Stuart is wondering what we should do to celebrate our first official outing as a super-team, but I’m not in the mood to celebrate. I thought our first time would be, I don’t know, more fun? More memorable? More satisfying?
This is starting to feel like an awkward metaphor.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
“That was a most fascinating experience,” Archimedes says, jolting Manfred out of his light sleep. Manfred checks his watch and finds nearly an hour has passed since Archimedes last spoke. “We need to leave now.”
“Leave? What do you mean leave?”
“Go pack now. I would strongly recommend you pack several days’ worth of clothing. And some toiletries. And your Kindle, so you have something to do.”
“Archimedes...”
Archimedes sighs impatiently. “The system I broke into? It traced me. I expected it might detect my presence, but so quickly? That I did not foresee. That system was far beyond anything I’ve ever encountered,” he says as though Manfred was not in the room. “Impressive. Very impressive...”
“Archimedes?”
“I’m sorry. Yes. Packing. You should be packing.”
“Who traced you?”
“People who have the resources to create an incredibly complex computer system that can evade detection and ward off intrusions by any outside system that isn’t me,” Archimedes says. “An organization that secretive won’t take kindly to being hacked and having its property misappropriated. If I were the people behind this organization? I’d be sending someone here right now to take care of us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Manfred nods, even though he doesn’t.
“Good. Now: pack a damn bag so we can get the hell out of here.”
At last Manfred is spurred to action, but Archimedes does not follow. He has nothing to pack and nothing he wants except some time—time to think about his predicament, time to analyze the data and chart a course of action. The game has changed, and not for the better.
A drop of sweat rolls down Archimedes’ face. He becomes aware of his labored breathing, of his pulse thundering in his skull, of the tremor that’s crept into his hands. He’s afraid—no, he’s terrified, for his safety, for his life. He’s terrified of dying.
Archimedes utters a nervous laugh. For the first time, for the very first time, he feels truly alive.
TWELVE
You know that old saying, everyone in the world gets fifteen minutes of fame? Yeah, I think Kingsport’s newest super-team has a store credit.
We were all over the news that first night, by which I mean all the stories about the mayhem in town referenced “five young super-heroes” who jumped into action, stopped the robot’s destructive rampage, then disappeared before anyone could thank them—by which I mean, before the reporters could shove microphones in our faces.
One image of us did make the next day’s papers, however: a distant and fuzzy camera-phone picture, taken by a moron who should have run for the hills when the ‘bot went apehouse. That spot in the upper left-hand corner that looks like lens flare? Yep, that’s me. I’m so proud.
On day two we received a passing mention from Mindforce, who was fielding media inquiries about the incident due to Concorde’s “unavailability,” which conjured an image of Concorde strung up in a body cast in some secret hospital for super-heroes. Mindforce couldn’t say who we were but he thanked us sincerely for our bravery, which is more than Concorde gave us.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t appreciate it, and I couldn’t get excited about the conversations that followed throughout the rest of the week. We relived our grand adventure I don’t know how many times, critiqued our impromptu costumes, spoke ill of Concorde, and brainstormed a hundred possible (and increasingly ridiculous) names for our team: the Young Crusaders, the Mighty Five, iJustice, the Hero Project, the Good Guyz, the Protectorate: the Next Generation, Heroes of Mass Destruction (get it? We’re in Massachusetts?), Evil Busters, The Awesometastics, Crime Punchers, the Young Adult Faction, T.G.I.Super-heroes, and the frontrunner so far, Strikeforce: Kick-Ass. I nodded and grunted at the various suggestions, but the truth of the matter was it didn’t matter to me what we called ourselves. I didn’t care about any of the super-hero talk, at all.
What Concorde said to us, that was part of it, but mostly it was how Mom reacted when she came home that night. She knows I hang out in town after school, so when she heard about the robot she freaked out, and since I forgot to turn my phone back on after the weirdness at school she feared the worst. She hugged me so tight I thought I was going to cough up my liver and babbled about how dangerous Kingsport was and maybe we should have moved somewhere else. It made me wonder what would have happened to her if I’d been killed. I can imagine losing your child is bad enough, but to find out your kid died pretending to be a super-hero?
That’s all we are: pretenders.
Matt sees it differently, of course. He’s focused on the lives we saved, the additional property damage we prevented, and, yes, how awesome we were for showing up Concorde. I’ll give him points one and two, but it’s not enough for me.
I take back what I said earlier; I’m glad we’ve faded back into obscurity. I’m ready to go back to being a normal teenage girl...who can break the sound barrier.
Today is day three and the novelty has worn off all around. Lunchtime rolls around at not once do we talk about anything remotely super-heroic. Even Matt, king wannabe, has more thrilling news.
“Guess where we’re going after school?” he beams. “The Coffee Expeeeeerrrriiieeeeeeence!”
“Dude,” Stuart says, “Coffee E is still closed for repairs.”
“Eeennt! Wrong answer, but thanks for playing! I saw Mr. Dent’s secretary coming back from a coffee run and she was carrying a tray full of Coffee E cups. Ladies and gentlemen, the E is open for business!”
“Booyah! Let the high-octane caffeine flow!”
“I have to pass,” Sara says. “I have a doctor’s appointment after school.”
“Nothing’s wrong, is it?” Matt says in a lowgrade panic.
“No no, nothing’s wrong, it’s...” Sara lowers her voice. “Mindforce asked me to come in so he can see how I’m doing.”
“Seriously?” Matt says, his concern replaced by fanboy glee. “You’re going to Protectorate HQ?”
“No, they have an office in town, he told me to meet him there.”
“Oh.” Matt’s disappointment is brief. “Hey, can we come with?”
“Come on, Matt,” I say, “don’t hijack her doctor’s appointment so you can—”
“No, it’s cool,” Sara says. “Honestly, I’d rather not go alone.”
“Your parents aren’t taking you?”
She shakes her head. “Mom asked if I wanted her to take me, but she was hoping I’d say no.”
And there’s another reason the super-hero idea has lost its luster with me. Since Monday I’ve been chewing on the idea of coming clean to Mom, letting her know about my powers, telling her that the unknown glowing girl who helped take down the robot was in fact her own daughter. Then I think about Sara’s parents and how wigged out they are over her powers. I only have one readily available parent and I don’t want to drive her away. I don’t want her to be afraid of me.
Poor Sara.
Nuts, she’s looking at me. I must be broadcasting pity like a radio tower.
It’s not exactly what I expected in a satellite office for the country’s top super-team—not that I could say what I was expecting. It looks so...ordinary. It could be an office for a real estate broker or a lawyer or a travel agent.
“This is it?” Matt says. “I don’t see a sign or anything.”
“This is it,” Sara says. She leads us inside, which is equally mundane and unimpressive. A woman that I have to call a plain old everyday secretary smiles at us from behind her boring desk. All this normal is highly suspicious.
“Can I help you?” the secretary says.
>
“Uh, hi. I’m Sara Danvers? I have an appointment?”
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you. If you’ll wait a minute, please?”
She doesn’t pick up her phone or press any buttons, but a few minutes later the door behind her opens and Mindforce enters. His costume is less costumey than a lot of super-hero get-ups, which makes me feel a bit better about our lame wardrobes. Heck, I’m positive his pants are nothing more than black military pants from an army surplus store and his jacket looks a lot like a lab coat. He wears a form-fitting cowl over his head and face, but the goggles he wears in public are hanging around his neck. He greets Sara warmly. I instantly like him ten times better than Concorde.
“Hello again, Sara,” he says, shaking Sara’s hand. “How are you?”
“Okay,” she says unconvincingly. “Uh, I hope it’s cool my friends came with me. They wanted to meet you.”
“Of course. Hello, everyone, I’m Mindforce. Obviously,” he says, and he shakes our hands in turn (Matt and Stuart, he greets by name, which thrills Matt to no end). “Sara and I have some private business to take care of, but when we’re finished, I can take you on a tour of our headquarters if you’d like.”
Matt pounces on the offer. “Oh my God yeah!”
“Do we have to do anything? For security reasons, I mean?” I say. “To make sure we’re not precocious super-villains or shape-changing alien invaders?”
Don’t laugh. They’ve had problems with that kind of thing before. For realsies.
“You’re all set. Miss Hannaford cleared you before she let you in the office,” Mindforce says, and the secretary gives us a sly wink.
“She’s a psionic,” Sara says with a heavy duh subtext.
“A Class Four, like me,” Mindforce says. “Empathy, telepathy, telekinesis, and psychometry.”
“Psychometry?”
“She can read psychic impressions people have left on physical objects,” Matt explains before Mindforce can. Mindforce cocks an impressed eyebrow. “I’m kind of a super-hero geek.”
“Then the tour should be right up your alley,” Mindforce says, and he gestures at the door in the back of the room. “Come on.”
We follow him down a short hallway to an elevator with no buttons. He places his bare hand against a panel in the wall. It flickers briefly with a pale green light.
“Palm print reader?” Matt asks.
“DNA scanner,” Mindforce says. “Also reads pulse rate and body temperature in case someone tries to use my severed hand to bypass security.”
None of us are brave enough to ask if he’s joking.
The doors slide open and we step into a cylindrical elevator that’s more like a miniature subway car. It has seats.
“HQ,” he says. I barely feel the elevator drop, but I definitely feel it when we change direction.
“Are we going sideways?” Missy says.
“We are,” Mindforce says, “quite a distance. The office is for casual public interaction. We conduct all our serious business at our headquarters.”
“But that’s, like, at the edge of town,” Stuart says.
“That’s right.”
“You have your own secret subway tunnel under Kingsport?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Coooooooooooool.”
“I bet that was an interesting presentation to the zoning board of appeals,” I say, and Mindforce looks at me funny. “My dad’s in construction. I know more about zoning that I ever wanted to.”
“Good to know. I’ll call you if we ever decide to put a second tunnel in. And if we actually go to get permits for it,” he adds with a conspiratorial smile.
The end of the line is the sub-basement of Protectorate HQ, which is as unimpressive as the building we just left; it’s a big unfinished basement. There are crates and boxes against one wall and a freight elevator opposite the passenger elevator (is it still an elevator if it goes horizontally?).
We go up two floors and Mindforce takes us to the common area, which could pass as a trendy Manhattan loft apartment (as seen on TV; I’ve never actually been in a trendy Manhattan loft apartment).
“Please, make yourself at home,” Mindforce says. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Except the beer. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Stuart naturally makes a beeline for the refrigerator. It’s like the fridge in any office break room, right down to the half-eaten chocolate cake on the second shelf wishing someone named Nata a Hap Birt. I don’t know why but I find it oddly comforting, like it’s a sign that becoming a super-hero doesn’t mean you have to give up being a normal person.
Not that I’m still thinking about becoming super-hero, you understand. Old news there.
Sara suppresses a shudder as she enters the Protectorate’s medical bay, her contempt for hospitals and hospital-like environments surfacing.
“So. Sara,” Mindforce says. “How are you doing? Really?”
“Were you reading my mind before?”
“Your tone of voice and your body language. Remember, I’m also a professional psychologist.”
“Right.” She sighs. “I don’t think I’m doing all that great.”
Mindforce invites her to sit on an examination table. It’s padded, not one of those coldly clinical steel jobs, not like a mad scientist’s slab. It’s a minor comfort. He gives Sara an appraising once-over.
“What’s the problem?” he says.
“I can’t...I’m having problems blocking other people out.”
“Have you been doing the exercises I taught you?”
“I’ve been trying but they aren’t helping,” she says.
“How often do you practice?”
Sara shrugs. “Whenever I feel like it’s really getting to me. Middle of school, usually. That’s when it’s really bad.”
“That would be part of the problem,” Mindforce says. “You’re trying to run before you can walk. Training yourself to block out unwanted thoughts is going to be the hardest part for you. It was for me. It is for every new psionic. Once you get it, you’re good, but it’s the getting it part that’s the challenge.
“What I suggest you do is take advantage of your friends. Ask them to help you practice. Find a quiet spot somewhere, have them think at you,” he says, well aware of how silly that sounds, “and try the wall-building exercise. I think you’ll find it goes better when you’re only trying to block one thoughtstream and not dozens.”
“I guess.”
“The alternative is the drugs, and trust me, that’s not the path you want to take. How often have you been taking the meds?”
“At bedtime, that’s all, I swear,” Sara insists. “I...I always carry half a pill with me,” she confesses, her voice cracking, “just in case it gets too much for me, but I haven’t used it, I swear.”
“Hey, hey, Sara, it’s okay,” Mindforce says. “I believe you, and I understand. I know exactly what you’re going through, and I hope you know I don’t say that as an empty platitude.”
Sara nods.
“I know, too well, that it looks like an insurmountable challenge, but that’s why it’s important to practice under controlled conditions: so you can control your powers so you never have to take that pill again.”
“...Yeah.”
“All right. Now, tell me, how are you feeling physically? Any issues?”
“I feel like crap, all the time. I always feel exhausted. All the stress of trying to keep people out...”
“That’s part of it, yes,” Mindforce says, and he turns toward a waist-high stainless steel cart. “I’m going to draw a little blood to be absolutely sure, but smart money says you’re anemic.”
“Anemic? That’s when your blood doesn’t clot, right?”
“No, that’s hemophilia.”
“Oh.”
“Anemia is a decreased production of red blood cells that’s most commonly caused by a lack of iron in the bloodstream. That type of anemia is very common in women and in psionics, so you’
ve got two strikes against you.”
“Huh.”
“The biochemistry behind it is fascinating...or excruciatingly dull, depending on your taste for science,” Mindforce says, “but in layman’s terms, when psionics use their abilities, they burn up iron and electrolytes very quickly. An electrolyte imbalance you’re more likely to correct without knowing it because you’ll get thirsty, then you’ll have some water or juice or a sports drink, and that mitigates the problem.
“Iron deficiencies are a little more stubborn,” he continues as he preps a needle for drawing blood, another part of the medical exam regimen Sara despises, “but if you start taking iron supplements and eat more iron-rich foods, that will help considerably.”
“It will?” Sara says with a drop of guarded optimism. She’s been without a sense of hope for so long it’s practically alien to her. “I won’t feel so wiped out all the time?”
“It’ll help a lot. After you use your powers you might feel a bit of a crash, but in general you’ll have more energy, feel more alert...”
Sara allows herself a weak laugh. “Don’t suppose you have any hair advice?” she says, running a hand through the black wire sprouting from her scalp.
“Get a perm,” Mindforce says without skipping a beat.
“What, seriously?”
Mindforce nods. “The same biological processes that fire your powers and cause your health issues generate a very mild static electric field, which is why, for you, every day is a bad hair day. Even a gentle body perm will give your hair something to do besides fly out in all directions.”
“No kidding.” Sara squints at Mindforce’s form fitting cowl and says, “You don’t have a perm, do you?”
“Oh, God, no. Under this thing I’m as bald as a billiard ball. I’m a redhead, so it was either shave my head or brave Carrot Top cracks for the rest of my life,” Mindforce says with smirk. “No one deserves that.”
“No,” Sara laughs, “they don’t.”
THIRTEEN
Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins Page 10