by Stan Lee
“Carlos has tracked the Zodiac energy very precisely,” Jasmine said. “This is the recipient: Roxanne LaFleur, founder and lead singer of the up-and-coming Euro-hip-hop band Les Poules. She lives in Paris, but unfortunately for us, she’s currently on tour. So this is gonna take a little longer than we’d hoped.”
“And we’ve gotta reach her before Maxwell does,” Steven said.
“You got it. First Roxanne, then the other three. As fast as we can.”
An image flashed through Steven’s mind: the Tiger, with his grandfather atop it. He turned away, suddenly troubled.
“Hey.” Jasmine touched his shoulder. “What is it?”
“I…” Steven paused. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, and a flare of Zodiac energy rose up from his body. “I’m just not used to this power,” he continued.
“We’ve got lots of training equipment back at headquarters, in Greenland. I’ve talked to our people at HQ—they’ve already started adapting it for, well, for us.” She smiled. “That’ll come later, though. Right now, all you need to do is be yourself.”
“But…but…” Steven concentrated harder. The energy swirled and coalesced, forming into the roaring, raging shape of a Tiger—the same Tiger he’d seen just moments before, in his dreams. “What if I can’t control it?”
“I think you should control it now,” Jasmine said. “People are looking.”
Steven opened his eyes. A few people in the adjacent rows were pointing and whispering to each other. He shook his head, willing the Tiger energy to subside.
“See?” Jasmine said. “Easy as falling off a shipan. Right, Carlos?”
Snip. Snip. Snip.
“Carlos, what are you doing?” she demanded.
Steven leaned over to look. Carlos’s tray-table was covered with snack foods—peanuts, M&Ms, gumdrops—and the scraps of paper that had once been their boxes and packets. Carlos never traveled without his laptop, but now it lay discarded on the empty seat next to him.
“I was having trouble with a problem,” Carlos said, “so I decided to try an old-school, physical approach to it.”
Jasmine cocked her head. “And what problem was that?”
“Well…” Carlos turned reluctantly toward her. “Remember how you keep saying we should have a name?”
Jasmine groaned. “One time, I said our group should have a name,” she said. “And ever since then, Carlos keeps coming up with ridiculous acronyms. You know? Like A.I.R.L.O.C.K.S.—Astrological Investigation Remote Locator Operative Central Knowledge Systems.”
Steven frowned. “That’s kind of un-good.”
“Yeah. Not exactly Mission Impossible.”
Jasmine was leaning over toward Carlos. “What is that?” she asked. “A clipboard?”
Jasmine grabbed the wooden clipboard out of Carlos’s hands and held it up so Steven could see. On a sheet of paper, Carlos had taped the first letters of a column out of candy wrappers: G (from gumdrops), A (almonds), P (peanuts), another P (popcorn), and Z (something called Zappers). Next to them, he’d written out the words:
General
Action
Peril
Posse
Zodiac
Jasmine laughed. “‘Peril Posse’?”
“GAPPZ?” Steven asked. “Our name is supposed to be GAPPZ?”
“It sounds like a sound effect,” Jasmine agreed. “For flatulence.”
“This is why I prefer computers,” Carlos said, grabbing the clipboard. “They’re password protected.”
“Oh, don’t be so pouty. We’ll come up with a name.” Jasmine shrugged her way past Carlos, back to her own seat. “Who knows? Maybe our new recruit will suggest one.”
New recruit, Steven thought. He thought of the girl in the hoodie, and wondered what she’d be like. In the photo, she looked confident, even defiant. Would she understand what they had to tell her, and agree to join up?
Or will she tell us to get the heck out?
The seat belt light came on. Steven leaned back and felt the plane tip forward, beginning its descent.
I guess we’ll know soon enough.
THE CONCERT WAS held at a converted castle in the French countryside, nestled against the trees along a quiet road. Steven, Jasmine, and Carlos approached a thick wooden door, framed within dark stone. Above it, on the outside of the building, a modern marquee displayed worn plastic letters: CE SOIR—LES POULES.
“‘Ce Soir,’” Steven said. “Is that an opening act?”
“I think it means ‘tonight,’” Jasmine replied.
“Oh,” Steven replied. He felt vaguely embarrassed.
They showed their tickets—which Carlos had bought via Wi-Fi on the plane—and passed through a bar area into the main concert hall. It was dark, with antique chandeliers hanging from a ceiling too high to see. A few small balconies dotted the walls, separated by stage lights and a few huge covered windows. Most of the seats were full—about two hundred or so—and a few people were dancing in the aisles.
Up on the stage, a trio of Asian men danced in formation, stomping their feet. Steven pointed a thumb at the lead singer. “That doesn’t look like Roxanne!” he shouted over the music.
Jasmine stifled a giggle. Carlos just shook his head, jabbing at the touchscreen on his analyzer. “She’s here somewhere!”
The music built to a crescendo, then stopped. The lead singer raised his hand and barked out several words in mellifluous French. The audience rose to its feet, applauding.
Steven looked at Jasmine. “He said thank you!” she said. “And then he said the main event would be…”
But Steven had stopped listening. Up on the stage, a young woman was striding forward. She was tall, with a confident, almost haughty expression, and she wore a hoodie with a picture of a rhino on it. A guitar was slung over her shoulder. She carried it casually, as if she’d been born with it.
The other band members filed onstage behind her, taking their places: guitar and bass player flanking her, the drummer at his drum set. A low rumble of applause rose up as the woman cast her gaze across the audience, a sly smile teasing at the corners of her lips.
“Merci!” she yelled.
Her eyes met Steven’s—and something happened. He felt the Tiger surge, felt its energy welling up inside him. An aura, faint but strong, appeared around the woman in the hoodie, and for just a second Steven thought he saw fear in her eyes.
Then the other guitarist struck a raucous opening chord—and the moment was broken. The energy faded from the young woman as though it had never existed. She shook her head, turned toward her band mate, and made a quick chopping motion. He broke off playing, puzzled. She leaned in and spoke urgently in his ear.
After a brief, whispered discussion, the band broke into a much softer, quieter song. The woman nodded in approval, but her band mates looked unsure. She cast another glance toward Steven, then quickly looked away and broke into a melodious tune.
“Jusssss-tice,” she sang. “There must be jusssss-tice in the world…”
“Did you feel that?” Jasmine’s voice in his ear made Steven jump. He’d forgotten she was there.
“I’m not…what?”
“Her.” Jasmine cocked her head at the stage.
The singer was pacing back and forth now, rapping in low, even tones. “Stop the slaugh-terrr,” she chanted, pointing with both thumbs at the animal on her shirt. “Stop the ex-ploi-taaaaaa-tion…”
Carlos pushed in between Steven and Jasmine, holding up his analyzer. He nodded sharply.
Steven remembered the flash of energy, the aura surrounding the singer. He knew what Jasmine was going to say, even before she spoke the words.
“She’s Zodiac, all right.”
“Ex-ploi-taaaa-tion…”
Roxanne forced herself to focus on the lyrics. But inside, she was terrified. Don’t let it show, she told herself. You’re onstage now. Keep the show going. Nothing matters but the show.
The band, she knew, was baffle
d by her actions. Pierre had been about to launch into “Maman,” the new song. It had a harsh, driving beat and a shrieking vocal, so they’d agreed to open with it. They knew it’d bring the crowd to its feet.
But then Roxanne had seen the three strange people enter: the man in the coat and glasses, the woman with harsh eyes, and…and the kid. When she’d locked eyes with him, a strange feeling had run through her. The same sensation, she realized, that she’d felt when she shattered the mirror in the bathroom.
“Stop the killing. Stop the in-sani-teeeee…”
It had happened before, too—three times over the past couple of days. Whenever Roxanne became agitated and raised her voice, a surge of power seemed to fill her body. And then things…well, things broke.
So at the last minute, she’d decided to start off with a softer song, a ballad. The crowd, she could tell, was puzzled too—it was an unusual thing to do. But now the audience was with her, clapping and swaying and rising to their feet to dance gently.
“My people…are your people. Your people are miiiiiiiiine…”
This song, “The Killing,” featured a very even, measured vocal. Roxanne had been singing it now for at least two minutes, and nothing had happened. No surge, no energy. No glass breaking.
She glanced out over the crowd. The man in glasses was checking some machine in his hand. The kid’s eyes were still glued to her, watching her every move.
Pierre launched into the final chorus, and Paolo the drummer followed. Roxanne finished her last line and lowered the mic, smiling as the applause rose up.
Pierre was looking at her now, one eyebrow raised in question. She knew what that meant: Now?
Forget this, she thought. Forget jumping at shadows, forget being afraid of things I can’t understand. We’re young, and we’re onstage.
Let’s rock.
She spun around, facing each member of the band in turn, and mouthed the word: Maman.
Pierre struck the opening chord, even louder than the first time. Paolo pounded down a drum beat and Jaiden followed suit, laying down the hard, thumping bass line. The crowd let out a crazed howl of joy and release.
Roxanne smiled. For the first time tonight, she felt fully alive. She leaned in hard on the microphone.
“Mothers don’t care,” she chanted, barking each syllable like it was her last. “FATHERS DON’T CARE—”
The room exploded into chaos.
When Roxanne, the woman on stage, cried out the word care, her head whipped around. A ripple of sound, like a distortion in the air, seemed to blast upward from her, heading toward the ceiling. At the same time, a halo of energy began to form around her body, writhing and surging outward.
“Look out!” Jasmine yelled.
As Steven watched, the sound-ripple struck a hanging chandelier, shattering it into fragments. Glass exploded in all directions, raining down over the crowd.
People screamed and started to run. Steven covered his head, shielding his eyes with his hands.
Onstage, the band had stopped playing their instruments. Roxanne’s eyes were wild now, scared. But sound continued to pulse out of her in short, sharp cries, like water pouring from a pressurized hose.
“CHILDREN! DON’T! KNOW—”
With each word, another burst of sound struck somewhere in the room. One blasted a crack in a wall; another shattered a window. One struck a man in the aisle, hurling him backward into a group of fleeing spectators.
“Rooster,” Carlos said, studying his analyzer. He pulled his coat tight around him to keep the flying glass away. “She’s definitely the Rooster.”
Another sound-blast knocked a chunk of the ceiling loose. Panicked audience members ducked and fled.
Steven felt the Tiger rising inside him. Let me out, it seemed to say. This is what I’m here for. This is why I’ve chosen you!
He relaxed, letting the energy flow out and around him. He turned toward Jasmine—then stopped.
Jasmine was hovering a few feet above the aisle, oblivious to the falling glass and debris all around. Her eyes were blank, and her whole body glowed with incredible power. The ethereal Dragon figure surrounded her, hissing and spitting, its sharp talons clawing the air in fury.
She spread her arms out, extending the power. She turned to Steven, and her eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time. “I’ll protect these people,” she said. “You go get our Rooster!”
Steven’s eyes went wide. “Me?”
“You’re one of us,” Jasmine said. “Go!”
Steven gritted his teeth, feeling his own Zodiac energy rise to surround him. The Tiger’s energy-mouth growled, fangs flashing. He turned back toward the stage.
Another chandelier shattered. Steven ducked, but it wasn’t necessary. Jasmine extended her Dragon power above him, shielding him along with the others.
Up onstage, Roxanne was still singing—but Steven couldn’t hear the words anymore. Her power, the uncontrolled Zodiac energy, seemed to have overtaken her. Her entire being seemed to be funneled into those sonic bursts, the sharp deadly shocks shooting out of her mouth.
Steven ran toward her. He jumped over a fallen woman, pausing just long enough to make sure she wasn’t badly hurt. He dodged a stage light as it fell into the aisle.
Roxanne had grown her own energy halo now. Its wide, feathered wings spread out from her body, stretching to cover the width of the stage. Above her shrieking head, a coxcombed Rooster whipped its sharp beak back and forth, moving in time to her sonic cries.
Steven leapt up onstage. The band had fled, he noticed, forced back by those vast energy-wings. The last member, the bass player, paused briefly at the curtain, then dashed offstage.
“Hey!” Steven called. “Hey, uh—Roxanne? Rooster?”
He felt vaguely silly, calling her that.
Roxanne turned in response. She seemed to be in shock, unable to stop the sonic assault. Now that she was facing him, a blast of sound caught him right in the chest, knocking him into the air.
Steven gasped, struggling for breath. But the Tiger was already in control. He twisted in midair, whirling around to land on his feet at the edge of the stage.
He cast a quick glance out at the seats. Most of the audience was gone now. Jasmine had narrowed her Dragon shield, protecting the last of the spectators from falling glass and fragments of ceiling. Carlos huddled close to her, still studying his analyzer.
Another sonic blast whizzed past Steven, ruffling his hair. He turned back toward Roxanne and roared. The Tiger’s cry filled the air between them, a loud primal sound.
Roxanne stopped, shaking her head. The energy around her seemed to flicker and weaken.
“Listen to me,” Steven croaked. “Just stop a minute and listen, okay?”
She blinked, clearly disoriented. Then she opened her mouth and barked again. A blast of pure sound struck the ceiling. A heavy curtain rod split in half and clattered down between them.
“Stop it! You have to stop this,” Steven said.
She clamped both hands over her mouth, forcing it shut. Then she turned terrified eyes to Steven and shook her head.
Steven took a step toward her—a normal, human step, small and gentle. He willed the Tiger to recede, forcing the energy back inside. Soothing the Tiger.
Roxanne—she needs to see me as a regular person now, he thought. As someone she can trust.
“I’ve only had this power for a little while myself,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if I can handle it. I need help…and I think you do, too.”
Roxanne lowered her hands, and a small sonic cry burst forth, high-pitched and frantic. It struck the stage, splintering the floorboards. She clamped her mouth shut again and nodded at him.
The audience was gone now. Jasmine hovered at the edge of the stage, waiting. Her Dragon glow pulsed tight around her, fierce and powerful. Carlos stood behind her, watching.
“Let us help you,” Jasmine said.
Roxanne stared at Jasmine, then looked back to Steven. T
he Tiger energy was gone from him now.
“I need help,” Roxanne whispered, keeping each syllable low and quiet. “I do.”
Steven smiled and reached out his hand.
ROXANNE’S MOTHER fluttered around the small hotel room. “Can I get you all something to eat? Or to drink? This room has a mini fridge. Would you like a cola? Or some crackers, a biscuit maybe?”
“We’re fine, ma’am,” Steven said.
He sat on the little sofa next to Jasmine, with Carlos wedged in on her other side. Carlos was aiming his analyzer at Roxanne, who sat slumped in an armchair. Ever since Steven had helped her offstage, she’d withdrawn, become quiet and sullen.
“I want to thank you so much for saving Roxy,” her mother continued. “I knew that place was unsafe. It’s five hundred years old! I knew she shouldn’t play there. And I told her not to wear that silly sweatshirt, either. But Roxy knows I support her.” She paused, crouching down next to the little fridge. “Would you like me to order hamburgers? Americans like hamburgers, yes?”
“Maman,” Roxanne said, not moving her head to look up. “Sit down. You’re gonna give me a seizure.”
Jasmine smiled. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. LaFleur.”
“It’s Ms.” An uncomfortable look crossed the older woman’s face. “Ms. LaFleur.”
“I use my mother’s name,” Roxanne said, her voice flat. “Not my father’s.”
Steven felt a sudden urge to move past that topic. “Ms. LaFleur,” he said. “The castle—the concert hall—it didn’t collapse on its own. Roxanne had something to do with it.”
“What? That’s absurd.” Ms. LaFleur frowned, and her whole demeanor changed. She marched over to Carlos and said, “What is that thing you keep waving in my daughter’s face?”
Carlos looked up. “It’s a portable qi analyzer,” he said. “We’re very close to a ley line here, so I’m getting an unusual amount of interference. But it’s designed to detect Zodiac energy, sort it into its five component elements, and measure the relative strength of each branch.”
Roxanne’s mother just stared at him.
