You’re conflicted over all sorts of moral and ethical issues surrounding your powers, am I right? Do you know what that means? Your confusion? It means that your transformation isn’t as deep as it probably should be, at least compared to the ones who were manipulated on a genetic level. Whoever screwed with your mind could only do so much, and it shows. Do you hear me? You don’t have to go through with the transformation. You still have enough of your conscience intact to know what’s right and what’s wrong, and you can use it against your other self and—and, well, turn things around. Overcome the surface changes and get rid of them once and for all.
“But I’ve been doing that, haven’t I?” I asked aloud, hoping for Brenda to answer me somehow. Nothing but quiet classical music followed my question, and I consoled myself with another cookie.
I’d been shooting for a goal that must sound so corny and maybe even screwball-y. I’d always been aware of my superficially acquired powers, and that awareness seemed to carry me through the godawful process of being acclimated into the supervillain business with my sanity intact—by and large, anyway. I never thought myself to be an idiot the whole time. I played along, pretended alliance to my “creator.” I’d been only marginally involved in his crime sprees…
I sighed deeply, pinched my eyes shut, and slapped my forehead hard. “Dumbass!” I hissed. “Marginally? Marginally? What the hell? Who kept the auction guests prisoners in the room while the Trill zapped them into unconsciousness? Who stayed on the lookout while the Trill’s thugs cleaned everyone out?” I gave my forehead another hard slap, biting back a yelp of pain. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. “Damn it! I even fought on the Debutantes’ side!”
I fell back in my chair, feeling sickened. “Oh, my God, I’m such a loser.” So much for using my powers against the Trill. Then again, a small voice in my mind countered, how, exactly, did I plan to carry out my scheme? Surely, it meant an occasional show of bad guy-ness, which also meant victims. It might leave a bad taste in my mouth, but sacrifices had to be made. What was it called again?
Something like collateral whachamacallit?
“Collateral damage, I think,” I said gloomily. I’d heard that term tossed around over a family meal, when Dad and Liz would egg each other on with political debates. I wasn’t even sure what it meant, but I thought I had a pretty decent idea of what it was. At any rate, if that were the case, shouldn’t I have at least minimized my participation? I mean, I kind of went all gung-ho when push came to shove. I should’ve held back and not help out in causing so much damage to people—even filthy rich, filthy-pervy people with a creepy thing for underage supervillain sidekicks.
Father Matthew would be pleased to know my conscience was still relatively intact.
The ring glinted on the table, as though it were calling to me with its little sparkle. I sighed and picked it up and inspected it. Other than the small blue stone, it had nothing else to indicate what it was for. I was expected to wear it, but what for? And who gave it to me?
It wasn’t the Trill, that was for sure. He didn’t have any need for secrecy, and in fact, it was more like him to just slip the ring onto my finger while I was out cold and be done with it. If he waited until I regained consciousness, he’d still do it the direct way. He’d march up to me, take my hand, put on the ring, and throw an insult or two about my family into the mix.
Okay, that sounded like we were getting engaged, which was a pretty icky idea through and through, and I shuddered, gagging. I had standards, after all.
I mulled things over and frowned at the ring. No, it definitely wasn’t the Trill. The ring was baked into a cookie—a plate of obscene yumminess that was meant for me. The whole thing reeked of secrecy and a clever attempt at reaching me somehow without the Trill and/or his men foiling everything.
I perked up, and my alertness sharpened. I had an ally in the Trill’s household? Yeah, I did. What else could this mean? I tore the little scrap of paper and immediately tried to fit the ring around my fingers. It proved to be too small for most of them but my pinky finger, so there it stayed.
“Okay, now what?” I asked, raising my hand and staring at the ring against the backdrop of smoky candles and fakeroony Venetian decor. I held my breath and waited, but nothing happened.
Actually, something did. A knock came at my door, and I instinctively brought my left hand behind me as I jumped up from my chair, startled. A moment of confusion passed.
“Um…yeah?” I called out.
“Your homework, Mr. Eric,” a cheerful, muffled voice replied.
I grimaced. Oh, great. Him again. “Okay, I’m coming!”
I walked to the door and opened it, my vision immediately being filled with the greasy, pouchy smile that Dr. Dibbs leveled at me. He touched his hat—I wondered if he ever took that thing off—then again, I wasn’t too eager to see what it covered.
Tilting his head slightly, he said, “Pleased to see you recovering well, young man.”
“I’m fine, yeah,” I replied. “Are those mine?”
He looked down at a small collection of books and loose sheets of paper cradled in his arms. “Yes, yes,” he breathed. “Your homework, all corrected, and your new study guides.”
I took the stack from him as quickly as I could, and with the least amount of physical contact between us.
“Thanks. I’ll get to them tomorrow, I guess. I’m feeling a little tired and sore still.”
“My dear boy, I can always work with you directly in the library,” he said as I took the books and stuff from him. “You know that it’s the quickest method of moving your education forward.”
“I—I know. I just—I think I work better alone, you know? That’s always been the problem when it came to school. I’m more of an isolationist as a student, but my mom and dad didn’t believe me.”
His overly-large eyes blinked behind his thick glasses as he listened. “Are you sure? Your scores are pretty dismal, if I may say so. Chemistry and Geometry are just…” The look on his face said it all.
“Hey, I never said that I’m perfect when I work alone. I just said that I work better. You know, like, I focus better because I don’t have distractions?”
“Clever enough excuse,” he said, pulling out a slightly damp handkerchief that grossed me out and wiping himself dry with it. “As long as you remain on top of your work, Mr. Eric, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that,” I said and stepped away from the door as a hint that the conversation was done. “Thanks.”
He nodded, touching his hat and smiling again before turning on his heels and waddling down the hallway. Before I could close the door, however, he called out, “Mr. Trill requires that I give you exams, young man. It demands my presence, of course—prevents cheating and all other nefarious games youngsters play these days.”
I made a face. Good thing he didn’t see. “Whatever,” I replied.
“Be ready for it. I’ll tell you when it’ll be set.” He didn’t bother to wait for a response from me. He merely raised a hand and waved before vanishing around a corner.
I sighed and shut the door, taking care to lock it. “Oh, man,” I said, walking over to the computer and dumping my school stuff on my bed as I passed by it. “I’m going to be stuck in a room, alone, with a creepy, greasy tutor.”
Seriously, if my mom were to hear about that…
* * * *
I still vividly remembered a snarling threat she made against some dude who started to spout out the usual taunting, judgmental crap at me when he spotted me checking out some gay books in one of the bigger bookstores in Vintage City. It was seriously a bad move on the bookstore owners’ part to have the Gay Studies section sitting side-by-side with the Sports section. At any rate, there I was, minding my own business, and by sheer force of bad luck, I found myself standing next to Mr. Lily-White, who seemed to be having a pretty crappy day and decided to verbally kick me around because he wanted to overcompensate for somethi
ng. Like a tiny little dick.
It happened a few days after I came out to my family, when I was fifteen. Even with the trauma of coming out finally behind me, I was still flailing around, feeling my way toward a more secure view of myself and other queer kids. At that time, I’d yet to learn how to defend myself from verbal attacks.
I just gaped at him the whole time he spewed all kinds of self-righteous shit. Mom—who’d make a better superhero than me, given her Über Maternal Radar, which could deliver a mind-boggling drop-kick to one’s psychological balls at fifty paces—suddenly appeared. She pulled me aside, stepped in front of Mr. Lily-White, and raised a finger in warning.
“Listen, you,” she hissed. “He’s gay, he’s my son, and I’m premenstrual. So don’t—and I mean don’t—even think about it.”
Mr. Lily-White—who turned lily-white—went back to browsing the Sports shelves while Mom ordered me to grab whatever book I wanted and then marched me over to the cashier. I grinned like an idiot the whole way, glowing with pride, a shiny new book in hand.
That kind of maternal rage? Totally coming for Dr. Dibbs if he turned out to be a real perv, and Mom found out about it.
* * * *
I went online, feeling a little more relaxed as I checked out the RPG community without logging in.
Ah, yes. Major kerfluffle going on in cyber Vintage City. The Deathtrap Debutantes were now the center of attention, with the Cloak turning into an ally of theirs. I tried to ignore the fact that the Cloak, with his story of superficial manipulation now known from one end of the universe to the other, was turned into a tragic character. He was always torn in his allegiances. Boy, the player definitely got me down to a T. He also messed around with every spandex-costumed girl present. Okay, the player got me down except for that part.
The kerfluffle now seemed to center around a gaggle of Mary Sues who fought each other over the Cloak’s attention, but unlike the duplicate Mary Sues who chased after Calais, these were less cooperative and kept stalling the game with flame war after flame war after flame war, both at the RPG community and at the Wank House.
I wasn’t sure how to feel about being chased on all sides by super-perfect girls, but it freaked me out when one made-up supervillain came out and said she was pregnant with the Cloak’s babies. She called herself Pink Gossamer Wings, Pinky for short, and was an elf-princess who was forced to go to the Dark Side in order to avenge her father’s usurpers. Apparently the ultrasound confirmed triplets, she announced.
“It’s no use,” she said with a girly sigh, hanging her pretty, glittering head as sunlight sparkled off those perfect waist-length curls. “You have to marry me now and save my honor.”
I must have stared at the screen for about ten years before I remembered to blink. I immediately went somewhere else before the other players could post their reactions to the announcement.
Seriously, fandoms? Creepy as fucking all hell.
So I spent the next half hour watching online videos of Joshua Bell in different performances. I must have sat there, dreamy-eyed and boneless for an eternity, lost in daydreams with my long-time violin-playing idol. Was there a fandom dedicated to him? That was an idea. After the last video, I quickly scoured the ‘net for leads, chewing a nail in suppressed excitement. Unfortunately my online hour was up, and I didn’t get far.
Chapter 7
I must add one more grievance to my growing list as a supervillain’s ward. Homework? Yeah, I got that one.
Being perpetually grounded? That would be the next point.
I was grounded—forever, it looked like. I wasn’t allowed to wander out of the Trill’s hideout, which I guess was understandable, considering I was kinda, sorta one of the bad guys. I couldn’t even wear a disguise in order to walk out and do, well, normal, day-to-day things that teenagers did. I wasn’t allowed to check out the Elms Theatre, but then again, I’d practically destroyed the place the last time I was there, so I saw the wisdom behind that no-no. I wasn’t allowed to have coffee at the Jumping Bean. No Chinese food and extras for necessary weight gain from Mrs. Zhang. Why yearn for Chinese, when I could have the best Italian cuisine “at home” every day, the Trill argued. No used book-hunting at Olivier’s.
Reason? I had all the smutty classic titles I could ever dream of at my disposal, and I didn’t have to pay a single cent for them. I couldn’t ride my bike through the city because my bike was destroyed in my showdown with the Shadow Puppet’s killer dolls. Then again, I just plain couldn’t take a ride anywhere in the city. Too risky, yep.
God, what a life.
Trapped in an underground network of tunnels, constantly guarded by thugs who were apparently paid to wander through the maze as a precaution, to make sure I wasn’t anywhere I shouldn’t be, having “accidentally” lost my way. My mom wasn’t even this paranoid when I was five years old and constantly being lured from her side by tinker toys and anything soft and furry that caught my attention. I must add that I’d also received sharp smacks on my butt whenever she found me, and, frankly, I’d rather not be punished along those lines by the Trill’s hoodlums, good grief!
I’d tried to sneak into the Trill’s labs before, but I didn’t know where they were, so I spent my time tiptoeing through the tunnels, running into dead ends more often than not, until I was unlucky enough to literally bump into some goon named Jeb one time. Seriously, they all wore the same suits with the same masks. How would I know who was whom in this racket?
“Oi!” he barked, hauling me up by my shirt. He was a pretty tall and massive guy. I wasn’t sure if I was on tiptoes or literally dangling from his hold.
“Oh—hey, what’s up?” I bleated.
“What the hell d’ya think yer doin’, punk?”
“Taking a walk? It’s getting pretty boring in my room, you know. I don’t even have a view.”
“Yeah?” he snarled, shaking me. “Well, ya can’t take no walks ‘round here. Boss says to keep an eye out fer ya ‘cause yer trouble all the way, and ya still can’t handle yer powers.”
I tried to pry his fingers off my shirt, which was starting to tear. “I get it, I get it,” I said. “I’m going back to my room. Hey, watch it, will you? I can’t afford to get another shirt like this!”
He let me go, but he still jabbed me in the back and ordered me to march back to my room, with him acting as my escort. “C’mon, kid,” he said. “Jeb’ll make sure ya get back safely to yer little chichi room.”
I sullenly retraced my steps, annoyed by all this. I needed to put my plan into action as soon as I could, but this was really putting a damper on things.
When I reached my bedroom door, Jeb did me the honor of opening it and making sure I crossed the threshold by grabbing my shirt collar and hauling me inside. He even made me sit at my reading table and raised a warning finger at me.
“Now stay there!” he said and then walked off, slamming the door behind him.
Did I stay? Nope.
I waited for fifteen minutes before jumping up and hurrying out, trying to be much more ninja-like this time around, but I never made it past the first side tunnel junction. This time I was collared by some goon named Burke and dragged back to my room. I suppose I should be grateful for his handling since he didn’t shake me like a ragdoll while threatening physical violence—or even speak with bad grammar. He just told me to be a good boy and stay in my room, or he’d be forced to beat the living shit out of me, powers or no powers.
I must have tried to do some sleuthing around another half a dozen times before the Trill got so fed up with me he had the tunnels guarded by thugs. The thugs grew more and more bored with their stupid job, while getting more and more pissed off at me for forcing the Trill’s hand and giving them crummy work to do. And all these during their downtime from terrorizing the citizens of Vintage City, too.
“My dear Mr. Plath, it’s useless sneaking around and feeling your way to my inner sanctum like a wide-eyed teenage detective,” the Trill said over lunch, while I sl
ouched in my chair, sullen and glaring at my food, my arms crossed on my chest. “Don’t forget that I made you into who you are now—”
“Who? You mean what I am now,” I spat.
“Yes, yes, yes. Whatever you say. Dear lord, is this what I’m missing by staying single?” He shook his head as he helped himself to a bread roll. “Honestly, I don’t know how other parents do it.”
“Yeah, well—you’re obviously not cut out for fatherhood.”
“The best thing in this situation is to ignore adolescent petulance. As I was saying, it’s no use sneaking around the way you’ve been doing. I’m very well aware that you’re intent on bringing me down from the inside.”
I stared at him, feeling the blood drain away from me.
“Oh, don’t give me that look.” He laughed, waving a fork at me. “Please, I never thought you to be so naïve. No, no, I know there were—oh, how should I put this—flaws in the Noxious Nocturne even until the end. In your case, it was my failure in detaching you from your emotions completely, but the program has one saving feature.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not fully under my control, which is—in adolescent terms—a shameful case of ‘My Bad.’ But even with that glitch, what the Noxious Nocturne was still able to do—and this has always been a small but significant part of its program—was to work around that vulnerability by tapping into a deeper, more lingering aspect of your experiences. And using those experiences to—oh, how should I say it—propel you into action.” He smiled, paused to drink his wine, and watched me frown at him with a quiet chuckle. “I expect you to be torn, my dear Mr. Plath, by your moral codes and all other trifling things. I also expect you to hesitate when given a hypothetical combat situation involving your broken-hearted Calais. However, whatever moral codes you profess to follow, whatever longing you might feel for your lost love, whatever noble resolutions of sacrifice you might form when alone—none of those will matter when you’re there, facing them, and your back’s against the wall. In brief, you’ve no choice but to fight your friends.”
Ordinary Champions Page 5
