Jay Jupiter was one of the more recent great mysteries of Aussie superhero history. He was the youngest person in Australia ever chosen to step into the machine that transforms ordinary people into our national superheroes. Also the first Aussie superhero who disappeared rather than lose his powers. A few years ago, he crept back on to the scene, nearly a decade after his disappearance, fighting crime at the side of his old partner, The Dark.
Social media broke the Kid Dark story. He was captured on Instagram in a series of blurry night shots that raised more questions than they answered. All the old conspiracy theories and a bunch of new ones fired up across every platform that rocked a hashtag.
Enter Tina Valentina, who blew Tumblr, Twitter and Instagram away in one fell swoop by tracking the bloke down and capturing his life in print. She knew Jay Jupiter’s story would change the way that the world looked at superheroes, and she wasn’t wrong.
Jay Jupiter: The Kid Dark Story is a stellar example of Tina Valentina taking control of the narrative—which she has managed to do throughout her entire career (with every story except the Solar romance; there’s no stopping that trainwreck).
Mum claims that she tracked down the elusive Kid Dark using her investigative skills. The truth is that she ran into him at the gym. Turns out the owner/manager of that gym is a former Australia’s Mightiest Hero herself, which is why my mother went there in the first place.
Kid Dark/Jay Jupiter hid himself pretty well: changed his name, dyed his hair. As Griff he was a student volunteer crashing in the basement of the same Boys Home that raised him before the Machine had turned him into a backflipping, cartwheeling, parkouring teen superhero. He was juggling two jobs and on the verge of dropping out of university when Mum asked him for help with her abdominal crunches.
Griff had no money, an uncertain future, no family that he hadn’t found for himself, and little belief in his own abilities. But he had a great story, and Tina Valentina is all about the story.
She invited Griff into our home. He lived there for nearly a year, discussing his superhero history with my mother in a series of in-depth interviews that she transformed into an award-winning article and a bestselling book.
By the end of that year, he felt like family. He taught me how to cook eggs six different ways, how to mend fuses, and how to detail my own car.
Griff’s voice comes through clearly in Valentina’s accounting of his life—his very Australian, down-to-earth, bloke-of-the-people voice. And the people responded—they loved his underdog-fights-the-system story, and lapped up every word. Finding the Kid Dark put my mother back on top again, reminded the world that she was still the Voice of Superhero Commentary in this country.
Tina didn’t just give Griff’s story to the world; she took responsibility for what came next. She put him in touch with a financial planner to manage his share of the advance for the book. She boosted his confidence along with his bank balance, and encouraged him to commit to his studies and his future.
Mums are mighty creatures, and he had no defence against mine.
With a double major of psychology and social work, Griff is planning to save the world the old fashioned way, one kid in risk at a time. Unlike the majority of graduates, he’ll be able to do that with some financial security.
So yeah I can see why he feels that he owes Tina Valentina.
That’s only going to make it harder when he figures out the truth.
Two weeks after that conversation in the car, I went to Griff’s graduation. Which, I guess that was a weird choice? He certainly wasn’t expecting me. But I had Mum’s ticket. I didn’t want him to be alone.
Trust me to assume our family was the centre of his universe.
I sat through the long speeches and presentations and handshakes. When I went searching for him after, I found that he already had a posse. “Friday,” Griff said, surprised enough to use my real name.
“Hey.” I gave him an awkward hug. “Sorry. Mum wanted to be here but she’s on a plane to Numidia…” Or the Sudan, or the Nullabor, was it obvious yet that I had no bloody clue where in the world she was?
Griff introduced me to his people. “This is Liam and Bluey. And Danni.”
I knew those names. The first two were teens from the Boys Home. They were the inspiration for his degree, and his career plans.
Danni’s presence was unexpected. I’d figured out some time ago that Griff’s boss and the manager of my mother’s favourite gym was the mighty blonde hero formerly known as Catsuit. I’d never been face to face with her before. This was kind of a problem, because she was my first superhero crush, and was somehow even more attractive now that she was older, wiser and those biceps were fruits of her own hard work.
I’ve never wanted a celebrity to sign my boobs more than in that moment.
To save myself from total humiliation, I gave Griff a sisterly punch on the arm. “Tell me the truth. You gave The Dark an invite too, right? He’s disguised as an ordinary citizen right here in this room.”
Griff’s face flared up into a fierce blush. I love getting proof that he’s a natural redhead, despite his habit of dyeing his hair dark. “Shut the hell up, Fry.”
“Ha, you said shut up,” said one of the kids, elbowing him.
“I’m allowed to, Bluey, because I’m a—fridging grown up.”
Oh, this was unexpectedly adorable.
I stayed longer than I meant to. There was plenty of wine floating around plus those little cheese things on sticks. Griff’s orphans were pretty great. They hassled him about his superhero antics almost as much as I did.
“I’m impressed, Friday Valentina,” Griff drawled at one point. I thought he was going to out me about my super obvious crush on his friend Danni, but instead he said: “You’ve barely checked your phone all afternoon. Isn’t it all going down this week?” He didn’t have to say #SuperheroSpill. We were both thinking it.
“Nothing to report until the Lottery goes live tomorrow,” I said. “It’s all empty speculation and bullshit right now. Today we watch and wait.” I leaned in, lifting my eyebrows. “Unless you have any insider knowledge. Come on. Tell the truth. The Dark is disguised as one of those plants. Or that little old lady with the cane by the exit?”
Griff shook his head, smiling. “The Dark wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this, kiddo. Too much fluorescent lighting. Plays havoc with his complexion.”
“So… that means you’re not going to give me his number?”
“Yes,” he said dryly with a glance across the room at Danni. “Like that’s the superhero number you want from me right now.”
I punched his arm harder this time.
#HashtagJournalism
THERE’S SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL ABOUT THE perfect hashtag. Never underestimate what can be accomplished with a few carefully chosen characters strung together behind a number symbol.
At its purest, the hashtag contains and defines and reduces a massive idea down to a single word or phrase. The best ones offer subversive commentary on themselves.
Truly, the hashtag is the epic poem of the 21st century.
In Australia, the political spill is our national sport, closely followed by AFL, cricket, women’s basketball and anything that makes the English sad when we win.
We like our sport bloody, and our politics bloodier.
A spill occurs usually when a political party is in power, but gets all panicky about whether they can win the next election. The gang disappear into a back room to decide whose turn it is to stab the Prime Minister in the back. The media collects a lot of footage of empty corridors while the party deliberate and vote, or possibly compete against each other in a series of cooking challenges.
Social media goes wild with speculation. A nation holds its breath.
The party emerges, with the challenger victorious or defeated.
Our country has had
a lot of Prime Ministers in the last few years is what I’m trying to get across here.
The big difference with the #SuperheroSpill is that it is regularly scheduled into the calendar. Twice a year, every year, the Lottery selects a new hero to enter the Machine.
My ritual for #SuperheroSpill (what the traditional media still call Hero Day) has been set in stone since I was 15:
I post a Friday Report vid to YouTube, summing up the most entertaining speculation and bullshit of the week, and making my own predictions.
I spend the morning arranging snacks around the couch while juggling about six different screens, to inhale as much of the coverage as humanly possible.
I livetweet the final hour, as the lottery candidate enters the Sky Tower, and a whole bunch of “real” reporters get the chance to interview them before they step into the Machine.
The nation holds its breath, and I eat snacks.
After the Machine announces which superhero is being kicked out of the team, and a bunch of pre-filmed montage obituaries begin to circulate on every media channel, I film my reaction live and try not to sob too hard, because I love them all, damnit.
When our new superhero emerges from the Machine I film my live reaction to that—to their name, their Legacy (if relevant) and their costume details. I pause occasionally to look up the relevant statistics.
I cry more, eat snacks and moderate the comments.
I spend the rest of the day arguing on Twitter.
It’s the most important day of the (twice a) year, and everyone knows to leave me alone on that date. My mother keeps clear of the house. When Griff was living with us, he quickly learned to do the same.
Which does not explain why, at 9 in the morning this Hero Day, he was on my doorstep.
“Are you lost?” I asked him.
“We need to talk.” Griff shoved his way past me into the house. This was totally unnecessary, as was ringing the doorbell in the first place. He still has a key.
“Do you not smell the white chocolate brownies and spicy peanut popcorn? Hashtag Superhero Spill Day!”
“This can’t wait,” he growled.
“Be fast, because I have some hardcore snark to deliver this morning, and I can’t waste my best bitchery on you.”
Griff glowered down at me, every inch the big brother. “Friday.”
“Griffindorus.” Even when things are very serious I take pride in my ability to make his eyeball twitch.
“Where is Tina?”
My feet went cold first, and the cold feeling moved quickly up the whole rest of the body. “What kind of question is that?”
“A pretty bloody good one. Where is she, Friday?“
I laughed. “Let me guess. You sent a text and she didn’t get back to you? Welcome to my life, Griff. You know what she’s like when she’s following a story—oh wait, you don’t, because for most of the time you’ve known her, you were the story. You know what it’s like to have all of her attention, but you have no idea what it’s like to be ignored because she’s off being a legend somewhere else. Welcome to the family.”
I stomped into the kitchen. I had not yet finished organising my snacks, and I was on a schedule.
Griff followed me. “You never smack-talk your mother. Except when you’re trying to deflect. So tell me the truth. Do you know where she is?”
“I know where she was,” I admitted. “Before she went missing.”
He sucked in a breath, though he didn’t look surprised. “Fry.”
“I didn’t want to worry you, okay? It’s not the first time this has happened. When I was twelve I gave a school report on my mother’s multiple abductions. I got an A and a referral to the school psychologist.”
“You have to tell someone.”
I gave him a dirty look. “I’m not new at this, Griff. The army knows. The police know. The secret superhero government task force specialising in international supervillain crime syndicates has opened yet another case file on Tina Valentina. I’ve done everything I can.”
“Is this why your requests for superhero phone numbers have tripled over the last few weeks?”
I frowned at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. My desire to milk your social group for networking contacts is eternal and consistent. It has nothing to do with my mother.”
“What can I do?”
The sweet thing is, he meant it.
I shoved the popcorn bowl at him. “You can hold that, while you watch the #SuperheroSpill with me.”
Griff winced. “Anything else?”
“You can enjoy it. Actually, I don’t understand why you’re not there.”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re a superhero, Griff. You spend like, six nights out of seven brooding on rooftops and foiling criminals. You’re in the club.”
“Not officially. Not for things like this.”
I gave him a sidelong look. “Bet you half a dollar The Dark would rather be watching this circus from a private couch too.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t take that bet.”
So Griff curled up with me, watching on TV as Kelly-Anne Luong, 25-year-old half-Vietnamese artist and yoga teacher, walked into the Tower to meet the current (official) superhero team: The Dark, with his black cloak and growly voice; Astra, perfect hair and sparkly star powers; Solar, hot blonde powerhouse and disability advocate; Surf, indigenous bro who manipulates matter into energy waves; Menace, a nineteen-year old ball of rage and destruction.
Astra had been on the team for more than five years; Solar for four. It was unheard of for women to last so long, but they had already dented Australian history when Solar joined Astra as a teammate instead of replacing her. Only One Girl on the Team used to be a thing we took for granted around here.
“It’s got to be one of them,” I said through a mouthful of popcorn. “Right?”
Griff’s leg jiggled. “If Astra doesn’t get retired, we need to talk to her,” he said abruptly. “About Tina. I would have done it days ago, if I’d only put the pieces together…”
“Astra is super hot, and she was definitely a factor in my teen bisexual awakening, but I’m not sure how she’s supposed to help find my Mum? I did mention that the army was on the case, right?”
“Astra,” Griff said firmly. “Her powers aren’t just glitter and light shows. She can see into other dimensions. Manipulate them, sometimes.”
I swallowed. “I know this, Griff. What I don’t know is why exactly you think Astra seeing into other freaking dimensions might be relevant to my mother’s disappearance? What do you know that I don’t?”
On the flat screen, Kelly-Anne finally got past the scrum of reporters to the Machine itself. I glanced at my phone—my #SuperheroSpill feed was filling up and I hadn’t typed anything for five minutes. Several of my followers had DMed me, wondering why I had gone quiet.
“Well,” said Griff, as Kelly-Anne stepped into the Machine. “Last time I spoke to Tina, she wasn’t talking about a research trip to Peru or Botswana. She was researching the possibility of inter-dimensional travel. Maybe even extra-dimensional travel—I’ll admit I don’t know the difference. She talked to Astra about it, but what Tina wanted was too hardcore for Astra’s powers. There are superheroes in other countries, though, and some of them have powers related to…”
“I know all the superhero powers,” I snapped. “It’s my job to know that stuff.” There were at least thirteen current superheroes in my spreadsheet that had some kind of interdimensional power source or travel ability. “Why would Mum even want to…” But I knew. Of course I knew. “She’s after the Megadethra interview. Shit.”
“Megadethra hasn’t invaded our dimension since Original Solar retired,” Griff agreed. “You know it’s always stuck in Tina’s craw that she never got that interview.”
Because of course my mot
her’s massively successful media career couldn’t be complete without getting a direct quote from one of the most terrifying, homicidal, powerful space-queens of all time.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I didn’t know for sure. I still don’t. If you’d told me she was missing, I might have put it together sooner.” He sounded so hurt, at being left out.
I stared at the TV screen, not even taking in that they were playing a short montage of Menace’s six month career as a superhero. Another one-hit wonder. Australia was going to have three out of five women on its team for the first time ever. History in the making, and I wasn’t tweeting.
Suddenly I couldn’t even stand to look at the TV. I didn’t care whether Kelly-Anne got to be a Legacy or an Original. I needed a drink. I needed to have a hot shower and sing Beyoncé lyrics until I lost at least two layers of skin.
I made it to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and stared blankly at the running tap without making a move to turn it off. I must have been standing there for a while; I didn’t even notice when Griff came in behind me. He gently turned off the tap, which had been running the whole time, and leaned his hip against the sink. “You missed the announcement. She’s Catsuit. At least Astra is still in business. I’ll text her later, see if she can help us.”
“Get out.”
“Come on, Fry.”
“Get the hell out of my house, Griff. I don’t care how many superheroes you have at your beck and call. She’s my mother, not yours. This is none of your business.”
A flash of hurt crossed his face, and I shoved down my own flash of guilt for going way too far. “So what,” Griff scoffed. “You’re going to find her on your own?”
“We’re talking about Megadethra,” I said coldly, squeezing my glass of water tight in my hand. “Let’s be realistic. We’re not going to find her alive.”
Girl Reporter Page 2
