Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups

by Michael C Bailey

  “No worries, boss, I think I took care of her.”

  “Great. Then take care of that,” Astrid says, pointing over my shoulder. The golem stands in the doorway, buck naked, its clothing completely burned away. I’m very thankful whoever made the thing didn’t spend any time making it anatomically correct.

  “Any tips?”

  “Tear its face off.”

  “What, for real?” I say, but Astrid’s too busy diving for cover to answer. The golem charges and hits me with a shoulder ram that sends me sailing across the dining room. Tables and chairs fly as I tumble through them like a bowling ball. That’s what I get for not paying attention.

  Well, the golem has my full attention now. Sucks to be you, pal.

  It rushes me again. That makes the fourth time it’s used the same move, which tells me it’s not big on strategy. This time I go high and jump at it, fist cocked. Astrid told me to rip its face off, but I figure punching through its face will do the job.

  Unfortunately, my aim is way off. I miss its head entirely. I fly right into its arms, and it grabs me in a bear hug. It squeezes hard enough to crush the air out of me. God, this thing is strong, maybe stronger than I am. I lay a punch across its head. It barely flinches. All I do is leave an imprint of my knuckles in the side of its face, like I punched a big wad of Silly Putty.

  My head goes light. Everything seems to spin. I’m on the edge of blacking out when something makes a deafening popping sound, like a tire blowing out, and suddenly I’m laid out on the floor, covered in...something. Something warm and wet.

  “You okay, champ?” Astrid says.

  “Maybe? What happened?”

  “I blew up the golem. I caused the moisture in its body to super-heat until the pressure built to critical, and then kerblooey.”

  “You blew up the —? Aw, man, no, I’m not covered in blood and guts, am I?!”

  “Calm down, you big baby. You’re covered in clay.”

  “Clay?” I look at my hands, and sure enough, they’re coated in muddy goo. Flesh-colored muddy goo, but it is definitely wet clay. Oh, thank God.

  “Traditional golem-building material, yep. You fashion a body out of clay, inscribe a power word on a piece of parchment, and slip the scroll in its mouth to animate it.” Astrid picks up a drippy chunk of what used to be the golem’s lower jaw and plucks out a small rolled-up piece of paper. “This was some old-school craftsmanship here. Almost felt bad about destroying it.”

  “I don’t,” I grumble. Face it, dude, this was not your finest moment. You almost got taken out by a giant Ken doll made of Play-Doh.

  “Hm. Looks like the servitor is ready to play some more,” Astrid says. I look over as not-Stacy staggers to her feet, blood running down her face and her left arm hanging limp at her side. “Take a breather. I got this.”

  Not-Stacy grins maniacally, hellfire flickering around her hands. She might not have much fight left in her, but she’s going to go down swinging.

  “Demon,” Astrid says, confronting the servitor, “I know you, but I don’t know your name. I would have it.”

  Not-Stacy laughs. “You may call me Asha Inferno,” she says with a small mocking bow.

  “I didn’t ask for the name you gave to this vessel, servitor,” Astrid says impatiently, “I asked for your name.”

  “And I deny you.”

  “Perhaps you did not hear me before, demon. I am Astrid Lilith Enigma, the Lady of Shadows, the Dismal Princess, the Earthbound Hellmage,” Astrid says, spitting each word with increasing anger. “I am your master now, and you will obey me.”

  Her command rumbles like thunder. The servitor — Asha Inferno — goes white and drops to her hands and knees in a full-body grovel. Whah.

  “My true name is Bashtaal, my lady!” Asha whines at the floor. “I have no other name for I am lowly and unworthy! I beg thy mercy, my lady!”

  “Your earthly master, Mr. Castle. Where would I find him?” Astrid says, and it’s only then I realize Mr. Castle is long gone.

  “I cannot say, my lady. I am bound by my summoner to betray him not through word or deed. I again beg thy mercy, my lady.”

  “Rise,” Astrid says. Asha finally dares to look up. Astrid kneels and takes Asha’s face in her hands. “I will grant you mercy, little demon, if you leave this vessel of your own free will, return to the Dismal Realms, and remain there, now and forever, never to set foot on the mortal plane again.”

  “I swear it, my lady,” Asha says, her voice shaking with relief. “I swear it on my true name.”

  “Go then. Go now.”

  Asha suddenly goes rigid, like someone’s shooting a massive electrical current through her body, but she doesn’t scream or anything. Just as suddenly, she collapses.

  “Is she...?” I can’t bring myself to say it.

  Astrid sighs. “Yeah. Bashtaal had its hooks too deep in her. There was no way to save her. It’s a mercy, really,” she says like she’s trying to convince herself. “Even if she survived, she’d never be the same.”

  I get what she’s saying. People don’t just shrug off demonic possession. Hosting a demon for even a couple of minutes is enough to screw you up, and Missy’s living proof of that. This woman, whoever she is...whoever she was, she would have been a screaming wreck if she’d lived.

  I get it.

  Doesn’t mean I like it.

  5.

  Missy makes a sympathetic noise. “What did you do then?”

  “Me? Oh, I threw up all over the place,” I say. “Like, literally. I forgot all of me is super-strong, even my barfing muscles, so when I hurled, it went everywh—”

  “You can stop now, please. Okay? Great. Thank you. Go on.”

  “Sorry. After that, we tracked Mr. Castle back to his lair...”

  “Get out. No way. He had a real bad guy lair?”

  “Actually, he had a wicked nice penthouse apartment in the city, but that doesn’t sound as cool as calling it a lair.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, he’d teleported out during the fight, which meant Astrid was able to track him. Something about the fabric of reality warping and leaving a trail...I didn’t understand half of what she said, but whatever. She found Castle and took him down before he could blink. She didn’t even need me. I was just along for the ride at that point.” I sigh. “Who am I kidding? I was along for the ride all afternoon. Astrid could have done this without me.”

  “I don’t think so. Sounds to me like you helped out a lot.”

  “Maybe. I could have done a lot better.” I sigh. “I’m starting to wonder if I can cut it as a solo act. Carrie’s doing fine by herself. So’s Matt. So’re you. It’s like no one needs the team anymore except me.”

  “I don’t think any of that’s true,” Missy says, and she spends a solid five minutes trying to convince me I could be a super-hero on my own. I need more experience, that’s all, she says, and she suggests talking to Carrie or Edison about getting some training. “You could make it work. I mean, you still want to help people, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, of course I do. I just don’t know if being a super-hero is the best way for me to do that anymore.”

  “How else would you do it?”

  Good question. How else would I —?

  Hmm.

  “Hey, my dad finally showed up, so I have to go,” Missy says. “Promise me we’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

  “I promise. See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and make another call — not to Carrie or Edison but to someone else who might show me how I can do something meaningful with my life.

  “Hey, Stuart. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Mal,” I say. “Can I still catch a ride with you tomorrow? I think I want to check out the youth club after all.”

  SEVEN – LIGHTSTORM AND MANTICORE

  FACE TIME

  1.

  I’ve been a super-hero for about a year now. While my life hasn’t been a non-stop barrage of superhuman crazies looking t
o reduce me to a chunky red smear on the ground, I’ve had my fair share of...let’s call them lively experiences, and those experiences have instilled in me a sense of mild paranoia.

  That paranoia kicks into high gear whenever I get a call from Edison — or, to be more precise, whenever I get a call from Concorde. I have separate numbers for each identity; a call from Concorde appears simply as a “C” on my screen, in the off chance someone gets his hands on my phone, and the sight of that letter always causes my belly to twitch. Such calls aren’t always bad news, but it’s rarely good news — especially if he’s calling me first thing in the morning.

  “Do I even want to know?” I say.

  “Don’t panic, nothing’s wrong,” Edison says, “but this is official business, so I needed to use my secure line.”

  I sit up in bed and give my head a vigorous shake. It’s not caffeine, but it clears the sleep from my brain well enough. “What’s up?”

  “Are you busy after school today?”

  “What day is it? Monday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m scheduled to work today...”

  “See if you can call in. I need you to meet me at Stafford at three.”

  That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Stafford is the Air National Guard base in the neighboring town of Weymouth. They’re one of the military’s first responders, tasked with intercepting threats that enter the northeastern United States’ airspace. I learned this first-hand when, very early in my career, I unknowingly violated northeastern US airspace. Jets were scrambled and everything. Fortunately, soon after that little run-in, Edison issued me a transponder that identifies me as a “friendly,” which means I can fly freely over North America without freaking out the military.

  Funny I say that...

  “I’m heading out of state on a business trip,” Edison says, “which means while I’m gone, you’re the designated rapid response intercept unit for unregistered superhuman flyers.”

  “I’m the what who for which now?”

  “It’s a relatively new protocol. In the event an unregistered superhuman flyer violates local airspace, you could be scrambled to assist Stafford jets in intercepting and, if necessary, taking down said flyer.”

  “Oh.”

  “That means you’ll be on call twenty-four hours a day until I get back. I don’t expect you’ll be called in, but —”

  “Better safe than sorry. Yeah, I get it.”

  “Good. All right, then, three o’clock at Stafford. Colonel Coffin and I will brief you on your responsibilities. See you then.”

  Colonel Coffin? Oh, boy.

  “Colonel Coffin?” Sara says. “She’s the one who chewed you out that time you got...um, pulled over? Is that the right term?”

  “It works,” I say, “and yeah, she gave me a very stern lecturing on the dos and don’ts of flying in her airspace. Never raised her voice once, but it felt like she was screaming at me so hard my hair straightened.”

  “Harsh.” Sara thrusts her coffee cup at me, a request for a top off. “But you’re cool with her now, right?”

  “Guess I’ll find out. If I come home without any body or bounce in my hair, you’ll know.”

  Sara power-chugs her coffee and deposits the empty mug in the sink. “All right. Ready to roll.”

  The day for me doesn’t roll so much as lumber. The thought of sitting in the same room as Colonel Coffin is more than a little intimidating. She has a powerful air of authority about her, a presence that’s almost a physical sensation. She’s strong, disciplined, commanding, confident...I admire the woman, but she scares the crap out of me, and I don’t scare easily.

  When school lets out, I head into the woods behind the building, and once I’m sure none of the other students are back there smoking or making out, I hit the sky. I have an hour to kill before the meeting, so I take advantage of the opportunity to clear my head. Flying always helps me relax. I take a few laps around New England, familiarizing myself with my territory for the next few days. The Google Earth view of the world is always breathtaking, no matter how many times I go up, but also a little humbling. It reminds me that the world is so much larger than what I experience day-to-day in my little corner of it, and for all the good I do, I’m sticking my finger in one tiny hole in a massive dam riddled with cracks and leaks.

  That sounds pessimistic, I know, but it’s not a demoralizing thought. Really. On the contrary, it helps keep me motivated. I may be just one person, but if I stop trying, I’m one fewer person working to make the world a better place. What good does giving up do?

  Enough introspection for the day. Time to go meet the colonel.

  2.

  “Lightstorm. Thank you for coming,” Colonel Coffin says, extending a hand in greeting. Her handshake is firm, confident.

  “Colonel. Nice to see you again.”

  Colonel Coffin grunts, a neutral sound, then gestures for Concorde and me to take our seats. Her office is like the woman herself: modest in size but it somehow feels much larger. It’s immaculate, well organized, and sparsely decorated. A photo on the wall behind the colonel catches my eye, a picture of a younger Isabelle Coffin in a flight suit, climbing into the cockpit of a fighter jet. I didn’t recognize her at first; the woman in the photo is smiling.

  “This is a fairly straightforward assignment,” Colonel Coffin begins, getting right down to business. She glances at her laptop. “According to the itinerary Concorde has provided me, he will be indisposed on personal business from approximately oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow, eleven September, until fifteen-hundred hours Saturday, sixteen September.” She peers at me over the top of her glasses. “Are you writing this down?”

  “Oh. Hold on,” I say. I pull out my phone and set an alert for tomorrow at eight AM. “Sorry, go on?”

  “During this window, you will be the designated rapid response intercept unit for unregistered superhuman flyers. My jets will still be scrambled, and my pilots will take point on any and all operations; you are their support,” Colonel Coffin stresses.

  “Okay, but why am I even necessary? I can’t think of anything your jets couldn’t handle as well as I could.”

  Colonel Coffin doesn’t acknowledge the compliment. Tough room.

  “Because a sledgehammer is a fine tool for driving a two-foot stake into the ground, but it’s the wrong tool for driving a nail,” she says. “Brute force and raw firepower are not the solution to every problem.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “TranzSister will remain the secondary response unit, to be activated in the event you cannot be reached,” Colonel Coffin says. Her tone suggests that I better make darn sure I can be reached. “That means you are ready to hit the sky at a moment’s notice, twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That means you are reachable twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’ll have some serious explaining to do if I’m scrambled while I’m in school, but hey, that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Metaphorically, that is. “What are my protocols for interception?”

  I honestly have no idea if I phrased that question correctly. It sure sounded all official and military-ish.

  “Do you remember your first encounter with my pilots?”

  Oh, yes. Last October two Stafford jets intercepted me while I was on a casual flight. I later learned it wasn’t the first time Colonel Coffin had scrambled her planes in response to my “unauthorized incursion,” only the first time they managed to catch me. They signaled for me to follow them back to Stafford so Colonel Coffin could read me the riot act. I’ve been a dutifully law-abiding superhuman flyer ever since.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “You will follow the same protocol,” the colonel says. She adds in anticipation of my next question, “If the flyer does not comply, you are to force it down.”

  “Force it down,” I repeat. “How?”

  “Use your discretion.” She pauses. “I trust that th
e use of lethal force, should it become necessary, isn’t an issue?”

  “It is an issue, actually. I’ve never killed anyone and I don’t plan to start.”

  “I have complete confidence in Lightstorm’s ability to handle any threat to public safety,” Concorde says, finally breaking his silence.

  “If the target presents a clear and present danger to the civilian populace, I expect you to do what is necessary to protect innocent lives,” Colonel Coffin says. “I expect you to consider the math: one life against many.”

  “I’m terrible at math,” I say, and oh was that the wrong thing to say. Her mirthless stare intensifies. “Colonel, look, I get it. I do. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I’m not saying I won’t pull the trigger if I have to, but I’m not going to shoot someone down in cold blood if I can find another way.”

  I’m not saying I won’t pull the trigger if I have to. The colonel’s not buying it, not for one second. Why should she? I’m not exactly selling it. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to take someone out — plenty of motivation, too. Manticore’s an unrepentant child killer. Archimedes once held my entire high school hostage. Black Betty literally sacrificed innocent people to demons. Buzzkill Joy slaughtered several of her classmates and almost murdered Missy’s dad. Don’t get me started on the King of Pain. Point is, I could easily justify wiping these people off the face of the earth so they could never hurt anyone ever again, but crossing that line has never been an option. Never.

  Colonel Coffin looks at Concorde again, shooting a deep scowl his way.

  “She can do the job, colonel,” he says. “I wouldn’t have recommended her if I didn’t think she could handle any situation that might present itself.”

  “If you’re wrong,” she says, “it’s on you.”

  “I’m not wrong. Lightstorm will not let you down.”

  No pressure.

  3.