Ordinary Champions

by Hayden Thorne

  “You’re a fucking sadist.”

  “Yes, well, can’t help it, I’m afraid.” He smiled again and raised his glass in a mock toast.

  I was practically shaking in anger and frustration. I even told myself, Screw it. Get him now. I don’t care if I get killed. Moving my hands under the table, I powered up, ready to blast the monster out of the room.

  “Oh, and don’t even bother working yourself up into making an attempt at hurting your maestro,” he said breezily. “Did you really think I’d create a weapon that could pose a threat to me? You’re welcome to try, of course, if you feel like indulging your juvenile rage through destruction. All I can say is that you’re in for a rather nasty surprise if you attempt to obliterate me.”

  “I don’t care. It’s better than being a slave to you,” I hissed. My hands throbbed, and I kept the power coming, forcing it and forcing it in hopes of causing as much damage as I possibly could.

  He grinned and sat back, folding his hands on his lap, and waited. “Go on then,” he said, his voice like a thin purr. “I’m waiting.”

  The moment stretched itself out, the silence growing more and more deafening. Neither of us moved, let alone talked. We just stared at each other, waiting—or at least, he watched me and waited for what I was going to do next.

  I moved my hands together, cupping my left hand with my right in a move to concentrate the energy ball I was forming. Then in the midst of the pulsing warmth, I felt something smooth and hard against my right palm, and I hesitated.

  It was the ring on my pinky finger. Wait a minute. I’d forgotten about that. One thought quickly followed another and then another until a flowing stream rushed through my mind, alternately confusing and exciting me.

  An ally. I’d forgotten that I had an ally in the Trill’s hideout. I shouldn’t be doing this on my own. Hell, the Trill had easily shown how useless it was for any attempts I’d make to turn the tables on him. I was a prisoner, and I’d no way out. That is, not without someone else’s help.

  The Trill hadn’t noticed the ring on my finger, and I’d been wearing it with the stone turned around. The gold band wasn’t so shiny that it was obvious, but a person could certainly see it if he actually paid attention to my hand.

  Wait, I told myself. Wait. Calm down. Think.

  I killed my power and sat back, pretending to look defeated and resentful. Across the table, the Trill started laughing—quietly at first and then more and more loudly.

  “See? I’ve never doubted you,” he guffawed. “Good boy! That’s a very good boy! You’ll understand soon enough that it doesn’t pay to bite the hand that feeds you.”

  I looked at him and kept quiet. He nodded as he refilled his glass.

  “What happened to Pe—Calais? He was holding me down, when I exploded—or whatever it was I did,” I said after a while.

  “You blew him away,” he replied, raising a hand to quiet my alarmed protest. “It was your self-destruct program that set off, but your power had grown so weak by then that all you could manage was to blast Calais away in a cloaking bubble. It was very much like what you did to him the first time you boys battled each other—but five times more powerful.” He paused and laughed quietly for the gazillionth time. “Dear Romeo’s quite well, don’t worry. It’ll take something far, far more powerful than that piddling little blast of yours to destroy him. I took you back with me once he was out of the picture, and you were lying senseless. Not to mention useless.”

  “As long as he isn’t hurt,” I mumbled, a little sickened.

  “Your meal’s getting cold,” he said. “Eat, young man, then go do your homework. We have no jobs tonight, but there’s one in a couple of days.”

  I reluctantly served myself some pasta, my thoughts now bent on a totally different course. The Trill continued to yammer on and on about all sorts of stupid, boring crap about his travels and daring adventures involving stolen antiques, but it all went in one ear and out the other. I ate my meal like the good, obedient, defeated kid that I was supposed to be, pretending I was all docile and morose until the end of lunch. Once I was done, I chased everything down with lemonade, which nearly made me gag. I finished it, though, and wiped my mouth with my napkin before standing up.

  “I thought you were going to talk to the cook about the lemonade,” I said. The brattiness this time wasn’t an act; the overly sweet drink was downright disgusting. “If she can’t get it together, I’d rather have just plain water with my meals next time.”

  The Trill shrugged. “I’ll remind her.”

  I threw my napkin down and walked off. “I’m going to the library for my homework and shit,” I called back. Then a thought occurred, and I paused, glancing over my shoulder. “Where’d you find Dr. Dibbs, anyway?”

  He hesitated, apparently taken a little by surprise. “Why, I made direct enquiries through proper channels.”

  “Something like the black market, you mean?”

  “Let’s just say it’s rather difficult finding legitimate teachers or private tutors for you, given our situation. I’ve connections, and that’s all you need to know. Why, do you have any objections to Dr. Dibbs?”

  I snorted. “He’s a little on the creepy side, but what else can I expect from your connections?”

  He merely spread his hands out in a vague gesture. “Is that all you have to complain about with regard to your education, young man?”

  “Yeah. He’s also threatening to give me an exam soon.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s accredited. Just stop your complaints, buckle down, and apply yourself. I hope to see improvements in your Geometry and Chemistry grades soon.”

  I shook my head and cussed at the world, my life, and the Trill under my breath as I stalked off to the library.

  Chapter 8

  I expect you to be torn, my dear Mr. Plath, by your moral codes and all other trifling things. I also expect you to hesitate when given a hypothetical combat situation involving your broken-hearted Calais. However, whatever moral codes you profess to follow, whatever longing you might feel for your lost love, whatever noble resolutions of sacrifice you might form when alone—none of those will matter when you’re there, facing them, and your back’s against the wall. In brief, you’ve no choice but to fight your friends.

  “We’ll see about that,” I said as I hung back in the crowd, dying from the heat in my medium-weight hoodie, but never once giving myself away. Every five minutes I pulled out an old bandanna from my jeans pocket and dabbed my face and neck with it, cussing at the world and at life. Funny—I’d been doing a lot of cussing at the world and my life lately. I wonder why.

  It was midday and in the middle of the week. Our “job” was supposedly in downtown Vintage, where the Trill planted me in all my disguised glory. Commence one world-weary eyeroll.

  “Find yourself a comfortable spot,” he’d said inside the limo as it crept through downtown traffic. “And wait. You don’t need to be alerted when the time comes. You’ll see it clearly enough, and you’ll know exactly what to do.”

  “Cover your ass, you mean, while I get myself beaten to a pulp by Magnifiman and his gang.”

  “Now don’t be so sensitive.” He even mussed up my hair, all Dad-like, drawing a deep, threatening snarl from the depths of my belly. Any innocent bystander would’ve mistaken me for a rabid dog in human disguise. “You certainly make me glad I’m past my adolescence.”

  “Wanna make a bet about that ‘past adolescence’ bit?”

  He jerked a thumb at the car door. “Shoo, kid. Beat it.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Beat it, huh? I see we’ve expanded our vocabulary today.”

  “Stop your damned sass and get out of the car before you turn me premenstrual, Mr. Plath.”

  “Oh, that’s not a good mental image,” I said, pulling my hood over my head and bracing myself as I opened the door. Hot air and bright, bright sunlight immediately blasted me from outside, suffocating me. I made a face and hesitated. “Can I hav
e money for a chocolate parfait at least? Or even an iced mocha? Considering the heat and what I’m wearing right now—and considering that I’m about to get pounded to dust for your sake—I think I should be allowed some compensation. You should’ve seen that in the Supervillain Handbook in the ‘Sidekicks: Who are They, and How are They Cared For?’ chapter.”

  The Trill stared at me for a moment. He seriously reeked of WTF. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered as he groped around the seat, shoving a gloved hand between the cushions. When he pulled it out, he actually had a fistful of crumpled bills and loose change, which he gave me.

  I gaped at the cash in my hand. I guessed that I had about thirty bucks at least—thirty-three bucks and seventy-eight cents, I later found. “Holy cow,” I breathed. “How much lost money would you have trapped in your sofa cushions back home?”

  “Just get out of the car, for heaven’s sake, before I strangle you!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” I said, jumping out.

  I heard him hiss something just as I shut the door behind me, but I didn’t care to figure everything out.

  He actually gave me money for a treat. The Devil’s Trill, Vintage City’s Demon Spawn Number One, just handed me some cash for ice cream. Still reeling in disbelief, I quickly wove my way through the midday lunch crowd and went straight for Isaac’s Ice Creamery, home of the biggest, most perfectly made chocolate parfaits in the world.

  A half an hour later I was “on the job” and waiting, stuffed with too much ice cream and chocolate and sweating under my stupid disguise. Who was I hiding from, anyway? Althea, Peter, and Wade were in school.

  Trent was most likely working with his dad. None of the good guys would be watching over the city because they were…being good guys.

  Okay, that didn’t sound right, but it certainly made sense. At any rate, I wasn’t in school, and I wasn’t with my family. I was…at work, being the bad guy. How long ago was it when I was moping around and grousing about getting a job that my parents wouldn’t approve of? As they say, be careful what you wish for.

  I hung around the main square near the founder’s statue. At least there was a place for me to loiter and not look suspicious, if one were to ignore my hoodie and jeans while everyone else was in tank tops and shorts, that is. I’d already walked around the statue and absorbed the sight of its rotting organic replacement head and wondering when City Hall would come around to getting the lost head replaced. What used to be a vegetable that precariously balanced between the founder’s shoulders now drooped in a discolored and bug-infested blob. Nobody bothered to change it with another gigantic vegetable or fruit, and there it stayed, on its way to being fossilized produce.

  At the base of the statue was a big circle of weathered brick, where pigeons and people hung out and soaked in the sun while eating lunch or reading or, in the birds’ case, crapping on people’s heads with impressive precision.

  I must admit I hoped I’d somehow catch a glimpse of my parents somewhere. Mom and Dad both worked in the city, with Dad’s job being closest to the downtown area. I missed them so much it hurt, and I kept wondering if he was going to have lunch in one of the sandwich shops or cafés nearby. That is, unless Mom packed his lunch, which she usually did, but sometimes Dad couldn’t resist the call of someone else’s kitchen. I would’ve been happy with a glimpse, two seconds tops.

  As the midday bustle continued, I kept an eye out for a familiar hat bobbing up and down in the crowd. Dad owned only one, and he was determined to use it until it literally fell to pieces before shelling out money for another.

  At the same time, I hoped he wouldn’t see me. I sure didn’t want him to see up close what I’d become.

  The recent incident at Schell Hall was one more big, ugly stain on my character, and I didn’t care if Dad and Mom kept reassuring me that I was never at fault because of the Trill’s manipulation. I was still there when those people were attacked. I was the one who kept the door shut against them when they tried to escape. I worked with the Debutantes against the good guys when the time came.

  I expect you to be torn, my dear Mr. Plath…

  The Trill’s words were stuck in a perpetual loop in my head, but I didn’t get them out. No, I kept them there and played them over and over because I wanted to prove something to him and to myself.

  My reactions when facing Peter and the rest of them could still be altered. There was no way—no way—I was going to let myself be controlled by something I didn’t know, let alone didn’t understand. If I were to fight the Trill from within, mastering my powers regardless of what he said about their “saving feature” would be the first step toward my liberation. Once I achieved that, the next step was to fight my way to his secret lab and destroy it once and for all, even at the cost of my safety—or my life. He needed to be disabled, his main strength crippled beyond help or completely obliterated. If I were to die while his experiments stayed safe, some other loser would be turned into my replacement. I sure didn’t want to wish this on anyone else. My ally, whoever he or she was, would help me. Hope, though kind of dim, flared alive again.

  A low, familiar clang disturbed my musings, and I glanced up at the clock tower. It was one o’clock, and nothing was happening.

  “What the hell?” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably on the bench and grimacing at the awful feeling of sweat trickling down my back. I quickly wiped my face and neck.

  I ignored the people swarming around me, even the tall girl who sashayed up to my bench, greeting me with a light “Hi!” as she took her place beside me.

  “Hey,” I said, my gaze sweeping the area as I wondered where the Trill and his henchmen were.

  “It’s pretty hot,” the girl noted. “Aren’t you hot in that?”

  “Um—no, not really.”

  She giggled softly when I whipped out my damp bandana and dabbed my face with it. “Oh, okay.” A short pause. “You come here often? I’ve never seen you here before.”

  I shrugged and spared her a quick glance. “I’ve been here before. I just don’t hang out here. My guardian won’t let me.”

  “Guardian?” she echoed, a hint of awe in her voice. “Seriously? Like, a rich guy adopted you or something? Are you a trust fund baby? You don’t look like it. I mean—you’re wearing real old clothes and stuff.”

  “Yeah, guardian.” I sighed. “Foster parent. Sort of like Batman and Robin.”

  “Cool! Oh, I’m Lucy, by the way.”

  A slender, long-fingered hand suddenly appeared, startling me, and I reluctantly shook it. “Hi. I’m—I guess I’m Eric.”

  She giggled again. “You guess? What, you’re not sure or something?”

  I was really getting irritable at that point. I turned to face her, finally. Pretty good-looking, I thought. She looked Latina: dark features, healthy-looking tan, unlike my bloodless Anglo-ness, black hair cut in a spiky, shoulder-length shag. Her T-shirt was kind of clingy and thin, so it didn’t really leave much to the imagination, but I dug what was written on it: The voices in my head don’t like you. Not that her jeans were any better: low-rise and tight, but definitely flattering to her figure. Tall and slender like the Debutantes, her mile-long legs would’ve earned her a gaggle of drooling admirers of both sexes. If Liz were there, she’d be tearing the girl to pieces with all kinds of snark about her appearance.

  “I’m sure my name’s Eric. Hey, no offense, but I really need to be alone here,” I said, trying not to sound too abrupt.

  “Oh—waiting for your girlfriend or something?”

  Girls. I sighed again. “No.”

  “Okay, I won’t bug you. I’m sorry. You just stand out, sitting here in that hoodie, with the weather like this.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t help it. Nice talking to you.” I turned away and went back to watching out for the Trill. Where was he? Did he ditch me or something? What was going on?

  There was a moment’s silence, which pretty much lulled me into zoning out. With the car traffic as well
as the pedestrian traffic all working together to drive everyone crazy with urban noise, I almost missed what Lucy said next.

  “Whatever happens, don’t remove your ring.”

  My breath caught, and I froze, still staring ahead of me. Then I turned to her, wide-eyed. “What did you just say?”

  Lucy gasped and looked at her watch. “Shit,” she hissed. “Time.” Then she sprang to her feet and ran off without another word. I didn’t need to think. I ran after her, calling out her name, but she ignored me.

  And, boy, did she move fast! Pushing her way through the crowd, Lucy hurried away in a zigzag, like she knew I’d be following her, and that was her way of shaking me off her scent.

  “Wait! Come back!” I called out, ignoring people I shoved aside—or whose feet I stepped on. “I gotta talk to you!”

  She turned a corner and vanished. I skidded to a halt, panting a little and drenched with sweat, my eyes wide as I looked desperately around with no success. There were people everywhere but no sign of Lucy. I ran toward the end of the block, where the side street intersected a small, less busy avenue. I stopped at the corner and looked around. It was weird, but the area was nearly deserted. Only a block from the main drag, it seemed to be a world away, but that was how things were in Vintage City. A tall, well-built black guy stood a few feet away near a rusty wire fence, and he was wiping his face with his shirt. I hurried over to him. He looked so tired and ready to pass out.

  “Excuse me,” I stammered, still out of breath, “did you see a girl—about my age—come running down this street?”

  He straightened his damp shirt and stared at me as though I were growing a second head. “Girls your age should be in school,” he said. He looked pretty young despite his physique. I guessed he must be in his late teens or early twenties. No, it had to be late-ish teens. Like seventeen, maybe? Eighteen? He looked mature but not as mature as Trent.

  He also wasn’t as built as Magnifiman. He sort of had a runner’s body—without the steroids. His skin glistened with perspiration, the moist sheen capturing sunlight and reflecting it just perfectly in the right areas. I swallowed and tried not to stare too long at this one bead of sweat that slowly trailed down his left bicep. I never realized how slutty a small drop of perspiration could be until that moment.