his face.
“Really, Mr. Rogers?” Mike said with a syrupy innocence that made Kyle gag. “Gosh, I don’t want specific treatment. I’m willing to prove I’m as fat as anyone else here.”
Kyle barked a laugh at Mike’s typical word-mangling, but no one else laughed — they just all looked over at Kyle with narrowed eyes, as if he’d just farted. He shrugged.
“I think you mean ‘as fit,’” Mr. Rogers said. And “special” treatment, not “specific,” Kyle thought. Why didn’t anyone notice that?
“But,” Mr. Rogers went on, “there’s no point in having you do any of these exercises. Anyone can see that you’re very fit.” Everyone stared at Mike, who was — Kyle had to admit — the sort of physical specimen you usually only saw in comic books and in animated movies. “And I don’t think you’d find the exercises very difficult.”
“I’d like to try,” Mike said. “I want to be like no one else.”
“Everyone else,” you demented freak!
“It’s not carnivalistic to treat me differently. Just since I have powers, you’re all subsuming that I can exercise these performances. I should have to acquit myself like everyone else,” Mike finished with a triumphant nod.
There were so many mangled expressions in that little speech that Kyle’s head hurt.
“Well, okay, let’s give it a shot.” Mr. Rogers started calling kids up to the various stations to do exercises. Each kid was paired with a partner who would watch their form and count their reps. Kyle’s partner was a kid named Luke who kept pumping his forearms and saying, “I’m huge! I’m huge!” Then he would grunt and do one of the exercises, shouting out the numbers. Every now and then Kyle would throw in a wrong number, just to mess up the count.
“One! Two! Three! Four!” Luke heaved, down on the floor doing push-ups. “Five! Six! Seven! Eight!”
“Thirteen!” Kyle said.
“Fourteen! Fifteen! Wait a sec.” Luke paused, still on the floor, and looked at Kyle. “Where was I?”
“Eight,” Kyle said.
Luke stared for a moment. Kyle imagined he could see the rusty gears of Luke’s mental machinery slowly grinding.
“Nine!” Luke yelled, doing another push-up. “Ten!”
Kyle yawned. He realized that even though Luke was yelling his numbers (“Fifteen!” he shouted. “Twelve!” Kyle said. “Thirteen!” Luke bellowed) he was still having trouble hearing him. Slowly, he realized why.
Smack in the middle of the gym, Mighty Mike was doing push-ups, too. Only he was doing them at nearly blinding speed. His partner — a kid named Doug — was rattling off numbers as quickly as he could, but Kyle could tell he’d lost the rhythm awhile back. Everyone else was standing around, ignoring their own exercises and partners, chanting, “Go! Go! Go!” so loudly that Kyle couldn’t hear his own breathing.
Mike obliged them. He was well past a hundred push-ups, the show-off, and showed no signs of tiring.
“Look at him!” a girl — Danika — said, her voice hushed with awe. “Look at those arms and shoulders!”
Kyle had to admit Mike’s chiseled torso and arms were pretty impressive. Then again, when you were built by a plasma storm from another planet, you could probably dictate exactly what your body would look like. He wondered if there was some kind of menu: Choose from the following: A) Shoulders of Steel, B) Killer Lats, C) Six-Pack Abs, D) All of the Above.
Ha. One more reason to hate Mighty Mike. He hadn’t worked hard for his physique. It just happened for him and to him. But here he was, showing off in front of everyone like he’d earned it.
“Is that enough?” he asked Mr. Rogers, popping up to his feet. The crowd applauded.
“That’ll do,” Mr. Rogers said, grinning. “Now, look, everyone — I don’t expect any of you to be able to do what Mike here can do. But he’s setting a good example. Try your hardest and you’ll be able to do some mighty impressive things.”
Kyle wanted to puke. No matter how hard any of these kids tried and trained and practiced and struggled, none of them would ever be able to achieve what Mighty Mike could do, by sheer dint of his alien origins and nothing else. Mr. Rogers was an idiot. Kyle would have to figure out a way to teach him a lesson in humility and common sense. The Prank Wheels started turning in his head.
They moved on to a new exercise: chin-ups. Mighty Mike did a hundred of them in a minute as the class watched in awe, his body a blur of motion as he hoisted and lowered himself on the bar over and over again. Everyone (except for Kyle) counted out loud as quickly as possible. One girl actually passed out from all the drama.
When it was Kyle’s turn on the chin-up bar, he was keenly aware of all eyes on him, especially the eyes of Mighty Mike. The fainting girl had been revived by now and Kyle couldn’t suppress a little private chuckle at the thought of him suddenly doing a hundred chin-ups in a minute. What a shock that would be — she would definitely faint again.
But, of course, he didn’t dare.
As everyone watched, he gripped the chin-up bar with both hands, aware of how flimsy it felt. It was made out of polished steel and could hold hundreds of pounds, but to Kyle it felt like a hollow tube of aluminum foil. He could crumple it one-handed.
Mighty Mike watched him. Kyle took a deep breath and pulled himself up for a count of one.
“Whoa!” Mr. Rogers called out. “Save some energy there, Camden! Don’t put it all into the first one. Pace yourself.”
Titters from the class. Kyle had pulled himself up too quickly and confidently. He gritted his teeth and did it again for a two-count, this time deliberately going more slowly. It felt like swimming through syrup. It was like moving in slo-mo when all he wanted to do was go as fast as he could.
“Better!” Mr. Rogers called out. “We can’t all be Mighty Mike, you know.”
Kyle hung for a second from the bar, gathering his patience. If he tried to pull himself up right now, he would bend the bar, he knew.
“Just two?” Mr. Rogers said. “C’mon, Camden. You can do better than that.” More laughter.
Kyle held his breath, his heart pumping wildly. He didn’t know what to do. He was so angry and embarrassed and … and … angry that he could feel his muscles tensing and bunching all up and down his arms and shoulders. If he exerted himself at all, he would crush the bar with his bare hands. But if he didn’t move —
“All right, that’s it, then,” Mr. Rogers said. “Two. Not good, Camden. Something to work on.”
“No, wait!” Kyle said. “I was just catching my breath. I can do more.”
“Sure you can. C’mon. Down from the bar.”
“But I can do more!” Kyle protested. He did a quick chin-up, holding back with all his focus and concentration. Success! He completed his third without mangling the bar. “See?”
“Very impressive,” Mr. Rogers said in a tone that did not reflect anything “impressive” at all. He slapped Kyle on the back. “Hop down. We have to get through more people today.”
“But —”
“Seriously,” Mr. Rogers said with a shift from his pal-sy, jock-buddy voice to his I-am-your-teacher voice. He smacked Kyle on the hip with his clipboard, lightly.
Kyle lashed out without thinking of it. His foot came up and flailed artlessly at Mr. Rogers. It only struck him a glancing blow on the meatiest part of his shoulder (which, for Mr. Rogers, was extremely meaty), but that was enough to knock him off his feet and send him sprawling a
couple yards away across the gym floor, sliding along on his butt until he collided with the bleachers.
Kyle dropped down from the chin-up bar into absolute silence. In less than the blink of an eye, Mighty Mike had arrived at Mr. Rogers’s side. “Don’t try to get up,” he advised Mr. Rogers. “You could be interred.”
“You mean ‘injured’!” Kyle told him from the middle of the room.
Mr. Rogers rubbed his shoulder and glared at Kyle. “Camden,” he said, “shut up.”
Kyle fumed, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. “It was an accident,” he said for the fifth time. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I know that,” said Kyle’s Great Nemesis (a.k.a. Melissa Masterton, Bouring Middle School’s guidance counselor). Kyle was in her office, sitting across the desk from her. “I know that you would never try to hurt someone. But sometimes, Kyle, people get hurt even when we’re not trying to hurt them. Do you think,” she sing-songed, “that that’s a lesson you might have learned today in gym class?”
Kyle rolled his eyes. The Great Nemesis’s insane and inane burbling had haunted him throughout his tenure at Bouring Elementary School, where she had recognized his great intellect and pranksterish tendencies pretty much on Day One. He’d thought he would escape her well-meaning, intrusive claptrap when he graduated to middle school, but she had transferred to Bouring Middle at the same time. Kyle figured she had taken a blood oath to make his life miserable. And that he could look forward to seeing her at Bouring High School in a few years.
“It was,” Kyle said through clenched teeth, settling in for his sixth attempt, “an accident. Therefore, there’s no lesson to learn. By definition, accidents can’t be predicted. Ergo, they can’t be effective teaching tools because they’re non-repeatable. Any scientist could tell you this.”
“Ergo?” the Great Nemesis said brightly, perking up. Her heavily eyeshadowed eyes widened. With her over-painted face and bright red lips, she looked like a fast-food drive-thru clown. Only less thoughtful and intelligent. “That’s a pretty big word, Kyle. See, that’s what I’m talking about. Someone with your intelligence should know better than to lash out like that. You know that could lead to someone being hurt. Now, in this case, that gym floor was very slippery, so Mr. Rogers went a lot farther than he should have. Still — you can’t go around kicking people.”