“What?” the Creature said defensively.
Aiah continued, “And an English muffin. It’s a simple pleasure, Duncan. I don’t think we need the full budget of the United States government to make him some breakfast.”
Duncan frowned. “I guess the RZ-481 Bread Warmer is out, then? It toasts both sides simultaneously using diamondtipped lasers. It’s state-of-the-art.”
Aiah shook her head. “A ten-dollar toaster from the appliance store works just as well.”
Duncan sighed. “Would you like me to ride a dinosaur to school while I’m at it?”
There was a honk outside.
“There’s Aunt Marcella and you aren’t finished eating. Hurry!”
Duncan cringed. Watching the Creature eat was enough to give a kid nightmares. There was so much crunching and grunting, you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the cereal. He hopped up from his seat.
“Any big missions, today?” Aiah said as she gave him a hug. There was a hint of worry in her voice.
“Heaven forbid,” the Creature said between bites. “If the world is dependent on chubby, we’re all doomed.”
Duncan ignored his sister and put on his jacket. “Sorry, Mom, but you don’t have clearance high enough for that information. But I promise I’ll be careful.”
Albert Nesbitt was not a typical superhero. For one, he was not a muscle man with a steel jaw. In fact, he was five foot seven and easily a hundred and fifty pounds overweight. He had a bad complexion from eating too many snack cakes, and his long, stringy red hair hung down his face like wet ivy. He was also thirty-seven years old.
He had no superpowers to speak of, either. He was not faster than a speeding bullet. He was not more powerful than a locomotive. He could not leap tall buildings in a single bound. He could barely hop out of a chair.
He also lacked a secret headquarters. He had no Hall of Justice, no Fortress of Solitude, no Batcave. All he had was his mother’s basement, which contained a rather funky smelling recliner, empty bags of cheese puffs, laundry stacked waist-high, a leaky inflatable mattress, old pizza boxes, an exercise bike where he hung his shirts, and a ping-pong table with no paddles.
But he did have a couple things going for him. He had a supercomputer—hand-built from discarded computers he rescued from the town’s landfill. Albert had a knack for seeing how things worked and improving on them. His computer was the fastest in the country.
The other thing he had that all do-gooding superheroes need was a secret identity. You see, Albert Nesbitt, thirty-seven-year-old shut-in, living in his mother’s basement, was also the shadowy nightstalker of the Internet known as Captain Justice. From his recliner he surfed the Web looking for computer-based crime. So far, he had stopped a gang of international ATM bandits and put down a Nigerian credit card scam without leaving his basement. Sure, swooping in through a window and punching a criminal in the jaw sounded great, but Albert had to be practical. He wasn’t in the kind of shape to smash through a window, and until he finally kept his New Year’s resolution and signed up for that membership at Owen’s Muscle House Gym, he’d continue to lurk in cyberspace, stopping electronic crime wherever it reared its ugly head. The downside, unfortunately, was that the bad guys never got to see his supercool costume: a black-and-green latex getup complete with boots, gloves, cape, and mask. There was even an arrow-shaped cursor on his chest.
Now his computer buzzed with activity. The security system of a nearby bank had been breached and a silent alarm had been tripped. But by the time Albert pinpointed the location of the bank, the alarm was turned off again. Odd. Albert turned on the police radio he had bought at a recent auction. He heard someone announce that a police presence was not necessary at the bank. It was a 431. This was police code for a false alarm.
Still, something seemed off. With a few keystrokes, Albert hacked into the bank’s main server. Soon, he had taken control of the bank’s security cameras, and what he saw was very strange indeed. A child with enormous buckteeth was robbing the bank. . . with the help of a team of squirrels. The furry felons were holding out sacks as frightened tellers filled them with cash. The bank’s security guards stood by, watching the whole event without lifting a finger to help. Albert had never seen anything like it, but he knew one thing for sure—this was a job for Captain Justice. He unplugged his phone and hooked it into the back of his computer. He pressed a button that linked the phone to the Internet, then pushed another to scramble the signal in case anyone might be tracing his call. Then he dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the operator said.
“Hi, I’m at South Arlington National Bank and it’s being robbed,” he said. He could hear the faint clicking on the line that told him he was right to be worried. The police were trying to trace the call. Albert told them everything he saw on the cameras and hung up. Five minutes later, he watched the boy throw down his bag of money and gather his hairy gang. They ran out of the bank moments before the police stormed inside. The robber had escaped, but Captain Justice had foiled the crime.
Feeling proud, Albert turned off his computer and spent the next twenty-five minutes trying to get out of his costume. Latex had been a bad idea.
When he was in his street clothes at last, he climbed the basement stairs to the kitchen. Mama was cutting coupons at the table. She was a short, stocky woman who wore high heels and tons of gold jewelry at all times—even to bed. She had a bun of red hair and smelled of cabbage soup. When Albert saw her, he forced a smile, then turned and locked the padlock on the basement door.
“Good to see you have returned to the land of the living,” Mama said. “You know it’s nearly eleven thirty.”
Albert frowned. Mama could be very critical. “I’m going out.”
“Where?” she cried.
“Big Planet.”
Mama produced an orchestra of sighs. “More of those stupid funny books?”
“They’re called graphic novels, Mama.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “They’re called a waste of time.”
Albert didn’t argue with her. He had done something good that day. He was a real hero and he didn’t want his mother to ruin it for him, so he kissed her on the cheek and headed outside.
“Be back by six. We’re having cabbage soup for dinner and it’s no good cold,” she said.
“It’s no good hot,” Albert said under his breath as he rushed out the back door. He was soon whizzing down the sidewalk on his rusty red scooter to the taunts of the children in the neighborhood. Albert didn’t care about their hurtful insults. It was comic book day at Big Planet and comic book day was his favorite day of the week.
Big Planet Comics was a world of Pows! Zaps! and Bangs! Every shelf was the home of good guys and bad guys—all in full color. There were war comics, superhero comics, horror comics, sci-fi comics, romance comics. There were comics based on classic novels like Moby-Dick and Heart of Darkness, and even comic book versions of the lives of Jesus and Buddha. And that wasn’t all. Big Planet had everything a fanboy could ever want—action figures, posters, games, toys, scale models, replicas, T-shirts, and most importantly, people, just like him. When Albert stepped through the doors of the shop, he was surrounded by people who loved, lived, ate, and breathed comics. These were his people.
But that day there was a black cloud over Big Planet. A strange man lurked among the shelves. He had slicked-back hair and a nose that looked as if it had been slapped around by a hockey stick. His arms were as thick as railroad ties, and on his left hand, or rather, lack of one, was a silver hook. He looked as if somewhere there was a comic book missing its villain.
Not that the people inside the shop would reject someone because of his appearance. What turned them off about the brute was how he manhandled the comics. He bent them. He smeared them with his greasy hand. He scratched them with his hook. He was single-handedly turning mint-condition comics into “fair condition”—at best.
“Heroes disgust me,” the man grunte
d at Albert. His voice sounded like a sledgehammer.
Albert tilted his head but said nothing.
“They offer so little to the world,” the man continued.
“If you’re into books about villains there are plenty—”
The man continued as if Albert had not spoken. “Do they build things? Do they invent things? Do they create machines that change the world? No! All heroes do is break things.”
“That’s a little simple,” Albert said.
The man turned to him and frowned. “Oh, is it? Look at the covers of these books. Every single one of them has a scientist, an inventor, a visionary whose plans are ruined by a man in rubber pajamas. These so-called heroes hate science. They turn their fists and powers on great thinkers. Heroes are a menace. Don’t ya agree, Albert?”
“How did you know my name?” Albert said.
“I know lots of stuff about you, Albert. Or do you prefer your other name, Captain Justice?”
Albert felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face. How did this man know his secret identity? The same thing had happened to Spider-Man once, but for the life of him Albert could not remember how Peter Parker had handled it. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“Me? Nuthin’. It’s my boss. He wants to meet you,” the man said as he handed Albert a business card. It was stuck on the end of his hook. “He wants your help. If you’re interested, go to the address on the card.”
Albert gingerly pulled the card off the sharp tip. “My help? What can I do for him?”
“He wants to hire you to do a job for him and he’s offering you your greatest desire as payment.”
“And how would he know what my greatest desire is?” Albert asked as he looked down at the card. The name Simon was printed on it. The goon’s hook had cut a hole in the center of the “o.”
“Isn’t it obvious, pal? You want to have superpowers—real-life superpowers.”
“Good afternoon,” Duncan said to a stocky, thick-limbed lunch lady behind the counter in the school cafeteria. She had hairy, tattooed arms and smoked a cigar. She also needed a shave.
The lunch lady nodded. “Good afternoon,” she said in a gruff voice. “I have something very special on the menu that I think you—”
Duncan shook his head and lifted a brown paper bag so the lunch lady could see. “I brought mine from home. I just need a spoon, please.”
The lunch lady bit down on his lower lip. He took great pride in his cooking. Yes, I said “he.”
The lunch lady had a few secrets besides his carefully guarded recipes. Most of them are classified, but suffice it to say the lunch lady was not really a lunch lady. Nor was the lunch lady really a lady. No, she—I mean he —was actually a spy, just like Duncan Dewey. But while Duncan got to stroll the halls of Nathan Hale Elementary dressed as a normal fifth grader, the lunch lady had to wear a smock, wig, and hairnet to work every single day. Still, despite his lousy cover, he was content. He had discovered the joy of cooking. It wasn’t as much fun as, say, cleaning his bazooka or knife-fighting with terrorists, but it did give him some satisfaction.
“Are you sure? Today we have tilapia with cranberries and capers,” he continued. “Tilapia is a lovely fish—”
Duncan shook his head. “I’m good. Just the spoon, please.”
The lunch lady frowned and eyed Duncan’s sack lunch with disdain. “You eat too much of that stuff, kid. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
Duncan shook his head as the lunch lady handed him his utensil. “How could I get tired of the most delicious thing in the world?”
The lunch lady waved the boy away. “Then go! Get out of my kitchen!” he bellowed.
In the lunchroom, Duncan quickly spotted his best friend, Flinch. Flinch was a scrawny Mexican-American kid with dark hair and eyes. Like Duncan, he brought his own lunch. In Flinch’s case, two huge chocolate bars stacked like a sandwich with fruit pies and candy corn between them. As a side he had two perfectly toasted balls of fried ice cream, and for dessert, a jar of Marshmallow Fluff. He inhaled all of it at an incredible speed, and within a few seconds the boy was hooting and bouncing in his chair like a monkey.
“The lunch lady is grouchy,” Duncan said.
Flinch opened his mouth and a stream of crazy words and noises that made no sense spilled out. There were a few high-pitched screams and he slammed his head into the tabletop a couple times, then giggled like an idiot. Finally, he reached inside his shirt and turned a big glowing knob counterclockwise. It seemed to calm him down.
“Sorry, I’m a little wound up today,” Flinch said.
“Just today, huh?” Gluestick asked with a smile. He had known Flinch for almost two years, and he had always been hyperactive. Luckily, when the boys became members of NERDS, Flinch was given a special harness that channeled all that sugary energy into superhuman strength and speed. The harness also helped calm him down when he was on the verge of a hyperactive fit. Without it he was practically a blur of nervousness—hence his nickname, Flinch.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” Duncan said.
“Last I saw, Brett Bealer was ‘escorting’ them into the bathroom for their daily dip into the toilet,” Flinch said. “They’ll be along as soon as they dry their hair.”
“Any word from Agent Brand or Ms. Holiday?” Duncan asked as he opened his own sack lunch and took out his feast: a bologna sandwich, a banana, a small container of raisins, and a bottle of Elmer’s Glue. He opened the cap on the glue and smelled it the way grown-ups sniff a glass of wine. His nose came alive with flavors. It had been a good year for craft adhesives. Still, he knew he shouldn’t eat his dessert first, so he put the cap back on and set it aside.
“Nothing yet,” Flinch said. “I did run into Brand this morning, but he’s still in a foul mood. He wouldn’t even talk to me.”
“Ms. Holiday told me he’s still very upset about Heathcliff’s betrayal of the team. She says he thinks he failed us by not seeing what was going on earlier.”
Flinch shook his head. “I’ve known Heathcliff since the first grade. I didn’t see it coming. He was just a bad box of graham crackers.”
Suddenly, Duncan felt a tingle in his nose. His eyes watered and he let out a loud and obnoxious sneeze. Flinch did the same and then both of the boys heard a familiar voice inside their heads. “Gluestick, Flinch, this is Ms. Holiday. We need you in the Playground at once.”
Flinch hopped up, pounded on his chest, and bellowed like Tarzan. “Finally, a mission. I thought we were going to have to spend the day in class!”
“On our way,” Duncan said out loud, causing several children at nearby tables who had not heard the voice to move farther away.
Together Duncan and Flinch dashed out of the cafeteria. They weaved in and out of other students, slinked past the suspicious eyes of Principal Dehaven, and zipped down the halls as fast as they could. Along the way they came across a trio of children hurrying in the same direction. The first was Jackson Jones—a wide-eyed kid with lots of product in his blond hair and the worst set of braces ever attached to a human being. The second was Matilda Choi—a tiny Korean-American girl whose asthma inhalers never left her hands. And last was Ruby Peet, a rail-thin girl with a poof of blond hair and thick glasses. She spent most of her days scratching and avoiding the millions of things she was allergic to. At the moment her hands were swollen to the size of balloons.
“It’s bad news,” she said. “I know it’s bad news.”
“How can you tell?” Duncan asked.
“I’m allergic to bad news,” she said, showing him her hands.
Jackson shrugged. “Agent Brand probably wants to lecture us again about filing our reports.”
Matilda rolled her eyes and dashed out of the way of a group of giggling kindergartners. “I highly doubt he would call us in for paperwork.”
“He would if you hadn’t filed any since you became an agent,” Jackson said with a mischievous grin.
Matilda laughed, but when she spo
tted Ruby’s disapproving look, she forced a frown onto her face. Ruby still wasn’t thrilled to have Jackson as part of the NERDS team. He had once been a bully—until he got his braces—and was a bit too arrogant for his own good.
“I hope it’s a mission,” Duncan said. “There are some new gadgets I want to try out.”
“Who cares about gadgets?” Matilda said. “I just hope I get to bodyslam someone.”
They rounded the corner and came to a dead stop. Blocking their path was a pack of bullies, led by Brett Bealer, Jackson’s former best friend.
“Well, well, well,” Brett said. “If it isn’t the nerd herd. What are you doing in my halls, losers?”
“These aren’t your halls!” Ruby cried.
The outburst caused Brett’s gang to circle the children, like a pack of jackals searching for weaknesses.
“Gluestick! Where are you and the rest of the team?” Ms. Holiday’s voice sounded in Duncan’s head. “Agent Brand is in a particularly grumpy mood this afternoon. Don’t keep him waiting.”
“On our way,” Duncan mumbled. Then he turned to Brett. “He’s right, Ruby. We have no business wandering around like we belong here. I think we need to be taught a lesson.”
“What?” Matilda cried.
“Duncan, you’re taking the nice guy thing a bit too far,” Jackson added.
Brett scratched his head as if he had just opened a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and had no idea what picture the pieces would make.
“Maybe you should stuff us into these lockers,” Duncan said, pointing to a row of lockers nearby.
“Oh, I get it,” Jackson said, giving the chubby boy a knowing wink. “Yeah, that will teach us!”
“Good idea, nerd! Get ’em, guys,” Brett said. Duncan and his friends were roughly grabbed by the arms, necks, and underwear waistbands and shoved unceremoniously into lockers. Then the doors were slammed shut.
Now, for ordinary kids, getting stuffed in a locker would be the worst humiliation ever, but Duncan, Flinch, Ruby, Matilda, and Jackson were no ordinary kids and these were no ordinary lockers. A blue light flashed in the ceiling of Duncan’s locker and a robotic female voice could be heard.
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