The Sidekicks Initiative

by Barry J. Hutchison

  Everyone nodded in agreement at this.

  “Who, then?” Sam asked.

  Chuck looked away, rubbing his chin. There was a shadow of stubble there that suggested his night had been almost as long as Sam’s had.

  “Kapitän Nazi,” Chuck muttered.

  “What?!” Sam yelped. “Kapitän …? But he’s a bad guy!”

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “Not that…? He was one of Doc Mighty’s old regulars. His name’s Kapitän Nazi for Christ’s sake! He led a team of villains called The Bastard Squad. The second-in-command of which was called Face Cannibal. Which means he was one worse than that guy!”

  “Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack,” Chuck told him. “Kapitän Nazi was just his schtick. It was a persona. A performance. You know that. Under the armor and, you know, the Swastika face tattoos, he’s just a regular Joe, like you and me.”

  “He has Swastika tattoos on his face?” said Anna. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course he does.”

  Chuck dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the floor and ground it under his heel. “Look, the point is, he’s on our side now. You don’t have to like it, but he wants to help. And you don’t have to call him Kapitän Nazi. In fact, he’s specifically requested that we don’t. He’s asked us to use his real name. John.”

  “John?” Sam frowned. “That’s it? Kapitän Nazi’s real name is John?”

  “His real name is John,” Chuck confirmed. He straightened up, adjusted his tie, and lowered his voice to a barely audible mumble. “John Hitler.”

  Anna coughed. “Wait, what?”

  The door opened then, stopping the conversation dead. Mari entered first, her digital smile bobbing gently on her face screen. A tall, athletic-looking man with a sensible haircut that was graying at the temples entered behind her, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

  Sam bristled at the sight of him. Or rather, the long-dormant Kid Random bristled at the sight of him, as the memories of countless frantic battles and evil schemes came rushing back.

  Kapitän Nazi had been one of the most persistent thorns in Doc Mighty’s side back in the day, as he attempted to establish his ‘Fourth Reich’ with the help of his army of Robo-Fascists.

  His powerset was ridiculously impressive. He had been the prototype Gottmensch—which literally translated as ‘God man’—created by the Nazis using a combination of early gene therapy, unstable chemical treatments, and some good old-fashioned robotic implants, all under the watchful gaze of Adolf Hitler himself.

  A fortuitously timed Allied attack had collapsed the bunker where the Gottmensch was being worked on, killing the scientists responsible, and burying him alive for almost half a century.

  When he eventually clawed his way free, the Second World War was long over. For Kapitän Nazi, though, the battle was just beginning.

  His experimental heritage granted him great strength, speed, agility, and stamina. None of these on their own came close to Doc Mighty levels, but his devious, diabolical mind made him a force to be reckoned with. The ten-thousand strong army of Nazi robots helped, too, although quite where he sourced these from, nobody knew. There were rumors that some wealthy Cityopolis businessman had helped fund and create the robots, but Doc Mighty was never able to find proof.

  Kapitän Nazi had almost brought Cityopolis to its knees a dozen times. He had killed, maimed, and tortured heroes and civilians alike. He’d even briefly stripped Doc Mighty of his powers, before breaking his back on live TV. It would almost certainly have been the end for Mighty, had it not been for the intervention of Memetzo, Mandroid Master of the Mystic Arts; an advanced alien healing pod from the Doc’s home planet; and the three best chiropractors in town.

  And now, here the bastard was, standing in front of them and smiling. Smiling.

  “Hi there,” he said, in an accent that was far removed from his familiar German screech. It was mostly a Mid-Western drawl, with just a hint of something European coloring the edges. His complexion was ruddy and tanned, and while there were no Swastika tattoos to be seen, some heavy scarring on both cheeks and the middle of his forehead indicated where they must once have been.

  He held a hand out to Sam. “I’m John.”

  The hand hung there in the air, waiting.

  Sam let him wait.

  Kapitän Nazi’s face had always been hidden by his mask, but Sam had seen those eyes up close often enough. Too often.

  Too close.

  “I know who you are,” Sam said, still ignoring the hand. He felt something moving at the base of his brain again, like a terrifying sea monster stirring in the depths. For once, he was almost tempted to let the Kraken awaken.

  Almost.

  Kapitän Nazi lowered his hand. “OK, well… I get it. I do. You have reservations, and that’s understandable. We don’t have to be friends.”

  “Friends?!” Sam spat.

  “But we do have to work together,” Nazi continued.

  “Do we, though?” asked Anna. She looked to Chuck, raising her eyebrows. “You seriously think this is a good idea? After the stuff he did.”

  “Everyone deserves a second chance,” Chuck said.

  “Not everyone,” Randy growled.

  Chuck sighed. “Look, I’m not saying he didn’t make mistakes…”

  “I did not make mistakes,” the Kapitän corrected. “Far from it.”

  “Are you listening to this son of a bitch?” Sam gasped. “He’s still standing by the things he—”

  “I was an abomination. What I did went far beyond being ‘mistakes,’” Nazi continued. “I was a monster. I killed without remorse. I hurt people—good people—and I laughed while I did it.”

  “Really hoping there’s a ‘but’ coming,” said Anna.

  “I wasn’t in my right mind,” Kapitän Nazi explained. His eyes had taken on a dazed look, like a boxer who’d recently taken one too many punches to the head. His voice became softer, as if speaking too loudly might startle the memories and drive them away. “When they made me, they didn’t just shape my body, they shaped my mind. They twisted it. Warped it. Turned me into a champion for a cause I had never believed in.”

  He inhaled slowly. His fingertips traced the shiny scars on his face. “I had spoken out about their regime. I had defied them. And for that, I had to be punished.”

  “They made him one of them,” Chuck explained.

  “The greatest of them all,” whispered Nazi. “And the worst.”

  “We helped him break his programming,” said Chuck. “He’s on our side now.”

  Anna puffed out her cheeks. “Well, I’m convinced. Don’t know about you guys.”

  Sam turned to her, his eyes widening in surprise. “That’s it? Just like that?”

  “Pretty much.” Anna shrugged. “See, I had an epiphany last night. While drunk.” She held her arms out, gesturing to the briefing room in general. “This doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

  Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? And what makes you say that?”

  “Because think about it—since when did superheroes ever stay dead?” she said. “There’s always some, I don’t know, birthing matrix, or space god or something that steps in to bring them back. Or we find out they were never really dead in the first place, and it was all an illusion.”

  “Or robots,” said Randy. “Sometimes it’s robots.”

  “Exactly! Yes. Or sometimes it’s robots.” Anna rocked back on her heels. “None of this matters because the Justice Platoon will be back. So, sure, let’s team up with a super-strong Nazi from the 40s. Fuck it. Why not? Everything’ll have worked itself out before we ever have to lift a finger, anyway.”

  “I don’t think they’re coming back this time,” said Chuck. “We’ve been scanning for life signs up there, and we’ve come up with nothing.”

  Anna waved her hand, dismissing this. “Yeah, but that’s all part of the drama. They’ll come back. Their types always do.”

  Despite the p
resence of one of the most evil individuals he’d ever encountered, Sam felt a surge of hope. Anna was right, superheroes never died. Not really. Just because they’d seen Doc Mighty’s body on the screen didn’t mean it wasn’t in the process of healing now. Or that it had even really been him.

  The real Justice Platoon was probably trapped in some splinter universe, fighting to get back. Or shrunk to the size of atoms. Or hurled backward and/or forward in time. One of those, anyway, Sam was suddenly sure of it.

  It was all going to be OK. He almost laughed. Everything was going to be OK.

  Chuck approached and stood beside Kapitän Nazi. “Well, I hope you’re right, Anna. I do. But in the meantime, we press on as planned, and John here is a part of that plan, like it or not. He’s paying his dues. And he can help. He knows how to lead a team of superpowered individuals.”

  “How is Face Cannibal these days?” asked Sam.

  “Dead,” replied the Kapitän.

  “John tracked him down a few years back. Found him with six teenage girls, plus the remains of several more. You know, sans faces. John took him out. Saved those girls, single-handedly.”

  “Well… whoop-de-doo,” said Sam, although even he felt it was a pretty lame response as responses went. “That doesn’t excuse all the other things he did.”

  “Nothing ever will,” Nazi agreed. “But that won’t stop me trying.”

  He held Sam’s gaze, smiling grimly, then looked around at Chuck. “So. Who do we have?”

  “Mari, lights,” said Chuck. The briefing room plunged into near-darkness. “Show him,” Chuck ordered.

  Nothing happened. Chuck sighed. “Please.”

  “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” Mari said. Her face seemed to detach itself from her screen, growing larger as it became a hologram in the air in front of her. Her features vanished, then were replaced by an image of a teenage girl in a tight-fitting costume. Fiery acne stained both her cheeks, while her bare arms were a mess of rashes and boils.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Anna muttered. “Did you have to? Would you look at my skin?”

  “Good legs, though,” said Randy.

  “You know I’m like twelve in that picture, yes?”

  “Good crime-fighting legs, I meant,” Randy replied. “You know, for kicking and… Well, mostly just kicking.”

  “Allergy Girl,” Chuck announced, gesturing to both Anna and the image that was now being projected into the air in front of her. He took a touchscreen tablet from Mari and scrolled through a few screens of text before stopping at the relevant section. “Her powers grant her the ability to trigger allergic reactions in her enemies, with varying degrees of success.”

  “Ah. The fat tongue thing,” said Nazi, shooting Sam a look that sailed far too close to ‘amused’ for Sam’s liking.

  “The exact effects of her powers vary from person to person,” Chuck explained. “They include hives; blisters; headache; nausea; constricted throat; sneezing; swelling of the lips, face, and tongue; itching; eye-watering; dizziness; and—occasionally—diarrhea.”

  “Huh,” said Kapitän Nazi, appearing neither impressed nor unimpressed by this.

  “And nasal congestion,” Anna added, with a confidence that suggested this would be the final detail that tipped the scales.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Nazi.

  Chuck guided him along the line, and Sam braced himself. They skipped right past him, though, and stopped in front of Randy, instead. He drew himself up to his full height, his mouth twisted into a snarl, the corners of his cape clutched in each hand.

  Mari shuffled along behind them. To Anna’s relief, the image of Allergy Girl was replaced by a holographic picture of a scrawny boy in a butterfly costume with brightly patterned wings that were almost as big as he was. The boy had one hand raised, a finger outstretched. A single butterfly was alighting on the fingertip, its wing design a near-perfect match for Randy’s childhood costume.

  “The Butterfly Kid,” Chuck announced. “Now going by Butterfly King. Listed powers include ‘Kinship with butterflies,’ and, uh…” He consulted the tablet, sliding the on-screen text up, then back down again. “That’s it.”

  “Ha! Like that’s not enough,” Randy sneered. “Also, let’s not overlook these babies.”

  He threw a few punches at the air before a searing pain in his side forced him to stop.

  “You’re welcome,” he finished, somewhat inexplicably.

  “Butterflies?” said Kapitän Nazi, who was clearly having some trouble with this concept. “As in…”

  “As in the little things that flutter around, yes,” Chuck confirmed.

  “Oh,” said the Kapitän. “And he fights crime with those?”

  “You bet your ass I do,” Randy seethed. “My butterfly brethren and I fly side by side in the name of justice!”

  Nazi’s scarred forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows raised. “Aha! You fly?”

  “Metaphorically,” said Randy, in a way that suggested this was somehow better than actual flying.

  “Oh. I see,” said Nazi.

  “I’m also the night’s shadow,” Randy declared.

  Kapitän Nazi frowned, good-naturedly. “The night’s…?”

  “Shadow,” Randy said. “I’m its dark underside. Its righteous fury.”

  “Dude, the night doesn’t cast a shadow,” Anna pointed out. “It’s not a tangible thing.”

  Randy hesitated, but only for a moment. “It does now,” he said, in a tone that sat halfway between ‘cryptic’ and ‘deranged’.

  “Well… good for you,” said Nazi. “I’m sure that’s all going to come in very useful.”

  “You don’t sound very sure,” Randy pointed out. “And that’ll be your biggest mistake.”

  Anna leaned forward so she could see past Sam. “I don’t know. I think the whole being a Nazi and killing a bunch of people were bigger mistakes. This feels like it’ll be waaaay down near the bottom of his list.”

  “And that brings us back to you,” said the Kapitän, turning his attention to Sam. “You seem kind of familiar, somehow.”

  “Kid Random,” Chuck announced. Mari’s projection switched to show a short, skinny kid wearing a red hood and blue spandex outfit, and not wearing any of it particularly well.

  He looked anxious and ill-at-ease, like he wasn’t completely comfortable with the heroic pose he was striking. The patch of his face that was visible around his mouth was almost the same shade of red as his hood and mask.

  “Of course,” said Nazi, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth. “The apprentice to my old nemesis.” He bowed his head, just a little. “My apologies for not recognizing you before now.”

  “That’s what you’re apologizing for?” Sam hissed. “Seriously? After everything you did?”

  Chuck intervened before things could escalate. “His powers are… complicated,” he said, without consulting his tablet. “From what we can tell—”

  “I know what he can do,” said the Kapitän, holding Sam’s gaze. “I heard much about his powers, although I have to say, I have yet to see them demonstrated first-hand.”

  Sam swallowed. “Maybe you will,” he said, and the thing in his head stirred once again.

  “Fingers crossed,” Nazi replied. He looked across all three faces, then turned to Chuck. “Is this it? Weren’t there others? What about the fire one? Flameboy or whatever he was called.”

  “Jim Flammable,” said Chuck. “No, we lost track of him and the others. This is it.”

  Kapitän Nazi puffed out his cheeks. “What about the girl with the computer brain?”

  “Calcu-Lass,” said Chuck. “Again, no. This is all we’ve got.”

  “Right. Right,” said the Kapitän. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And the Justice Platoon are definitely all dead?”

  “They’re dead,” Chuck confirmed. “We had a satellite do a flyby. They’re all the way dead.”

  “Oh. I see. That’s disappoint
ing,” said Nazi. He shrugged. “Well, I guess these will have to do.”

  He eyeballed each of the sidekicks in turn as he unbuttoned his shirt sleeves.

  “Now,” he said, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows in a series of crisp, neat folds. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Anna vaulted over a trash can, sprinted flat-out for a stack of boxes, and almost made it into cover before a tennis ball whanged her in the face.

  “Ow! Son-of-a—” she protested, clutching her forehead and dropping into cover behind the cardboard barricade. Several more balls rattled against the other side of it in rapid succession, and Anna knew she didn’t have much time before the boxes gave way.

  She was in a long, narrow room that Chuck had referred to as ‘the Peril Chamber,’ and which he’d claimed was fitted with state-of-the-art training equipment. Anna was pretty sure it was actually just a wider than average corridor with some junk in it, though, and the state-of-the-art equipment appeared to be nothing more than a tennis ball launcher.

  Chuck’s voice bellowed from the far end of the room/corridor. “Sam. Randy. Make your move.”

  Randy didn’t need telling twice. He sprang up dramatically from behind a wooden crate a dozen feet further back, holding his cape out at both sides. With a roar, he began to run. He made it an impressive six or seven feet before a ball hit him in the throat, then a second followed up to his testicles.

  Still he ran, albeit a little more cross-legged than he had been a moment ago. He crashed through the trash cans, stumbling as another volley of balls thudded into various bits of him.

  Anna’s eyes went wide when she realized what was about to happen. “Randy, no, don’t!” she yelped, but it was no use. Off-balance, he fell through the cardboard boxes, crushing them flat and exposing the back of Anna’s head to three tennis balls in quick succession.

  “Jesus! Will you cut that out?” she cried.

  Randy looked up from within the nest of boxes. “Who? Me or him?”

  “Both of you!”

  “It’s all on you, Sam!” Chuck bellowed. “Get moving!”