Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  In two of those instances, it was Bizarre Flying Man’s companion who got the criminals, and if BFM was elusive, this other guy was even more so. He was described as not as exceptionally built as his flying crime-fighting buddy; he didn’t wear a cape, and he wore a half-mask. From different reports as well, he didn’t seem to be possessed with the same strength as BFM, but he was way, way faster and more agile. He refused to speak unless forced to say something, and once he dumped a thug or two at the police station’s doorstep, he’d fly off—sometimes run away in a literal flash. As a team, BFM and Speedo—I’d yet to find out names here—complemented each other perfectly.

  For my part, I began to develop a simmering, pissy-ass kind of jealousy. It was hell enough to fall hard for some weird superhuman type, knowing one could never measure up to those standards. It was even more hellish knowing one’s object of lusty and romantic fantasies already had a partner—someone who not only complemented him with his own special powers, but also one who might very well be BFM’s boyfriend. Who cared if he wasn’t gay?

  This was my fantasy and my bed sheets that were always demolished. As far as I was concerned, BFM was.

  That said, I’d learned to half-anticipate, half-dread the news. I’d check my clock while my brain slowly leaked out of my ears because of homework, and when the moment came, I’d sail downstairs, looking totally bored, yawning and stretching my arms or cracking my neck. My sister always hated that. Of course, when I did, it always happened to be at around the time of the local news. This was a coincidence that wasn’t noticed until after the first week.

  “Your timing’s getting pretty good,” Liz finally observed as she lay on her stomach on the floor, her own homework spread before her. A mug of hot cocoa sat beside her geology notes, which were liberally sprinkled with brown drops.

  “I’m taking a break from homework. It just happens to be around this time. Anything interesting happening in the world lately?”

  She’d stare at me for a few seconds, her gaze questioning, but she’d always shrug and turn her attention back to the screen. “Not really. War, famine, earthquakes, tornadoes, flying men in spandex…”

  “Local news? Anything interesting? Not that I care, really.”

  As though waiting for the moment for me to introduce it, the local news segment would take over, and we’d be treated to new adventures in heroism. If it happened to be BFM who saved the day, I’d be there, rooted to the spot, holding my breath as I ate up every word of the reports.

  If it happened to be Speedo, I’d force myself to listen, silently hating and envying the little slut, and then walk away like a puppy that had just been kicked.

  I suppose the good thing that came out of this unrequited tragedy was the fact my Golden Age of Haiku coincided with this period, and my journal nearly burst with gut-wrenching whining about my bleak, windswept love life. I’d actually considered having my work published, but money and best-sellerdom would be a slap in the face of art and bleeding gay teen poets everywhere.

  For about a month after the train sabotage, Vintage City settled into a newfound state of mystified contentment.

  The police were receiving unsolicited help, with smaller crimes being kept in check. The streets were being cleaned up night after night, and, from what I heard, all kinds of crazy stories were spun around dinner tables, in hair salons, and in bowling alleys. The mystery of our heroes became the allure, and people fell in love with it despite the itty bitty whiff of doubt that still kind of colored conversations around the water cooler.

  During this time, Vintage City’s intrepid reporter, Bambi Bailey, made it her life’s goal to pounce on our hero before her journalist rivals did. Two or three times, I would walk somewhere alone or with Peter, and there she’d be. Blonde hair swept up in a French twist, face caked with ten pounds of makeup, her suit freshly steam-cleaned—Miss Bailey would be scuttling back and forth on her Italian pumps, a cell phone plastered to her ear, a gasping cameraman loaded with gear limping behind her, sometimes cursing in Spanish or Swedish, depending on the day of the week.

  “If she’s looking for the next scoop, I don’t think she’ll get anywhere doing that,” I said, chuckling and nudging Peter with my elbow.

  He glanced briefly at her as she swept past us in a blonde blur, leaving a strong trail of floral perfume in her wake. “I feel sorry for those guys.”

  “Who, her and the camera guy?”

  “No, whoever she’s looking for.”

  “I doubt if she’ll get to them like that. It isn’t as though she can predict when and where the next crime will be committed.”

  “Uh—who’re you talking about?”

  “Flying guys in Spandex,” I replied. “Who were you talking about?”

  “I was thinking about the owners of that porn theater that got broken into last week.” Peter frowned. “Flying guys in Spandex? How can you be so sure they’re the ones she’s after?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? They’re the biggest headlines this stupid city’s had in ages. If I were some hotshot reporter, I’d kill for an interview. Then again, I’ll bet you she’ll be running around like this for a long, long time.”

  Peter shrugged, still frowning. “I guess it won’t be long before the publicity catches up with them. Hopefully not. Other than clean up the streets, they haven’t been running after the limelight.”

  “Everyone wants to know more about them.”

  “That’s too bad. It won’t be long, then.”

  My friend was right. About two days after my last Bambi Bailey sighting, the news station trumpeted their victory. Miss Bailey, through her pluck, ingenuity, and, apparently, creepy sixth sense, managed to corner BFM just as he corralled a tiny illegal gambling ring and generously served them up on a silver platter to the Chief of Police.

  Heaven knew how long she’d been out, lying in wait, but when she finally appeared on live TV, her hair looked more like a half-collapsed haystack than a twist. Her suit had spots of grime, and her eyeliner was smeared. Her energy remained high, though, and she was still quite poised when she tried to interview our hero.

  “So—sir, what should we call you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does, of course. Vintage City would like to know whom to thank.”

  He frowned and looked thoughtful. “Names mean nothing. I’m here to stop crime and uphold justice.”

  I winced. Liz, and probably my mom, too, sighed nearby. Dad snored under his paper.

  Miss Bailey laughed, tossing her head back, obviously flirting. I winced again. “I see. Well, would it bother you if I were to come up with something appropriate?”

  His frown darkened, and he pressed his mouth into a thin, tight line. Even from where I stood, at the opposite end of the living room, I could see his left eye twitch.

  “On behalf of the people of Vintage City, I’d like to thank you, Magnifiman, for your selfless devotion to justice and peace.”

  Magnifiman. Oh, God. Oh, hell. I think I died a thousand billions times over after hearing her christen my idol, my innocence going up in smoke in that one single word. In my mind, I screamed at BFM to fly the hell away before Miss Bailey humiliated him any further and traumatized me for the rest of my life.

  “Tell me, sir, where exactly did you and your friend come from?”

  “Where my companion and I come from has no bearing on what we do. Good night, Miss Bailey,” he replied in that low, silky purr that had long kept a tight hold in my mind—like a clinging tentacle, only sexier. He turned to glower at the camera and then flew off before Miss Bailey could say anything more.

  Actually, even after he left, she couldn’t say anything.

  The camera still rolling, she merely stood there, gazing at the sky, dazed and almost swooning.

  “Er, Miss Bailey, you’re still on,” a voice—the cameraman’s—stammered.

  “Oh. Yes.” She blinked and then collected herself, but the dreamy smile remained even as she tried to make some kin
d of a logical and objective analysis of our hero and his insane physical strength and character. With a flick of an elegant wrist, she tucked stray hair behind an ear. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Magnifiman—Vintage City’s own paragon of virtue.”

  “Magnifiman,” Mom echoed, pronouncing this godawful name as though she were sampling the finest wine. “I think it’s perfect.”

  “Wow, I never realized how hot he is,” Liz added.

  “I wonder what his friend looks like. Did you see him, Eric?”

  “He was a shadow from where I stood.”

  “Ah, too bad. I’m sure he’ll be interviewed someday, too. I’m definitely watching the news from now on.”

  I slunk back into my room, my heart aching for my idol. I scribbled a couple of verses before I went to bed—sonnets, that time—yearning, outrage, and a total soul connection in iambic pentameter. Then I dreamed of him “arresting” me and taking me into custody. Not once did I demand to see my lawyer, and, yep, I came willingly. It was also during my Golden Age of Haiku when I grew to majorly hate the early morning hours and their murderous effects on dreams, and I think I messed with Mom’s mind when I insisted on washing my own clothes and sheets.

  Whoever masterminded the train sabotage lay low all that time, and there was a lull in terrorist activity. It felt as though we were simply being hypnotized into a state of passivity before the next big strike.

  Chapter 5

  Unfortunately, the godawful name stuck, and Vintage City sang the praises of Magnifiman for days on end. What blew me away, though, was that when he was cornered for a two-second interview (an average length for him according to my watch), he never once contradicted it—never once showed that he cared what people called him. Miss Bailey obviously had the hots for the guy, and I was beginning to wonder if her interviews were really for journalism’s sake or if they were her means of showing off her special status as the only woman in Vintage City who could corner Magnifiman and induce him to talk. The local news grew more and more like a televised two-second date between them.

  It was certainly tough luck that Magnifiman totally looked down on publicity and glamour. The scant number of times she’d managed to catch him, he just turned to ice, muttered something about doing his duty in the name of justice, glowered wonderfully at the camera, made me hard, and then flew away before she could get another word in.

  There was one odd thing I noticed. I wasn’t sure at first if it was anything more than a trick of the light, and I even doubted what I remembered of the day when the train got blown up. Every time Magnifiman stood before the camera, something slowly took form on his chest. It started off as a vague, white blob—barely noticeable, so much so I mistook it for a reflection of a really strong street lamp somewhere nearby, if not the remains of that evening’s dinner. Then the edges gradually sharpened, and a more definite shape formed. It must have been a couple of weeks since his first interview when a thick, white letter M was proudly displayed on that massive chest of his. In succeeding days, a thin, white elliptical shape appeared, forming a diagonal ring around the M.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Sometimes I’d sit with my nose practically glued to the TV screen in an attempt to make heads or tails of what I was seeing while my mom and sister barked at me from the couch, ordering me to move my ass out of the way.

  “Hey, guys, did you notice this before?” I once asked, pointing to the ringed M.

  Mom cocked her head. “I don’t know. It looks like a symbol of some sort. Was it always there?”

  “If it was, I didn’t notice it,” Liz said. “I mean, who’d want to look anywhere else but his face?”

  Uh, me? I stepped away from the TV, scratching my head. I could have been imagining things. I didn’t remember seeing it or any other mark on his outfit the day of the train sabotage, but then again, I was in too much of a shocked daze to think clearly.

  “That’s really creepy,” I muttered under my breath. I never brought the subject up, and I never understood what had happened until well afterward.

  As for his partner—he was never Bambi Bailey’d. He had the advantage of speed, and, damn, did he make full use of it. He was on camera twice, while Magnifiman’s appearances far outnumbered his. In those two fleeting moments, I only managed to catch sight of his general appearance, which wasn’t at all bad. He was far from bulky, but he was still lean and fit—thanks to all the gazillion calories that were burned when one moved at hyper speed, I’m sure. He looked younger, too, but with his half-mask, I couldn’t really tell. He didn’t wear a cape like Magnifiman—only dark spandex and calf-high boots and, judging from the fact I couldn’t see his hands, gloves. Because his appearances on TV were at night, he remained all the more elusive though he seemed to accomplish as much work as Magnifiman.

  Bambi Bailey, bless her smitten heart, tried every feminine wile to winkle a name out of Magnifiman. Winkle. I love that word.

  “Oh, come on, I’m sure you call him something,” she drawled, her eyes half-closed. She was beginning to look a little too comfortable in front of the camera. In fact, her appearance also underwent a change with every interview she made. Her French twist vanished, and her hair flowed past her shoulders in a thick-ish tumble of waves, sometimes curls. Her suit lost its jacket, and the matching skirt and smart white blouse shape-shifted into a body-hugging number. Understated jewelry sprouted like sparkling lichen on her arms and neck. If I had the ability to see invisible scents, I’m sure I’d have been staring at plumes of smoke rising from every pulse point on her body, which I was sure she completely doused in perfume.

  “If I do, I’m too busy to realize it.”

  “Well, with any luck, he’ll fly past us, and—”

  “He doesn’t fly. He leaps. Excuse me, please.”

  Whoosh! Off he went. I breathed a sigh of relief and mentally gave the side of justice another point on the scoreboard. God only knew what kind of craptastic name she’d give the poor guy, who obviously wanted to be left alone.

  * * * *

  It was about a month and a half since the train sabotage incident, and Magnifiman and his partner became distinctive threads in Vintage City’s tapestry. No matter where I turned, I’d hear or read his name. Online, I even had the mind-numbing shock of stumbling across a role-playing fan community. Magnifiman was the focal point, and his partner, whom players had dubbed Shadow Boy, was also there. Thuggy douchesnozzles of all stripes pitted brawn and brain against the two heroes, with the community’s watchers cheering the characters on. Some demanded romantic subplots involving Bambi Bailey. Some suggested a tragic predestination. There were a couple of uber-feminists who ranted about the absence of super heroines and continually disrupted threads with all kinds of diatribes about online sexism and stuff.

  Following a few more links with trepidation, I found other fan communities springing up, this time involving fan fiction. I hit the back button within a second. Then I took a shower, dressed, and wandered over to the Elms Theater, determined to conquer my mood with a one-dollar movie.

  I rode my bike to the theater, which was downtown. It was one of my favorite hangouts for two reasons: cheap B-grade entertainment flashbacks and a building that was one of the authentically historic landmarks the city boasted. It went through several ownerships, and through the years, the stuff that was offered fluctuated in quality.

  The owners from two generations ago decided to take on classic B films since the two other theaters in Vintage City did a good enough job offering us current titles and art house stuff. Old, bad films became the main menu of Elms Theater, and high school kids loved it.

  The theater only had one screen, and the offering then was When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth. I’d already seen that movie, like, twice, but I was so hooked on the cheese factor I couldn’t stop. Besides, I loved caveman dialogue in which “akita” and “nikro” (or was it “neekro”?) had all-purpose uses.

  I could only afford a candy bar and soon settled myself in
a seat. The theater was about one-third full, with chattering and giggling teenagers scattered all over. I glanced at my watch and saw we had about three minutes until the movie. I slumped against my seat, slowly relaxing and losing myself in the filler music.

  “How classy,” I murmured.

  Someone had decided to change the music from contemporary, schmoopy pop to classical. The violin solo was wonderful—soothing. I knew nothing technical about classical music though I’d listened to it a few times, and I didn’t know what kind of song was being played.

  Whatever it was, the melody was nice in a pretty weird kind of way.

  The notes seemed off, I thought. If one were to take the music apart, the individual notes might be a bizarre mix, but when strung up like that—into one flowing piece of music—everything seemed to make sense. I couldn’t put my finger on it as I strained to listen even more carefully.

  Yeah, it made sense—and yet it didn’t. Kind of like my life, really.

  I shook my head and then rubbed my eyes. “I feel so tired,” I said, yawning. “How much longer ‘til the movie?”

  The last thing I remembered was stealing a fuzzy glance at my watch and not recognizing the numbers that glowed faintly in the dark.

  Chapter 6

  My head felt swollen. It throbbed as though my brain were trying to break its way out of my skull and make a slimy beeline toward water because my whole body seemed to be on fire. Slowly, slowly, I felt something cold and harsh pressing against my back.

  I groaned, my eyes still closed, and I turned my head to the side. I realized I was lying on the ground.

  “He’s coming to,” a voice muttered from somewhere close, and it was answered by another.

  “Is he hurt?”

  I sensed movement around me, and as consciousness continued to creep in, the noise took on a more definite form. Voices seemed to come from everywhere—talking, shouting, sobbing, groaning. Sirens and police radios broke through the craziness.