Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  I looked around and spotted a couple of questionable, shapeless lumps at the end of the alley. I could only assume they were homeless people, bundled up in filthy rags and hiding under makeshift tents that were nothing more than old blankets and cardboard boxes thrown together. I wasn’t so sure at first, but when one of those shapes swayed against the grimy wall, I knew I was right. Hopefully they’d leave me alone. I turned my gaze away and again settled my chin against my damp knees.

  Peter’s friendship bracelet was still there—wet and cold and uncomfortable around my wrist, but it still gave me comfort. He was sure to find me.

  “Okay,” I whispered, my teeth chattering. “What conditions are you yammering on about?”

  Just one, really. I need you to go to Magnifiman’s headquarters.

  “I don’t know where they are.”

  Oh, I think you do. You’ve had dinner with the family, haven’t you?

  “They never told me where their headquarters are.”

  Their home, Mr. Plath. Just go to their home, and I’ll take care of the rest.

  I swallowed. “I won’t.”

  Might I remind you that I know where you live? Your dear, sweet, doting mother—your overworked, simple father—your bright, lively sister—it’s a charming household you have.

  “You’re not going to lay a slimy finger on any of them.”

  My dear boy, I don’t need to lay a finger on them. Give me some credit, please. I never stoop to soiling my hands with crude criminal methods. It’s quite enough that I know where you live, trust me.

  Oh, God. That only meant any harm done to my family would be ninja-like and less direct. If he was able to manipulate people with his music, I was sure he’d be able to hurt or kill them using the same methods.

  “What did you do to me?”

  I made you listen to music. My experiments before didn’t work because mental manipulation took place while the subjects were awake, you see. I learned, quickly enough, that claiming a person’s mind while he’s asleep is far, far more effective.

  I frowned against my knees. “Listen to music? I don’t remember—”

  Yes, there was music. There was. When I awoke, I heard faint music in the bedroom but didn’t think much of it then. The melody was so gentle and light I’d dismissed it as nothing more than a pretty composition.

  “Jesus.”

  Indeed. Imagine what I can do on a larger scale. It would be a symphony at its most glorious, while all of Vintage City sleeps. The Trill broke off to laugh—a crazy-ass criminal’s laugh. I hated to think how his frustrated musician dad was. He could’ve been dropped on his head as a baby—who knew? The only thing I knew was that he’d raised a pretty screwed up kid. There really ought to be a law requiring a special license if one planned to breed. Too many kids turn into victims of their own parents. That sucked in monstrously big ways.

  “I’d rather kill myself than give you what you want.”

  Hurt yourself, my dear Mr. Plath, and it’ll be farewell to an entire family unit. A murder-suicide? Poetically tragic, if you ask me.

  The bastard. Okay, so I didn’t exactly know how that’d work, but still—the bastard.

  Stay where you are then. If you won’t take me there, we’ll have to get young Romeo to do it for us, no?

  I gambled. “How would you know for sure that Calais will find me?”

  Why, he always does! Don’t be coy. You know he’ll always find you.

  “You mean he’s got some built-in radar.”

  So naïve. My dear sir, young love will always find a way around difficulties. A bit of a cliché, I’ll admit, but it’s quite true. You’ve got Calais firmly wrapped around your finger. The poor boy has no choice but to exist, superpowers and all, if only to worship at your sneaker’d feet.

  “Do you always talk like that? Like a bad Valentine’s Day card?” I was so tempted to tack on, “Platypus!” but decided not to in the end.

  Insults bore me to tears.

  My heart hammered. It looked like he knew nothing about the bracelet. I latched on to that tiny sliver of hope—though what I wanted to do with it remained to be seen as I’d yet to figure out what my next move would be. Judging from our so-called conversations, it also appeared as though he couldn’t read my mind—only respond to what I verbalized. I mouthed a silent prayer for that added bit of luck.

  For several moments, I mulled over things while shivering in the rain. Mom surely would be barreling her way through Vintage City’s streets right now, furious and frantic, searching for me. She might’ve called Dad at work, too. If I stayed away from home, maybe the whole family would follow suit, running around the city, ready to wring my neck if they found me, but that was what I needed: for them to be away from the house for as long as possible.

  Frankly, I’d rather be killed by my own family than a smarmy musical genius with some really whacked out ambitions.

  Are you falling asleep, sir?

  I sighed. “Not if you keep yakking away in my brain. What the hell do you want now?”

  Your cooperation. What else?

  I rolled my eyes and glowered from the damp, uncomfortable shield of my hoodie. “If you want me to stay awake, keep on babbling. I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me all kinds of things about music and violins and so on.”

  Why, a boy after my own heart.

  The Trill babbled on about violas and minor classical masters who never got the respect they deserved. I understood nothing of what he talked about, but I was glad. If there was anything concrete I learned from Batman, it was that the criminal mind, no matter how brilliant, was also abnormally narcissistic. Fool it into a self-indulgent one-sided conversation, and he or she would be putty in my hands. I needed to keep him talking until Peter found me. Then we could figure out what to do with this leech.

  “Uh-huh. Sure. Yeah.” What effective, stock answers.

  Bored with the hopeless, grungy scene before me, I hid my face behind my knees. The Trill’s voice—no longer unnerving—settled into a low hum that soothed. It seemed to change, actually. It faded, then strengthened its sound, then faded again, this time washed over by a very faint static-like buzz. It almost felt like I was listening to a radio station, whose frequency was being interrupted. Strangely enough, I saw nothing odd about it and accepted the sound as one of those background noises that I could ignore. I yawned, my eyes fluttering shut. The steady patter of light rain blended all sounds into a kind of inner-city lullaby.

  Chapter 28

  I actually fell asleep under miserable conditions—yes, with the Trill’s voice going on and on and on…God, was this what Hell was like? Like, a psychopath who loved hearing himself talk and be all smartass about classical music?

  I guess I was a lot more tired than I’d first thought. When I came to, I was slumped against the dumpster, completely soaked, my nose running, my limbs cramped. The rain didn’t get worse, but the light drizzling continued through the day. There was silence in my mind—or was it my ears? The Trill had stopped yakking. Maybe his tongue went on strike and walked out. Now that would’ve been a sight to see.

  It was almost spooky, that peace and quiet. I almost felt as if I’d been cut loose and left floating in space.

  When I forced myself upright, I glanced at my watch and saw I’d been out cold for about ten measly minutes. I could barely stay on my feet after struggling to stand up.

  Endless pinpricks ate at my legs and feet, and I had to lean against the dumpster again until the blood properly circulated through my limbs. I was also probably developing pneumonia or whatever brutal respiratory disease could come from an unexpected nap in a bacteria-infested, rain-soaked alley. I didn’t care. I only hoped my family was safe—scattered somewhere in the city, sure, but safe all the same.

  Once my legs regained their strength, I escaped my dingy hideaway. I needed to figure out what to do. Not an easy task, given my sucky condition. The only thing I was sure of was that I wasn’t going to betray Trent and Pet
er, I wasn’t going to let the Trill hurt my family, and I was ready to use myself as a pawn to destroy him.

  Unfortunately, it was one thing to be resolved to do what was noble and right, blah, blah, blah. It was completely another to be, you know, properly equipped to pull it off. I had no weapons. I had no special powers. I had nothing. I wasn’t even smart enough to come up with something clever despite the knowledge that I still had Peter’s bracelet, and it could be my only salvation. I never cared about being an average, so-so kid, but, God, it sucked being one at that moment.

  Hope kept me going, though. Past conversations with Peter about certain technological wonders flooded my mind. I clung to those memories, took comfort in the possibilities of a proper end to this situation.

  Suddenly I heard a faint buzz—like static electricity or the sound of a disrupted radio frequency. It fizzled, faded, fizzled again, and gradually, a familiar voice grew louder and more distinct.

  …so don’t believe everything you see on film.

  Damn. “Huh? What film?” I asked, rubbing the back of a hand against my nose. I couldn’t believe that he’d been talking non-stop all that time. Didn’t he notice my silence? The guy must be a hell of a lot more narcissistic than I’d first thought if he kept yakking on and on, with obviously no one else listening at the other end of the line.

  Tsk. Heavens. You were the one who brought it up. Is your memory going already?

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been asleep all that time. Are you on drugs or something?”

  My dear, cantankerous friend, one should ask YOU if you’re on something. We’ve been engaged in a very enlightening chat for the past several minutes. I’m amazed, really, by your knowledge of music. One wouldn’t think that you’d know more than time signatures and Mr. Copland’s RODEO in that beef commercial.

  A few seconds of faint static followed. Then came silence. I stopped in my tracks, frowning. What was going on? And what was this nutcase talking about? Unless I actually held a conversation with him while I was asleep, I sure as hell wouldn’t have managed something like pretend interest in what he had to say about classical music and film.

  The momentary static cleared, and his voice came back.

  Ah, very good! For all your sharp tongue, you’re still a damned sight more useful than I first believed. Are you indoors now?

  Indoors? “You’re hallucinating. You’ve been experimenting with your Obnoxious Nocturne one too many times, it looks like.”

  It’s Noxious Nocturne, thank you, sir, and frankly, I’m growing quite weary of your odd juvenile ways.

  “And vice versa,” I muttered as I moved toward the alleyway’s entrance.

  Now that you’re inside Magnifinitwit’s headquarters, stay there. That’s a good boy. I’m tracing your location.

  What on earth? Headquarters? A sharp headache came on. I grimaced, rubbing my temples with my grimy hands. “I think I’m going insane,” I groaned. “Someone shoot me.”

  More static. More fluctuating frequencies. I was stuck with a defective mind leech, and my head felt as though it were about to burst. The Trill’s voice continued its crazy seesawing and bizarre train of thought.

  …yes, good lad. Now ask them when they’ll be back and insist on waiting for them. I need you to stall.

  I rolled my eyes and stepped out onto cracked pavement.

  The small avenue that opened up to me was no less dingy and grimy as the tiny alley I’d just emerged from. Run-down apartment buildings loomed around me. Clotheslines that linked both sides of the street in crisscrossing arcs looked like giant, lifeless cobwebs above me.

  I’d go on further to say nothing appeared out of place were it not for the half-dozen squad cars that were parked in front of me, blocking my way. Lights flashed, breaking up the gray monotony of the area. Police officers had taken their positions as well, crouched behind their cars, their guns drawn, all of them aiming at me.

  I froze, my heart dropping to my feet. “Oh, my God…”

  “Stand right there, son,” an officer called out. “Raise your hands and place them on your head.”

  “What—what’s going on?” I stammered, obeying. “I’m not a criminal.” I instinctively glanced down and grimaced at the mess that were my clothes. “Okay, maybe I look like one…”

  “Just do as we say, and you won’t be hurt.”

  The static in my mind—or my ears—broke through icy fear.

  …quite good at this! You’ll make a very good assistant! Have you considered working for a supervillain before?

  My voice couldn’t find its way out of my constricted throat as I stared like doomed deer at the guns that were all aimed at me. I couldn’t even move. My head felt like it was being torn to shreds, but I couldn’t even respond to the pain.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, finally, my words weak and thin to my ears. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Just stay where you are, son. Don’t move those hands.” The officer who spoke immediately got on his radio and talked to someone. No one else moved. All eyes remained on me. Here and there curious, drawn faces peered out of broken windows. There were no other people on the streets, though.

  In the meantime, static filled my brain. The Trill’s voice vanished completely here and there though he didn’t seem to be aware of anything wrong. The last time I heard him talk, he was still chattering happily about my skills at being a Supervillain Aide Applicant. The static was soft and gentle enough it easily turned into background noise, and I managed to ignore it.

  I was too busy dying of terror where I stood. I sure didn’t have the time or the presence of mind to move a single cell in my body. Even the escalating confusion of the Trill’s bizarre one-sided conversation in my head was ignored. In the middle worsening static, he continued to praise me and my so-called talents at villainy, while giving me more instructions on how to distract my hosts when they arrived home—like Mrs. Barlow, Peter, and whoever else would be there.

  “Thank you, Officer!” a familiar voice called from somewhere above me. “I’ll take it from here.”

  There was a whoosh, and something large fell, landing in a wet, muddy splat several feet in front of me.

  “Peter?” I whispered.

  “Don’t move, Eric,” he said, raising a hand.

  It was Peter. Calais, that is. In costume, a bit muddied, unsurprisingly, but looking absolutely stunning, now that I saw him in his usual haunts and in daylight. That he came at a moment when I needed him the most only made him all the more beautiful to behold. I silently blessed his bracelet. It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. The relief was overwhelming—almost agonizing. I was going insane, my body was falling apart, and I was this close to being turned into human Swiss cheese by a group of police officers. He was my only constant.

  He moved toward me with light, cautious steps—as though I were armed and dangerous.

  “Peter,” I whispered, tears mingling with the rain. He stopped right in front of me. “What’s going on?”

  He merely pressed a finger against his lips. “Ssshh,” he whispered back. Then in a louder voice, he said, “Fantastic job, girl! You rock!”

  WTF—girl? I blinked, staring at him. He once again signaled me to keep quiet.

  The static I’d been hearing happened again. This time it fizzled for several seconds, completely drowning out the Trill’s voice. Then it stopped.

  Of course, I rock! I don’t do crazy stuff like this for nothing, you know!

  “Althea?” I breathed.

  Hey, hot pants. How’re you feeling?

  “Like hell,” I stammered. “Where—where are you?”

  Headquarters, of course! Duh! What do you think I’ve been doing the past hour?

  “What headquarters? I thought you were in school.” I couldn’t help but laugh and cry. Relief, confusion, disbelief—I needed a drink. I knew where Mom kept the hard stuff.

  Believe it or not, we played hooky for you. Yeah, YOU. You
owe us, bucko. Headquarters are at home. My bedroom, actually.

  “Althea intercepted the connection,” Peter said. “She’s been holding a conversation with the Trill using an altered voice—your voice, actually, that she worked into her program—while you were passed out. It’s a good thing that you kept up a conversation with him for a while; otherwise, she wouldn’t have enough audio data to download.”

  “My voice?”

  Peter nodded at my hand. “Your bracelet, you goon. I let her link up with our master computer through hers, and she traced you through the readings we were getting from your bracelet.”

  It was a bitch getting audio data, Peter. The damn bracelet wasn’t meant for that, and I had to make up all kinds of codes in a rush just to change the program for what we needed.

  “What—I don’t understand. How can she get into my mind?”

  No—it’s not hypnosis, Eric. Don’t believe the Trill. He’s been lying to you the whole time. All this crap about hypnosis and music and stuff—I don’t think he’s gotten that far in his experiments. He will eventually—maybe—but not yet.

  Peter touched my hands, and I pulled them off my head with a grateful sigh. He then turned and gestured to the police officers, who all stood up and withdrew their guns. One of them shouted orders.

  “Then—what’s with the voice I’ve been hearing? He could hear me, that’s for sure. We’ve been talking all this time.”

  Your glasses.

  “Huh?”

  Peter gently pulled my glasses off and turned them over to show me. I squinted hard since my eyesight was so bad, and the detail he wanted me to see was so small and barely visible. I could see nothing more than a couple of faint marks on the temple tips.

  “It’s like a radio—walkie-talkie type thing—but definitely digital. Althea wasn’t sure if she could actually access it, but its technology’s advanced enough for her to take over—barely. If it were something crude and outdated, she wouldn’t be able to surf the wires, so to speak. I guess that’s the only downside to her powers.”