Ordinary Champions

by Hayden Thorne

  Masks: Ordinary Champions

  By Hayden Thorne

  Published by Queerteen Press

  Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.

  Copyright 2014 Hayden Thorne

  ISBN 9781611526226

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.

  * * * *

  Masks: Ordinary Champions

  By Hayden Thorne

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 1

  Something downright sucky had happened in my past life, and I was paying for every miserable scrap of it now. How did my life stink? Let me count the ways. On second thought, scratch that. It would only depress me even more. To sum up, on top of the crap pile of angst I found myself in, I was still required to do my homework.

  I know, right? Talk about rubbing salt into one’s wounds.

  A few days following the Trill’s release—once I was “acclimated” to my new situation, that is—I was ordered to do my homework. I certainly enjoyed a pretty exotic environment for mundane school stuff. Seriously, who else could boast of being surrounded by phony Italian frescoes, violin solos whining away in the background, while snarling his way through proofs? But it still bit hard that I was actually required to carry on with my education.

  I mean, who’d ever heard of supervillains doing schoolwork? Not me! But there I was, completely caged in by my “guardian,” ordered to carry on with my studies because “Villainy demands high standards.”

  Jeez. I’d bet my allowance that, had I been eighteen and not sixteen, I’d be treated with more dignity than that. All right, so I might be told to take out the trash here and there, but I’d rather do that than my stupid homework.

  I felt as though I was going through Miss Froufrou Charming’s Finishing School for Young Villains. I was sure it wouldn’t be long before they’d make me walk around with a book on my head while zapping targets with energy blasts. The downside to it—one of several downsides, really—was that I still sucked at Geometry and Chemistry. My superpowers couldn’t save my ass where things counted the most. When bad karma rains, it pours.

  The Trill’s library gave me more reason to stop and stare, maybe daydream every two minutes. Gorgeous and lushly decorated, it even had a distinct smell of history, most likely because of the old, old pieces of furniture that were crammed in it. The walls were wallpapered in gold and red fili-something (filigret or flip flop?) patterns, which all matched the furniture color. The ceiling was also super detailed with ancient shepherd scenes from each season of the year; I found out later on that they weren’t paintings but custom made wallpapers meant to look like frescoes. Still no signs of gay boys anywhere in those scenes, of course, and I made a mental note to file a discrimination complaint against the Trill over his decorating choices. Antique candelabras gave me the light I needed, finishing off the strange fakeroony-historical-Venetian feel of the room.

  I must admit to being a little bummed out that the Trill’s new headquarters weren’t under the opera house anymore. I really could’ve reveled in the whole Phantom of the Opera mystique. No thanks to Magnifiman, the Trill was forced to take shelter in the abandoned—and, until now, sealed off—southern tunnels of Vintage City’s subway system. Gutted by a fire decades ago, then further whacked by an earthquake, the tunnels were declared too dangerous and certainly too expensive to repair, given the extent of the damage from both disasters.

  They were therefore sealed up, with the railway rerouted permanently.

  The Trill’s thugs couldn’t be found while he was locked up in the asylum, but I quickly discovered it was because they were busy fixing up their boss’ new hideout.

  Of course, the nagging question I had was whether those guys actually knew what they were doing, choosing a major safety hazard for their new lair. Part B of that question involved the Trill himself and why he settled on a major safety hazard for his headquarters. I never bothered to ask why. At that point, I’d already accepted that genetically manipulated musicians were total nut jobs who couldn’t give you a straight answer if their lives depended on it.

  Because, yep, platypus.

  Being sheltered in a pretty dangerous location was another petal on my bad karma rosebud. At any rate, I was there—the new kid in the middle of his training.

  Of course, I never expected Geometry and Chemistry to be part of that.

  Four o’clock chimed, and I gathered my notes, cussing out a hailstorm, and marched out of the library in the direction of the drawing room. Ayup, we had a drawing room. I felt totally genteel. It was time for tea, and my presence was required, a la Jane Austen. Oh, and I was also supposed to hand over my homework to my “tutor,” who wasn’t the Trill.

  The tunnels I walked through had enjoyed a pretty nice makeover, I have to say. I could’ve sworn I’d been there before, but that was because they were fixed up to come as close as possible to the original hallways in the Trill’s previous underground lair. I guess the only difference in this case was that there were more signs of Vintage City’s infamous inner layer poking through to disrupt the tunnels’ phony baloney Venetian awesomeness. The floor, while swept up and cleared of debris, stayed untouched otherwise. I could see marks of the old train tracks on the gray, slightly broken surface. Here and there, I’d spot a crack or a burned patch that couldn’t be hidden completely by paint or elaborate wallpaper. Sometimes there’d be dripping water from some unknown source above me. The drops were caught in buckets, though, which broke up the décor, but it was kind of necessary. Better to have an occasional bucket than to have the place inconveniently flooded. I guess overall, it was pretty easy to see that the place was meant to be a part of a subway system once upon a time, but it was now slightly touched up to hide its ugly underbelly.

  I eventually reached the drawing room and knocked on the door.

  “Come in, come in.”

  “Enter, Mr. Eric!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever,” I muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

  The drawing room looked no different from the library, save for the obvious absence of bookcases crammed with antique books. Like the library, this room was once an underground platform—or a part of it, anyway, seeing as how the rest of it lay buri
ed under rubble after the earthquake hit. The Trill’s thugs did what they could to touch up half of the place, where the rubble and debris formed a shapeless wall that pretty much surrounded a sizable open area, cutting it off from part of the rail line so that it only accessed the tunnel I walked through.

  The effect was weird but really cool. It was like being in an overly-decorated cave. Because of the walls’ curved and uneven surfaces, wallpaper wasn’t used, but, boy, expensive-looking portraits weren’t spared. Candelabras were scattered all over, which was the closest we could come to retaking that Phantom of the Opera mystique, I suppose.

  And, yep, every antique and every piece of furniture was stolen. Apparently supervillains couldn’t help themselves as a rule.

  The Trill sat across from Dr. Dibbs. He was back in costume, and though I’d been his ward for a few days now—God, the thought was beyond bizarre—I still wasn’t comfortable in his company. Then again, who in his right mind would be? The Trill was a costumed psychopath, and having tea with him was like having one’s last meal in the company of Hannibal Lecter with a side of Jack the Ripper.

  “Ah, it looks like our young talent is done with his required work,” the Trill noted before blowing gently at his steaming cup of tea. “And how did we do today, Mr. Plath?”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” I turned to Dr. Dibbs, who was busy stuffing his face with pastries. “Um, so do I give these to you now or later?”

  He nodded and beckoned me to come over with slightly greasy hands. “Nnrrmmph,” he said, and I grimaced in disgust. “Ouf murph krmm.”

  “Ugh,” I muttered as I walked over to him and handed him my homework. Seriously, one would think the Trill, being so obsessed with good manners and hoity-toity crap, would find someone who didn’t remind me of an organic vacuum cleaner. I’d no idea which sludge pile he’d fished Dr. Dibbs out of, but I suppose beggars couldn’t be choosers, and supervillains were pretty much limited to the underground when it came to pretty mundane stuff like schoolwork.

  To top it all off, the guy leered at me. Always. It was downright creepy. In fact, I could swear his fingers stroked mine when he took hold of my notes.

  “Thank you, my dear boy,” he said, grinning and breathing through his teeth. His eyes, blown well out of proportion by his soda bottle glasses, blinked and stared at me. His face was all saggy, pouchy flesh, with a perpetual sheen of sweat covering it. He’d actually pull out a damp handkerchief from his pocket every five seconds or so and then dab his face dry. He always wore a white suit with a matching white hat. He kind of reminded me of an old time, dapper archeologist-adventurer like in those Indiana Jones movies.

  The only difference was that Dr. Dibbs was soggy, greasy, and gross—like a French fry.

  I took my seat, wiping my hand—yep, the one Dr. Dibbs fondled—against my jeans. I was also annoyed at finding my assigned chair was set directly across from my tutor, which meant spending tea time being ogled by a human fast food side order.

  “And how is our young resident coming along, Professor?” the Trill asked.

  “Oh, very well, very well, Mr. Trill,” Dr. Dibbs gurgled. “I can’t imagine any other young man being so blessed.”

  I grumbled another emphatic “Ugh!” as I claimed a pastry, making sure not to look in the man’s direction.

  This was going to be one hell of a long hour, I thought, sighing. I missed Mom’s cooking—yeah, even all those fried, shorten-thy-lifespan dishes which she was so fond of force feeding me. Not meat loaf, though. Oh, hell, no.

  “Has he improved on his Chemistry and Geometry?”

  “A little, yes, but those are his weaknesses, I’m afraid, Mr. Trill. He needs to apply himself more.”

  I raised a hand. “Uh, wait a second. I think it’s really a matter of not having a head for Chemistry and Geometry. If superpowers can’t even help me improve in my schoolwork, that pretty much says it right there, no?”

  The two men laughed, and I sank back in my chair, glaring at them as I gnawed at my treat.

  “That’s a sorry excuse, Mr. Eric,” Dr. Dibbs replied. “Quite typical for a boy in your situation to use, in fact. No, I don’t buy it, and neither does your guardian. You, sir, must work harder and show improvement.”

  “You have the benefit of a private tutor,” the Trill added, refilling his cup. “I see no reason why you still refuse to work more closely with the Professor.”

  Uh, maybe because I didn’t really care to be drooled over or groped while memorizing the table of elements? How gross was that?

  “It’s not necessary. I can work on my own, thanks. Besides, isn’t that what you want from me? Like, independence and stuff? I mean, how can you expect me to learn anything if I’m going to be spoon fed everything?”

  “As an experienced pedagogue, I’d be more than happy to work very closely with you, Mr. Eric, not be forced into the role of homework checker.” There was that leer again. Was it my quivering brain, or did his whole face twitch, like he was straining? Okay, whatever it was, it was just—ew.

  “Yeah, and how do I know that you’re not just saying that? Will my diploma mean anything after you’re done?” I countered, shuddering again. God, that man was just plain wrong. “Do I even get a diploma?”

  The Trill raised a hand in his turn. “Of course, you will, and, yes, your diploma will mean something. Your private education, after all, is accredited. And if education bigwigs refuse to acknowledge your academic success, we’ve got ways of fixing that. But you’re jumping far ahead of yourself, my dear Mr. Plath. One thing at a time, please. You’re only sixteen, after all. You’ve got time, as do we, where your future education’s concerned. For now, work on your weak subjects.”

  “But I’m one of the bad guys now,” I insisted. “Why can’t I just practice blowing things up?”

  “You’ll have that opportunity, yes, but brawn is best served with a generous dollop of brain—in a manner of speaking, of course. Look at me.” The Trill chuckled.

  “Oh. So practice destruction is like P.E., then?”

  “Something like.”

  Across from the Trill, Dr. Dibbs chuckled as well. Then he went back to leering at me.

  “I suppose you don’t have anything for me to do, huh?” I asked, sulkily staring at my tea. “I mean, other than my homework?”

  “Oh, I do, yes. Your services will be needed soon enough. Be prepared.”

  “Good.” I sighed and then sipped my tea. The reluctant Supervillain Sidekick—how tragic a figure did I cut?

  Dr. Dibbs glanced at his pocket watch. Ayup, the man actually owned one, and I must say I was impressed. Kind of.

  “Ah,” he gurgled, stuffing it back in his pocket and leaping to his feet. “I’m afraid I must leave you gentlemen.”

  I suppose that was one good thing about having him for my tutor. He never stayed past fifteen minutes in our company. He was always running around, up to his sweaty ears, he claimed, with more tutoring appointments—for which I seriously wished those other students good luck.

  “See?” I crowed, unable to help myself. “If we worked one-on-one like a real tutor-student thing, we wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything since you keep running off like this.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could work my schedule around that,” he replied without a second’s hesitation as he touched his hat in farewell. “It would be a pleasure being your shepherd.”

  “Do you mind? I’m eating!”

  He just laughed and walked off, the Trill escorting him and engaging him in a whispered conversation.

  I returned to my room—yeah, I was given my own faux-ass Venetian bedroom, go me—once I finished tea, shaking off all reminders of Dr. Dibbs’ presence and taking care to lock the door behind me. Just in case.

  My room was a copy of the room where the Trill kept me after knocking me unconscious and spiriting me away once upon a time. No classical music played in the background, though, so I figured the Trill was pretty much done with experimenting on me.
Call me a pessimistic optimist.

  I walked over to the computer—a small consolation gift from the Trill—and turned it on. As I waited, I glanced down at my left hand. I gently rubbed it with my right, thinking about Peter’s friendship bracelet.

  I’d managed to dampen its tracking function by enveloping it in an energy bubble, and I think I must have weakened the bracelet’s physical form in the process as well. It was pretty easy for the Trill to break the thing apart, and I never saw it again.

  Chapter 2

  My only connection to the outside world was my computer. I honestly didn’t know whether or not Althea could realistically trace me through her powers, but I figured the World Wide Web was such a galaxy-sized, crazy-ass sea of networks that the chances of her stumbling across me were next to zero. If I remembered correctly, she’d said once that she could possess my old computer because she knew my “location,” whatever that meant. Unless she’d developed into her powers far enough so that she could still find me somehow, but that’d be wishful thinking, I guess.

  All the same, the computer was also rigged to limit my online time to about an hour a day—during regular school hours, at that. Yeah, I know, right? It didn’t care whether or not I was done surfing. When my hour was up, it automatically shut itself down. Once I was online, I could only surf, not log into communities or message boards or anything that required me to input information and leave traces of my presence in cyberspace for Spirit Wire to sniff out. How could I? The keyboard was a dummy, with keys that could be depressed to no effect. It lay on the desk, mocking me time after time, and it took a while for me to learn to keep myself from automatically setting my hands on the keyboard when I got online and start typing away.

  Way to go, messing with the mind of a minor.

  I couldn’t do searches, obviously, and my way of navigating cyber waters was to click on link after link after link until I found the right site for me to explore. It was horrible, and it gave me headaches every time, but that was all that I was allowed to do. I sure couldn’t log in to check out my favorite online role playing communities.