I looked around for a box of tissue but couldn’t find any, and I was forced to use my shirt to wipe my face, though I resisted the temptation to blow into it. I mean, the very idea was gross. I might be brought pretty low, but I still had standards. Not to mention some dignity left.
I opened the door and peered out. After that lengthy bout of sobbing, my system had moved on to the next level of grief recovery, which included the most annoying, and embarrassing, case of major hiccups.
“Wh—wha—hic—what?”
Dr. Dibbs frowned at me, a stack of books cradled against his chest. “You’re in severe distress, Mr. Eric,” he observed.
“No sh—hic—shit. What d’you—hic—you want?”
“A talk. And a very serious one, at that.” He paused and glanced behind him with a loud harrumph!
I refused to step aside. “What ab—out? Hic! My grades ag—again?”
“Yes, sir, about your grades,” he replied, raising his voice so that he was practically shouting at me. “They’re dismal, and I need to know why you continue to refuse help from me!”
I grimaced. “Ouch. Dude, sh—shut up. I ca—hic—can hear you loud and—hic—and clear.”
His frown deepened. “Take a deep breath, Mr. Eric, and don’t talk. Let your system calm itself first before dignifying me with a proper response,” he said, still bellowing. Then he leaned forward and fiercely whispered, “Look, if you want me to help you, you’d better let me in before I transform and get ourselves busted!”
My jaw must’ve scraped the floor after I heard him. I said nothing, but I did let him in my room with my mouth still hanging open. He pushed past me and shut the door himself, then leaned against it with a huge sigh of relief.
“Here,” he said, handing me the books, which I took, still in speechless shock and still hiccuping. Then he fumbled around for his pocket-watch and looked at it. “Great. Two more minutes.” He stuffed it back in his pocket and nodded at my all-purpose table. “I gotta sit down. This shit’s eating me alive.”
“Uh—yeah, sure. Hic!”
Before moving off, though, Dr. Dibbs patted his jacket again, muttering to himself. Then he gave a low, triumphant grunt and fished out a little rectangular object that was smaller than his palm. He fiddled with it for a second or two, pressing buttons—I guessed that they were buttons, but I couldn’t see anything—and motioning for me to keep quiet, which I did. My hiccupss were slowly going away. Then again, the shock of the moment must’ve been a pretty effective cure.
“Ah, there you go,” he said, grinning, and then turned around to press the device against the door, near the doorknob. It must have its own adhesive or something like it because it stuck to the wood without a problem.
With one more pressing of an invisible button, Dr. Dibbs activated the thing, and from it came a steady buzzing of voices.
“What’s that?” I whispered.
“That’s a Vox Box Ultimate 1—patent pending,” he replied, turning back to me with a smug grin. “The Sentries made it from scratch. Pretty sweet, eh?”
“What’s it doing?”
“It’s our shield, and with it going, we can’t talk louder than this.”
“I don’t get it. And who’re the Sentries?”
He sighed and beckoned me over to the table, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face, which was, again, dripping with sweat. “It’s putting out a phony conversation between you and me. Listen.”
I stopped and held my breath. Sure enough, I could hear a steady back-and-forth exchange between me and Dr. Dibbs. We were in the middle of a lesson on music history. Earlier grief and hopelessness forgotten, I listened to the voices in stunned silence.
“How’d you do that? Get my voice, I mean?” I whispered, turning to look at him, wide-eyed despite my puffed-up eyelids and so on.
“Your ring. It’s a recording device. It also transmits the data to our computer. We save it and then work it into this.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door.
“So who are you?”
He sighed again and sat back on his chair. “You’re about to find out. Give me a few more seconds.”
We both fell silent, and then he transformed like he’d warned. One minute I was looking at Dr. Dibbs—dapper, sweaty, pouchy, leering, greasy Dr. Dibbs—sitting back, arms crossed on his chest, waiting.
The next minute I was watching a weird pulsing light start in his chest and then grow larger and larger, covering every part of his figure from my view until my tutor vanished in a soft glow that throbbed a few times before fading gently away. Little by little, it cleared up, and I was staring in amazement at a tall, well-built black guy—the same one, I realized with even more shock, whom I’d run into when I was chasing after Lucy.
Ayup, there he sat, sweat-drenched and breathing heavily as though he’d just had a rigorous workout. Dressed in a tank top—that clung to his body just perfectly, even without his sweat helping its figure-flattering qualities—loose, ripped jeans, and old, scuffed-up Doc Martens.
He’d shaved his head, and it was only then when I noticed that he sported a small tattoo on his left inner arm: a Celtic cross design. I found it much harder keeping myself from staring too much that time. I mean, come on. He was in the room with me. We were alone. Locked away. I hadn’t been with Peter in God knew how long. I was still nursing a broken heart, fer chrissakes. Celibacy didn’t suit me at all.
Still panting and perspiring, he flashed me a tired little smile and raised a hand. “Hey,” he said, his voice still a whisper. And, nope, he didn’t sound like Dr. Dibbs. “How’s it going?”
“Nice to meet you,” I stammered. I even raised a hand and then realized, too late, how lame I must’ve looked, doing that. “I’m Eric.”
“Freddie Jameson.” He yawned, barely covering his mouth. “Holy shit, I’m tired. I need to lie down.” Then he blinked and grinned again, looking dazed and airy. “Happens all the time. I’m still working on my powers, and for now, I can’t stay a chameleon for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch. I’m building my way up to half an hour, though.”
“Chameleon?” I echoed, leaning forward. “You mean—you turn into other people? Like a shapeshifter?”
“I look like other people, yeah. Can’t come up with my own disguise at the moment, though. I have to use real people for my templates.” He yawned again. “Man—I gotta lie down.”
“You’re welcome to use my bed,” I offered with a pathetic flash of horny hope.
“I can’t. I have to be cocooned. My regeneration requires something like me being physically closed in as much as possible.” He shrugged when I blinked at him in confusion. “Don’t ask. I don’t get it, either. It’s the only way for my system to re-energize, and I’ve experimented in all kinds of crazy ways, trust me. Lying in bed? It’s like nuclear insomnia, and I’m practically dead from fatigue within five minutes.”
I frowned at him. “You’re weird.”
“Pot, kettle. And I’m trying to save your white ass.”
Okay, he had a point there—about my ass being white, I mean. “I guess you can hide under my bed, then. It’s pretty roomy there, but I can’t tell you how the dustbunny situation is.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll settle for that. I just—I need to sleep this off and regroup. Transforming eats up my energy like a mofo, and I always need at least twenty minutes of sleep after I change.”
“I’m assuming you’re working on that as well.”
“Yeah.”
He stood up, teetering a little on his feet. “Whatever you do, don’t turn that thing off,” he said, pointing at the Vox Box thingie at my door.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Besides, I wouldn’t know which button to push, anyway.”
“Good point.”
I escorted him to bed—God, I wish!—and dropped to my knees to inspect the underside. It looked pretty clean.
“Okay, you’re set,” I said, reaching up and pulling one of my pillows to give him. “Do
you need a blanket or something?”
“Nah, I’m okay, thanks.” He took the pillow and, dropping on his stomach—which was tight, cut, and a gay boy’s ultra-wet dream—he slithered under my bed, his legs kicking until he vanished completely.
I leaned down and peered into his faintly gloomy rest space. “Um, sweet dreams, I guess. By the way, what time am I supposed to wake you up? Or should I?”
“No worries about that. I wake up on my own. I’m sort of hardwired to do that—comes with my transformation powers.”
“Oh. Okay, then. I’ll keep the radio thing on. Is it set on a loop or something?”
“It’s got about two hours of voice programs in it. Don’t worry.”
“What if someone wants to come in?”
“No one will.”
I frowned. “Are you sure?”
He tried to turn on his side but found that he’d be wedging himself between my bed and the floor. He sighed and settled himself on his stomach, muttering something.
“Yeah, I’m sure. The Trill’s out, and so are half his thugs. Only two of them are left to guard this dump. Everyone knows we’re having a lecture in here.”
“We could’ve gone to the library, you know, instead of my bedroom.”
He rolled his eyes before closing them. “Dude, I know what you’re thinking, and you’d better stop. There’s more privacy in your bedroom, in case you’re wondering. Now let me sleep, will you? If you have questions, write them down while you wait.”
I nodded. “Okay. Sorry. I’m going.”
I stumbled to my feet. It was now my turn to be dazed and airy. I took my place back at the table, feeling a little lost and overwhelmed and knowing for sure I looked like utter crap. Behind me I could hear faint snoring. To my right, a pair of disembodied voices carried on with their lessons.
I don’t get it, my voice whined. Why do I have to learn all this junk? It’s pointless!
I coughed, blushing. Boy, whoever worked on the program got me down perfectly.
Chapter 11
The next half hour turned out to be the most nerve-wracking in my life. I suppose I could’ve trusted Freddie and let things go, knowing the Trill’s hideout was practically abandoned. I couldn’t help but worry, though. While he slept under my bed, the Vox Box continued its job of a non-existent lecture. I sat at the table, chewing on cuticle after cuticle while my knees knocked against each other until all ten fingers looked like shredded, soggy, albino tentacles.
I couldn’t distract myself with my books. I didn’t want to go online, knowing how easily I could be totally eaten up by the computer. If someone were to knock at the door, I wouldn’t be able to get myself together fast enough to stop the Vox Box and keep anyone from sniffing out anything suspicious. The only thing I managed to do was to hurry to the door to make sure it was securely locked, but then again, I also wondered whether or not a locked door would’ve aroused suspicion, regardless. I ended up doodling on a piece of paper—just repetitive, bizarre patterns in pen. I wanted to cover the whole of one side. Just because.
So I just sat there for close to half an hour, a mess of tangled nerves and swollen sinuses, drawing away with my brain completely on automatic. After what felt like a godawful eternity, I heard faint sounds coming from under my bed.
Lots of shifting around, yawning, munching, mumbling.
“Hey,” I called out softly. “You okay down there?”
“Huh? Wha…?”
I watched a hand emerge from the shadows. Then came a lot of grunting and huffing as Freddie dragged himself from under my bed. Before long he was out, stumbling to his feet to stretch and yawn, twisting parts of his body and cracking them while letting loose a torrent of “Oooohh, damn, that feels good!” Crack, crack, crack.
I winced at the sound, which always made me think of torture devices and of arms and legs being pulled out of their sockets. Ugh.
“How was your nap?” I asked as he sauntered over to the table to plop down in a chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Good, good. The floor didn’t bother me, in case you’re wondering. I’m actually used to that. Hell, you should see what I’m forced to use out there in the streets.”
I nodded, pressing my mouth into a tight line and furrowing my brows. God, where would I start? “Um, so what’s going on here?” All right, that might not be ideal, but it was something.
Freddie slouched in his chair, resting his hands on the table. He looked at me with the keenest pair of cat-like eyes I’d ever seen. “I’m one of the made-to-order babies,” he began. “My parents are dead, though—cancer for my mom, a heart attack for my dad.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I was a baby when they both died. I don’t have any memories of either of them, but this I know: they went to the labs to make sure I would stand out in the crowd. At least, that’s what I’m told. Don’t know exactly what that means.” He ended that with a little smirk. “And here I am, a human chameleon. Pretty ironic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that’s—that sucks.”
He shook his head and waved a hand. “I’m adopted—got a family now. They’re the ones who helped me when I started coming into my powers.”
“They know?” I blurted out, eyes widening. “No shit!”
“They do, yeah. Hell, they used to work for the labs. That’s the reason why they took me in and then decided to band together and come back as the Sentries.”
“Who’re the Sentries? You mentioned them when you showed up…”
Freddie signaled me to quiet down as he listened. The Vox Box was still at it, this time playing out a pretty dramatic moment involving me grousing over proofs.
This is stupid! I don’t need them in real life! Go me.
“I can’t stay here too long,” Freddie said. “All I can say at the moment is that the Sentries used to be a part of the lab staff. They came back to make sure that things are okay with the genetically-altered babies…”
I snorted. “They must’ve been shocked when they saw.”
He chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. That’s an understatement. Listen, I need to get out of here and file a report with Dr. Dibbs and—”
“No way! There’s a real Dr. Dibbs?” I sputtered.
“Well, duh! Of course! How else am I able to come up with a mask like this?”
I made a face and crossed my arms on my chest. “You could’ve picked someone who didn’t creep me out so much.”
“Hey, watch it. Dr. Dibbs is cool. If my mask grosses you out, it’s because my powers are still not that stable, and I’m always—always—sweating like crazy. You’ve seen me. Besides, all that disgusting shit worked out in the end.” He grinned broadly and raised both arms at his sides in emphasis. “It’s better to freak you out and hate me the whole time than have you trust me from the get-go. My infiltration mission wouldn’t have worked if we got all chummy and stuff.”
I pondered for a moment, anxiety roused at the thought that Freddie’s time was nearly up. I tried to come up with questions to hit him with, but my brain—because I’m such a monumental dumbass—froze up, and all I could do was to look down at my left hand and point at my pinky finger.
“So in addition to recording my voice, what else can this thing do?” I prodded. “Can it be a tracker?”
“Um, no—just a voice recorder. Sorry. For it to be a tracking device, it would require a better program and all that, and the Sentries just aren’t equipped the way some of the superheroes are. By the way, I need that back. It’s done its job.”
I pulled it off my finger and handed it to him. “So no one knows where I’m located?”
Freddie rolled his eyes and pointed at himself.
“Then why aren’t you helping me blow up this dump? With my powers the way they are, I can’t do it alone!”
“Because I can’t stay disguised long enough to work with you, and you sure haven’t been doing me any favors by keeping Dr. Dibbs away!”
I shuddered. “Ugh—j
ust—not a good mental picture, but I know what you mean. And why are you blaming me? You’re the one who chose to look like some Indiana Jones reject who’s perving over me!”
Freddie narrowed his eyes. “Dude, I’m straight. If you were Penelope Cruz, I’d perv all over you any time, but not as you are.”
Can we just move on to something more interesting like art? my bodiless alter ego demanded. This sucks!
“And I think the program’s gone a little over-the-top now,” I complained, frowning and jerking a finger in the direction of the Vox Box. “I never bitch like that in school!”
“No, but you would if you were with a tutor.”
It was my turn to narrow my eyes. He was right. “Smartass.”
Freddie glanced at the clock. “Okay, listen closely. I need to change back and get the hell out of here.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, wait—I’m coming back. Trust me. Right now, I’m only here to get in close contact with you and tell you who I am and who I work for. The Sentries are out there, looking after you and everyone else. They’re the good guys, Eric. They know what the Trill did to you, and they know your powers are growing more and more unstable.”
“How’d they know what’s going on with—”
Freddie stopped me with an impish grin. “Meet Mr. Bowles, yo,” he said, and he even extended a hand, which I shook dazedly. “The real Gunther Bowles is in custody, by the way, and I’m not talking about the cops. The Sentries have him, and since he’s been giving us all kinds of shit and dead ends, it’s my mission to take him on for my cover and infiltrate the Trill’s hideout for the second phase of my job—learn about the Noxious Nocturne and where the Trill’s experiments are being held.”
“You mean—they’re not being held here?” I cut in.
“No, they aren’t. And I still haven’t gotten info from anyone. Well…” He paused, shrugging. “I can’t without making anyone suspicious, anyway, considering how long this Bowles dude has been working for the Trill—at least, from what I can tell. If I were to ask questions as Bowles, my cover’s blown unless I plead some bizarre form of amnesia, and you know that ain’t gonna fly. I’m alone in this, too, and I’m just as much a newbie as Calais and the others.”
Ordinary Champions Page 8
