Marrow

by Preston Norton

I blinked. Orphanage? I had no idea Whisp was even an orphan.

  And he knew this guy?

  “You’re lucky to be teamed up with him,” said Whisp. “If I could . . . I’d trade places with you.”

  Whisp’s calm expression remained unchanged. I hardly considered myself a people reader, but somehow, it was very obvious to me that he was telling the truth. And yet I couldn’t help but ask:

  “What’s so special about him?”

  “He always believed in me,” said Whisp. “He was adopted way before me, but even then, he always visited me. He believed in me when no one else did.”

  I rolled my eyes. Okay, so Flex was a nice guy. Big deal. That still didn’t make him a good Superhero.

  “His power is being stretchy,” I grumbled. “He’s not even in the Heroes Guild anymore. Some hero.”

  “Being in the Guild doesn’t make you a hero!” Whisp snapped. “Being a hero doesn’t even have anything to do with superpowers. Supervillains have some of the greatest powers, don’t they? Does that make them heroes? What the heck do you think a real hero is, Marrow?”

  I was speechless. I’d never seen Whisp so riled up about anything before. Not like this.

  “What it really comes down to is what you do with whatever power you have,” he said, not bothering to wait for a response. “Sometimes, all a hero needs is someone to believe in him.”

  Whisp stood there, staring at me for several long seconds. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his inhaler, and took a big huff of it. Quietly pocketing it, he marched out of the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 6

  If I had to rank the things I hated most in the world, they would go in the following order:

  1. A certain psychotic parental figure who I refuse to acknowledge by his technical title. We’ll refer to him as Scumbag Number One.

  2. A certain no-good cheating classmate who I refuse to acknowledge by his real name. We’ll refer to him as Scumbag Number Two.

  3. Packing.

  Yep . . . packing.

  And then the honorable mention would probably be Brussels sprouts. Now if you’ve ever had the misfortune of trying Brussels sprouts, you should have a pretty good idea of how much I hated packing. If I had to put my level of hatred into words, I would describe it as complete and utter loathing from the darkest depths of my soul.

  Pulling out entire dresser drawers, I dumped the contents into my suitcase like most people would throw garbage into a trash can. I then placed my luggage at the foot of my desk and simply pushed everything off and let it fall inside. In all of five minutes, I had a mountain of unfolded clothes, textbooks, and electronics towering inside my suitcase and no idea how to close it.

  In a desperate attempt against all the laws of physics, I struggled to push my ridiculous mound of belongings down. I finally squashed the pile down to about half the size, but doing so required both of my hands. If I lifted even one, my crap started bulging back up. With both hands preoccupied, I eyed the suitcase lid with growing frustration.

  For the first time in my life, I found myself wishing I had Nero’s stupid telekinesis.

  Biting my lip, I stuck my leg out, trying to use my foot to pop the lid over the top. Unfortunately, the pile was still too high, and I looked like a moron trying to kick it down repeatedly, only to have it bounce back up.

  Change of plans.

  Bending at an awkward angle, I sat down on my hands. With my bodyweight in place, I pulled my hands free. I craned my neck backwards, glancing at the suitcase lid.

  Okay . . . now what? Hadn’t exactly thought that one through.

  “Need some help?”

  I glanced up from my luggage to find Sapphire standing in the doorway of my dorm. Her slender arms were folded, and she tilted her head sideways, allowing her rich blue hair to drape at a slight angle. An amused smirk crept across her face.

  I glanced from her to the overly-stuffed suitcase beneath me. “You wouldn’t happen to have a garbage compactor handy, would you?”

  “Hmm . . .” Sapphire shook her head with a smile. “Sorry. Fresh out.” Without even waiting for my consent, she walked right into my dorm and pulled the suitcase lid up. “Move your butt, fatty.”

  I chuckled and followed along, shoving my hands under my butt and flipping back around. We both pulled and pushed the lid down while the luggage threatened to burst. I increased my bone density as Sapphire worked furiously on the zipper. Finally, we had it zipped all the way.

  Everything I owned, all in one miserable, little suitcase. Both of us plopped down on top of it, claiming our small victory in exhausted silence.

  “You should invest in another suitcase,” said Sapphire.

  “Why?” I asked, scrunching my eyebrows in a deliberately clueless look. “It all fits, doesn’t it?”

  Sapphire punched me playfully in the arm—it was less painful than getting smacked by mutant spider lady, but more painful than a playful punch should be. I bit my tongue and forced a smile.

  “So . . . this is it,” she said. There was a strange hesitation in her tone. Her hand—distinct with painted blue nails—was resting right in between us. Just chilling there like a hitchhiker waiting to get picked up.

  If I’d earned the perfect score that I was supposed to, I would have held her hand in a heartbeat. No joke. I would have snatched that sucker like a fish out of the water and wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Heck, I’d just start making out with her right now. Why? Because I’d be a hotshot. Sapphire wouldn’t be able to say no to me.

  But no . . . I got screwed over. Suddenly, I was the problem student that nobody knew what to do with. And I was getting teamed with some weirdo Superhero that nobody knew about.

  “Yep,” I said, abruptly standing up. “Well . . . thanks for the help.”

  Sapphire bit her glossy lip and nodded awkwardly, “Yeah. No problem.”

  If that wasn’t awkward enough, I then reached out and shook her hand. Yep. A big, fat loser handshake.

  With that, we parted ways.

  Dragging my luggage through the shiny white corridors of FIST, I tried to force Sapphire out of my mind. The last thing I needed was for that awkward exchange to replay over and over in my mind. When did God or Karma or the Universe decide to hate me all of a sudden?

  All I could see was Sapphire’s hand in between us. I really wished I had grabbed it.

  No! Stupid hand. Get out of my head!

  Karma actually listened this time. Unfortunately, Karma had a twisted sense of humor. Lost in my own thoughts, I hardly noticed as Nero rounded the corner.

  We nearly collided into each other. Stopping just a split-second short, we stared at each other eye-to-eye. Of course, one of Nero’s eyes was purple and swollen.

  My lack of satisfaction in his injury was unsettling.

  Nero stared at me wide-eyed. Well . . . at least one eye was wide. The look on his face wasn’t difficult to read. It had “oh crap” written all over it.

  After a few of the longest seconds of my life, Nero averted his gaze elsewhere and continued past me. I turned and watched him as he hurried off.

  I wanted to yell at him. To insult him. I racked my brain for some cutting remark that would pierce whatever little part of him still had a soul.

  Nothing came. I watched, speechless, as Nero disappeared down the corridor.

  If the human brain had an on/off switch, I would definitely be flipping it off right about now. Some thoughts just didn’t deserve to exist—like this great ocean of emptiness inside of me, whirlpooling, spiraling, careening into an endless abyss. I was drowning inside of myself. And it is a fact of nature that when your life is threatened, you’ll do anything—ANYTHING!—to survive.

  These were the sorts of thoughts I imagined one would have before getting thrown in a padded room with a straitjacket. Or in jail.

  I met Havoc in the lobby. White marble floors and ivory decorations gave it a classic Victorian look, contrasted by sleek white computers at the front desk
and a giant hologram recording of Fantom playing on a loop.

  Fantom’s barrel-chested frame was accentuated in a sleek red and black bodysuit, made vibrant through subtle but intricate textures and stark muscular curves. A crimson cape draped over his broad shoulders. A black mask blended with his dark, slicked-back hair, obscuring all but the lower half of his clean-shaven face, emphasizing his strong cleft chin.

  “When the Gaia Comet first hit Earth, we thought it was the end,” said the projected image. Fantom’s articulation was both eloquent and dangerous, resonating through the entire lobby. “Instead, it was merely the beginning. Gaia narrowly missed the sun, which acted as a fusion reactor. When the Gaia Comet made impact with the ocean, this alien nuclear fallout caused a radioactive mutation in nearly five percent of humankind. These so-called mutants became known as Supers. The age-old mythology of Superheroes became a reality. At the Fantom Institute for Superheroes-in-Training, we seek the most gifted young Supers and train them to the very brink of their supernatural capabilities. We train them to be beacons of hope. Symbols of justice. Weapons of light. In a world where every evil has its own agenda, we, at FIST, have only one objective—to fight for a better world.”

  His words didn’t have their usual stimulating effect on me. All I could think about was Nero and how much I wanted to punch his face inside out.

  “You ready to fight for a better world?” Havoc asked, snapping me out of my trance. Though he spoke in a soft tone, there was no hiding the inherent edge in his voice. The end result was not so much inspirational but rather resembled a drill sergeant in a good mood.

  “I’d rather jump in front of a train right now,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What was that, Marrow?” Havoc snapped.

  “I said . . . I’m ready to bump up the pain . . . right now,” I fumbled for a more appropriate answer. “The pain against . . . evil, I mean . . . you know . . . when Flex and I kick their butts . . . and stuff.”

  Havoc snorted. “Are you ready to go or what?”

  Honestly, I was more ready for the train idea. Unfortunately, that probably wasn’t one of the options Havoc was offering. Still, leaving FIST didn’t seem like such a bad option.

  I nodded.

  Havoc extended his brawny open palm with fingers the size of fat sausages. “Take my hand.”

  I glanced awkwardly between Havoc and his extended hand.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Havoc rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you to the prom, Bonehead!”

  You know you have a good student/teacher relationship when your teacher calls you the same stupid nickname that your jerk classmate does.

  Havoc grabbed my hand, or rather, swallowed it whole within his massive grasp. That was only weird for a second. Suddenly, the ground disappeared beneath us, and our surroundings erupted into a haze of wispy smoke. My insides lurched as my body felt like it was suddenly being blasted out of a cannon.

  Suddenly, solid ground slammed against the bottom of my feet. My legs buckled on impact. If it hadn’t been for Havoc’s solid grasp, I would have lost my balance for sure.

  Have I mentioned that Havoc’s power is teleportation? If not . . . well, there you go. It’s way cool to watch him in action.

  Actually doing it is enough to make you poop your pants.

  The hazy mist took shape, forming two towering walls. Their distorted surfaces soon became brick, tainted by graffiti. It was a long narrow passage with no ceiling.

  An alley—the sort of sketchy alley you would generally stay away from if you weren’t keen on the idea of being jumped and mugged or having other horrible things done to you.

  Unless, of course, you were being accompanied by a big guy who made your average street thug look like a ballerina.

  As I glanced over at Havoc, there was not even a hint of concern on his rigid face. In fact, he looked a little bored.

  We moved out of the alley and into the open street. Traffic flowed and choked down a nearby intersection. More than a couple people wailed on their horns in the process, the sound blending together into a noisy, incoherent blur. The sidewalk was just as occupied with people moving in droves—dressed for work in shiny suits, prim and proper skirts, as well as grubby, unkempt uniforms. And then you had plenty of gangster wannabes with their pants sagging to their knees, punks with their tattoos and body-piercings, and hipsters with their hemp styles and thick-rimmed glasses. It was like a zoo. A strange people zoo that had decided to let all of their specimens out of their cages to roam around in the open.

  Cosmo City.

  Havoc guided us into the flowing throng. Skyscrapers loomed over us in all directions, sunlight gleaming white against their glassy surfaces. At least I was in the heart of city life. If any Superhero hoped to make a name for himself, he couldn’t hope for a better hub than the Cosmo. With all the scum on the streets, the place was just begging to be cleaned up.

  That one little glimmer of excitement died when we arrived at our destination.

  A crooked, weathered sign out front read: Slumhole Apartments. Yep, you heard right. Slumhole. And let me just say, the place lived up to its unfortunate title. The building was three floors of ugly. Cracked windowpanes, chipped and broken brick walls, and enough obnoxious neon graffiti to make the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air gag.

  “He lives here?” I asked, hoping against all hope that Havoc was just lost and confused, staring at this abomination of an apartment building for no apparent reason.

  Havoc responded with a subtle nod, although his face was distorted in silent repulsion.

  We started up a dirty, cobwebbed stairwell to the third floor to apartment number 303. The mail slot was stuffed with letters and junk mail, complemented by a growing heap on the floor below it. Havoc eyed the pile of mail like a hawk, hunched over, and plucked a single letter from the bunch. Though his big hand covered most of it, I couldn’t help but notice the FIST logo stamped in the corner.

  Havoc raised his fist and pounded the door with such force that it rattled on its hinges and mail rained down from the overstuffed slot. A part of me was afraid he might smash the whole door down.

  No one answered.

  Havoc pounded on the door again, more furiously than ever. Cursing under his breath, he roared, “Flex, you in there?”

  There was no response.

  Havoc didn’t ask for my hand this time. He grabbed it, and after a split-second of distorted gravity, we teleported three feet forward, on the other side of the door.

  I should have saved my judgments until I was inside the apartment. To put a lack of cleanliness in the ranking order, this apartment fell somewhere between filthy stinkin’ disgusting and sweet-mother-of-Moses-what-poor-creature-died-in-here? Cans were strewn everywhere—soda cans, energy drink cans, beer cans . . . enough aluminum to make a spaceship. Plates of half-eaten food were scattered on every flat surface, gathering mold. And that was just the living room. I took one step towards the kitchen, and the stench hit me like a brick. I was now convinced that someone had died here. A small part of me hoped it was Flex.

  No such luck. Once the shock factor of the mess had worn off, I realized there was music playing in the back room—a chill, reggae beat. There was also a voice singing, separate from the music recording, and completely off-tune. Havoc took a brave step forward, immersing himself in the unsanitary obstacle course. I took a deep breath and followed.

  The little details of this disaster area seemed to say a lot about Flex. The television was on, and Stewie was attempting to assassinate Lois Griffin. An outdated video game console was sitting in front of it, but apparently a game hadn’t gone so well since both controllers had been smashed into the nearest wall, still attached by their cords. Havoc and I stepped through food wrappers, mostly belonging to Twinkies and Ding Dongs. The hallway was littered in piles of crusty, wrinkled clothes shoved in the corners.

  Havoc opened the bedroom door, and the source of the music (and the off-key karaoke) was revealed. A man was sprawled
sideways across a queen-sized bed wearing nothing but his boxers. Nappy dreadlocks fanned out around his head. In one hand, he held an alcohol bottle wrapped in a paper bag. The other hand was waving through the air like a conductor leading an orchestra. The orchestra just happened to be Bob Marley playing from a beat up CD player.

  “Because every little thinnnnng . . . gonna be alrighhhhht . . .” Flex sang in a slur.

  Havoc seemed to be running on his last thread of patience. Marching forward, he unplugged the CD player and ripped the bottle out of Flex’s limp grasp.

  “Hey, what’s the big . . . ?” Flex protested, struggling to get up. “Who do you think you . . . ?” His train of thought seemed to falter before he could finish either sentence. At least he managed to sit upright. Cocking his head sideways, he blinked and scratched the scruff on his face as he slowly absorbed the large black man towering over him. “Havoc?”

  “No, it’s the tooth fairy,” said Havoc. “Flex, are you seriously drunk at one in the afternoon?”

  “Drunk?” said Flex, struggling to process a response. “Psh. Naaaah.” He proceeded to laugh hysterically. “This is just a little something to wash down breakfast, that’s all.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Havoc.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” said Flex, shaking his head unsteadily. He attempted to become serious, although his unnaturally huge eyes bugged out of his face. He raised his hand and pointed his index and middle fingers to his eyeballs. “See these eyes? These are the eyes of a hawk. I see everything that’s going on around here.”

  “No you don’t,” said Havoc. “You’re plastered out of your mind.”

  Flex opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to change his mind halfway and plopped backward on his bed. “You’re right. I’m drunk.”

  Havoc hardly seemed satisfied with this small victory. Raising the letter he had retrieved from the mail slot, he dropped it on Flex’s vacant face. “Checked your mail lately?”

  Sputtering as he shook the letter off his face, Flex sat up. “Yeah. I like checked it last week or something.” Pinching the letter with two fingers, he lifted it away from his body like some dead thing. “What the heck is this?”