by Charlie Wood
“Me too,” Scatterbolt replied.
Tobin held his arms up. “I’d love to be there, guys, I really would, but my prom is that night. I know it sounds stupid, but I really need to be there, if I ever plan on having friends again in the future.”
“That’s okay,” Orion said. “You absolutely should go to your prom. You need to have some semblance of a normal life, after all. Keplar and Scatterbolt can check out the wharf—I don’t want them being seen or getting involved in any kind of altercation, anyway. This is simply a fact-finding mission. They can do that without you, Tobin. You go to your prom and have a great time. I’m sure it’ll be a blast.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Two days later (May 18th, to be exact), Tobin was standing in the downstairs bathroom of his house and looking in the mirror. He was wearing a tuxedo.
“I’m not going,” he said, in the direction of the closed door that led out of the bathroom.
In the hallway outside, Tobin’s mother and her boyfriend, Bill, were waiting eagerly for Tobin with cameras. Chad was also with them, dressed in a very sharp tux, and standing next to him was his prom date, Olga. She was Polish, six feet tall, blonde, supermodel-beautiful, and wearing a prom dress that could very easily cause major car accidents each time she stepped out in public. She also spoke about twenty-three words of English.
“You have to go, honey,” Tobin’s mother told him. “It’s your prom! It can’t be that bad.”
“I’m not going,” Tobin repeated from the bathroom. “I look like an idiot.”
Bill and Chad tried to stifle their snickering.
“No, you don’t, honey,” Catherine said. “Come out so we can see you! I’m sure you look incredibly handsome. Come on, come out!”
Tobin opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall, with an absolutely miserable look across his face. Tobin’s mother, Bill, Chad, and Olga all looked him over, and everything appeared fine…until they reached his legs. The pants of Tobin’s tuxedo were about five inches too short, exposing his ankles, his socks, and a good portion of his calves.
Chad immediately burst into laughter. “Oh my god!” he bellowed. “That is awesome!”
Bill was trying not to laugh. “You can’t even tell, Tobin,” he said, biting the corners of his mouth. “Honest.”
“Is it supposed to look so stupid?” Olga asked Chad.
Tobin pushed past the group and walked down the hall. “I’m not going. I’m not.”
Tobin’s mother stopped him and hugged him.
“Tobin, stop it! You look so handsome! I’ve never seen you look so handsome!”
“I look like an idiot!” Tobin said. “They gave me the wrong pants, I’m not going in the wrong pants!”
The group followed Tobin into the kitchen.
“Hey,” Chad said, “look at it this way: if the place floods, you’ll be all set.”
Bill laughed. “Or, if there’s some after-prom clam-digging, you’re good to go there, too.”
Tobin’s mother slapped Bill and Chad on their arms. “Guys, stop! He looks great. You look so handsome, honey. You’re gonna have such an amazing time.”
“No, I’m not,” Tobin said. “‘Cuz I’m not going.”
Tobin’s mother turned her camera on and pushed Tobin near Chad and Olga.
“Yes, you are going, and you are gonna create a memory that you will have forever. You would regret it the rest of your life if you didn’t go to your senior prom, Tobin—you’ve been looking forward to this for years! C’mon, now, all of you stand together and say, PROM!”
Tobin stood next to Olga and Chad. He had a vicious sneer on.
“Prom!” Chad said with a smile.
“Prom!” Olga said cheerfully, in her thick accent.
“I’m not going,” Tobin said, looking like a five-year-old who was just told to clean his room.
But, Tobin’s mother ignored him; with a click of her camera, she saved the moment forever: Chad, looking strapping in his tux; Olga, the giant, beautiful, Polish prom date; and Tobin, in his ridiculous pants, looking like he was ready to play in an old-timey baseball game.
***
Three hours later, at the Grand Wellemore Hotel in the center of Boston, the prom for the senior class of Bridgton High was in full swing. The 168 students were celebrating the end of their high school days and reveling in one last, grand party, happily dancing in the flashing lights to the bumping music from the town’s best DJ.
Tobin, however, was standing by himself, leaning against the banquet hall bar, and sipping from a drink. He was miserable.
A group of classmates walked by, led by one of the most popular students in Tobin’s class, Joey Stern. Joey and the others giggled and pointed at Tobin’s pants.
“Yeah, laugh it up, Joey,” Tobin called out. “That’s great. Remember when you crapped your pants in first grade in Music class? ‘Cuz I do!”
Chad approached the bar.
“C’mon, Tobin. Get out there. You can’t stand here all night by yourself.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“So your pants are too small. Big deal. Don’t let it ruin your whole night. Jen keeps asking where you are.”
“Sure she does.”
Tobin looked to the dance floor; a circle of students had opened up, and Jennifer’s prom date—the dark-haired, handsome, incredibly charming Tommy Evans—was standing in the middle. After he performed an amazing break dance routine that could have won him first prize on any dancing reality show, the entire student body erupted into applause. Tommy—proud, but also a little embarrassed—walked out of the circle and toward Jennifer. She jumped on him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him and laughing, very impressed with his skills.
Tobin and Chad watched Tommy from afar.
“God,” Chad said, in all sincerity, “that guy’s cool.”
Tobin turned to the bartender and pointed to his glass of Coke.
“You sure there’s no way you can put some rum in this?”
***
On the other side of the city, Keplar and Scatterbolt were sitting on the roof of the warehouse at Sullivan’s Wharf, bored. Keplar was looking over the horizon, mindlessly tossing some pebbles against a wall, while Scatterbolt had just finished telling Keplar the list of his favorite movies from Earth.
“Hey,” the robot said, “remember this?” His face suddenly went blank; his eyes turned black, and each of his pupils turned into tiny red dots. “Hello, Keplar,” he said, in a soft, monotone voice that sounded very much like the creepy, murderous robot HAL from the classic film 2001: A Space Odyssey. “Don’t you want to talk to me, Keplar?”
“No,” Keplar said, turning away. “I don’t. Knock it off.”
“Why, Keplar?” Scatterbolt said, using his bizarre HAL voice. “I just want to have a conversation with you.”
“Dude, stop,” Keplar replied, moving away from him. “You know that freaks me out.”
“I don’t know why.” Scatterbolt was still using his scary voice. “Do you like music?”
Keplar stood up. “Dude, I swear, if you start singing in that voice, I’m gonna throw you off this damn roof in two seconds.”
Scatterbolt’s face and eyes reverted back to normal. “Okay, okay,” he said in his usual voice. “I’m just so bored.”
Keplar walked to a skylight on the roof of the warehouse. “That’s what stakeouts are 90% of the time, SB,” the husky explained. “They’re boring. Nothing ever happens and we just sit here and—”
Keplar stopped. He saw something inside the warehouse. His eyes went wide.
“What is it?” Scatterbolt asked.
The robot walked to the skylight and looked down. Two people were now inside the warehouse: one of them was a man in a grey mask and a green-and-white costume, while the other man was nearly eight feet tall, wide as a rhino, and wearing a green cloak that covered his face and massive body.
Scatterbolt was shocked. “Is that...?”
Inside the warehouse,
the man removed the hood from his face, revealing his red, rough skin, and his yellow eyes. It was Rigel.
“Yup, it is,” Keplar replied, watching the red-skinned giant. “And apparently he’s not dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
Back at the Grand Wellemore Hotel, Tobin had finally gotten over the embarrassment of his too-short pants and was now dancing with a group of his friends.
“See?” Chad said, as the song came to an end. “I knew if you just got out here and danced with us, you’d have some fun.”
“Yeah, well, the guy played ‘Don’t Stop Believin’, so I was legally required to make a fool out of myself.”
The next song began; it was a slow song from the 1960’s. The DJ spoke into the microphone.
“We’re gonna slow it down a bit right here to give ya’ll crazy kids a break, so why don’t you look around and find that special someone you wanna get a little bit closer with? This next one’s an oldie but a goodie that some of your teachers out there might remember.”
The teens began pairing up and slow dancing to the classic song. Tobin looked around the dance floor, searching for somebody.
He found her. Jennifer. His best friend since way back in seventh grade. She was standing all by herself. She smiled and waved at him.
Tobin smiled back and walked toward her, cocking one eyebrow and swaying with each step, acting like a hip, happening guy from the 1960’s. It was incredibly cheesy and looked completely ridiculous, but that was the point. Jennifer laughed. She always loved it when he acted silly like that.
“So,” Tobin said when he reached her. He motioned to his pants. “You like a guy in capris or what?”
Jennifer laughed. “Yes, I’ve been watching you for a while. I’ve never seen someone in tuxedo shorts dance like that to ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’”
“Very few people have. So, what do ya say?” Tobin held out his hand. “A repeat of our first slow dance from the eighth grade winter semi-formal?”
“Oh,” Jennifer said, surprised. She was suddenly uncomfortable. “I, uh...I don’t know if we...”
Tommy Evans approached them.
“Hey, guys!” he said cheerfully. “Great song, huh? Shall we, Jen?”
Tommy took Jennifer by her waist and they began dancing. She put her arms on his shoulders. Tobin stood near them, unsure what to do.
“I’m sorry, Tobin,” Jennifer said, when she turned and faced him. “Next song, okay? I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tobin said. “Sure. No problem.”
Tobin walked away.
“Hey!” Tommy called. “Tobin!”
Tobin turned around.
“Great pants!” Tommy said, laughing. “Seriously! You’re hilarious, man! I was just telling everyone how funny you are!”
Tobin did his best to nod and smile back, even though he was seething with anger.
“Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth. “Thanks, Tommy. You’re the best.”
***
On the roof of the warehouse at Sullivan’s Wharf, Keplar and Scatterbolt’s stakeout had just gotten a lot more serious. After the robot placed his hand on the glass skylight and pressed a series of buttons on a panel inside his arm, he and Keplar were able to hear everything that was happening inside the building through a speaker on the robot’s chest.
“What is going on in there?” Scatterbolt whispered.
Inside the warehouse, Rigel and Nova had been joined by dozens of other people—and not just any people: it was a gathering of the worst criminals in all of Boston: drug kingpins; the mafia; carjackers; muggers; even some men who looked like clean-cut Wall Street types. The various criminals were sitting in rows of chairs facing a makeshift stage, where Rigel and Nova were now standing. It seemed as if the two costumed super-villains were getting ready to address the group of criminals, but the presentation had not yet begun.
“Any idea what this is about?” one drug dealer asked another.
“You got me, man. Something big, that’s all I know.”
“I heard it had something to do with magic or super powers or something,” another thug added.
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey, that’s what I heard.”
“Can I have everyone’s attention,” Nova said from the stage, in a commanding voice.
The crowd of criminals turned to the grey-masked man in the white cape. Rigel was standing behind him.
“Thank you everyone for coming,” Nova said. “I know there’s a lot of rumors out there, and questions about why we’ve gathered you here, so let’s get right to it. We are here because we want you to join us.”
Snickering spread through the crowd, especially in the section where members of Boston’s most dangerous organized crime family were seated.
“Oh yeah?” one of them yelled out. “And who the hell are you?”
“My name is Nova. This is my associate Rigel. He organized this meeting, and is also the leader of our operation. We are not from your world.”
Several members of the audience laughed loudly.
“Yeah, sure,” the crime family member said. “And my name’s Gazoo, and this here is my friend E.T.”
The group of criminals laughed again, not taking any of the events seriously. Rigel grunted, growing impatient.
“I don’t believe any of you would be laughing if Strike was here, would you?” Nova asked.
“No,” a tattooed thug called out. “I’d be showing him how we do things here in the streets of Boston.”
Several members of the crowd cheered in agreement.
“That’s funny,” Nova said, “because he ‘showed you how things were done in the streets of Boston’ last month, didn’t he? Hung you upside down from a flagpole outside Fenway Park and threw about $300 worth of your cocaine into the Charles River? Is that about right?”
The criminals now laughed at the tattooed thug.
“Hey man,” the thug said to Nova. “You better watch yourself. You’re bringing up some stuff you don’t want to be bringing up.”
Nova waved his hands toward himself, motioning for the thug to come to the stage. “Why don’t you step up here for a moment. Come help us with our presentation. Bring a friend.”
The tattooed thug and his equally tattooed buddy stood up and hesitantly walked toward the stage.
“I’m going to be frank with you people,” Nova said. “You make me ill. I would like nothing more than to burn you all to cinders as you sit here in front of me. You—as a group—make me nearly as sick as Strike makes me. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Strike. He is a problem for us, and he is a problem for you. Which is the whole reason we are here.”
The crowd murmured—some in agreement, some with concern.
“Hey, if this is about taking out Strike,” a nicely dressed man said, “forget about it. I want nothing to do with that freak show. I’ve seen enough of my men end up in the hospital because of him already. No one’s gonna be able to stop that guy.”
“But you see,” Nova said, “that’s where you’re wrong.”
With inhuman speed, Nova reached out and grabbed the tattooed thug by his neck. The thug struggled for his life, with his eyes bulging and his fingers clawing at Nova’s arm.
“Hey man,” the other thug on stage said. “What the—”
Rigel grabbed the second thug and restrained him.
“Together we can stop Strike,” Nova said, tightening his grip on the tattooed thug’s neck. “We need to put aside our hatred of you, and you need to get over your suspicions of superpowers like us. We may come from the same world as Strike, and we may have powers like him, but that is where the similarities end.”
“So,” one of the crime family members said, “you’re looking to make some kind of deal?”
“Call it…an alliance.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“Strike is in the way of what we want,” Nova said. “With him gone, we will be able to proceed. You will also get Strike out o
f your way, obviously, along with a little something else to help your various pursuits in the city of Boston.”
“Oh yeah?” the crime family member said. “What’s that?”
Behind Nova, Rigel grabbed a syringe from a table on stage. It was filled with a glowing, bubbling, red liquid. With a grunt, the red-skinned giant jammed the needle into the neck of the thug he was restraining.
“Hey, what’s that?” the thug yelled. “What are you—”
Rigel let go of the thug and threw him to the ground. The thug screamed out and curled over, grabbing his stomach. As he bellowed in agony and contorted his face, his body began to change. His muscles grew. His face was covered by brown fur. A single, long, white claw emerged from each of his forearms, looking like the blade of the Grim Reaper’s scimitar. As he stood, clawed hooves ripped through his boots, and his face transformed to that of a Minotaur of Greek myth.
The thug was now an enormous, destructive monster. After roaring and throwing out his clawed arms in anger, he reached for a run-down tow truck that was next to him on stage, lifted it over his head, and tossed it across the room.
The crowd—each one of them now standing—looked on in shock.
“You see,” Nova said, “you can get rid of Strike. You just need to even the playing field a bit.”
“This always works?” a nervous drug dealer asked. “It won’t kill us?”
“No. We’ve tried it on several low-level thugs already throughout the city with great success—you may have seen them on the news. Now we want to offer it to you, the most powerful criminals in Boston.”
“What if we refuse?” the drug dealer asked. “What if we don’t want this?”
Nova finally let go of the tattooed thug that he had been strangling. The thug dropped to the stage, grabbing at his throat and gasping.
Raising his arm, Nova held out his open hand toward the thug. The masked man’s palm began to glow with a golden light. The tattooed thug stared at the light, but before he could move, a blast of blinding, gold energy with the heat of the sun blasted out of Nova’s hand, searing through the tattooed thug. The crowd was momentarily blinded, but soon saw that the tattooed thug was now simply a pile of ash on the stage.