Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play

by Michael Bailey

“Absolutely not. I let my children make their own decisions.”

  “But you encourage them?”

  “Meg and Kilroy manifested their powers when they were very young. They’d always known they were different — you can’t have a father who looks the way he does and believe otherwise — but gaining superhuman abilities drove that point home. On that day I sat them down and we had a long, frank discussion about their powers, what it meant to have them, and what they might do with them, if anything. They didn’t come to their decision right away but they came to it on their own. I didn’t push them into this life but yes, I do encourage them. I encourage my children by being there for them. I encourage them by providing them with the training and the resources they need to stay alive.”

  “What if it’s not enough?” Christina says. “What if you wake up one day to find that everything you did wasn’t enough to keep Meg from getting killed?”

  “I expect I’d be absolutely devastated. I know a mother isn’t supposed to play favorites among her children, but Meg is my little girl,” Dr. Quentin says. She pauses, waiting until her throat no longer feels so dry and tight. “I’d like to think I’d take some measure of solace knowing she died doing something she truly believed in, perhaps saved innocent lives in the process, but I doubt it would be enough. Losing her would destroy me.”

  “And you still let her risk her life.”

  “Christina, I think we both know in our heart of hearts we don’t have the power to stop our girls from doing anything. It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking about sex, drugs, alcohol, or putting on a silly costume and getting into fights with deranged sociopaths. All we can ever do is educate them, advise them, guide them, and hope they make the choices that are right for them — and find the strength within ourselves to accept that what’s right for them isn’t always what’s right for us.”

  Christina’s mask crumbles away. She thought she had no more tears left to cry.

  “I don’t have that kind of strength,” she says.

  “That is why,” Dr. Quentin says, taking Christina’s hands, “you find someone with strength to spare and borrow some of hers.”

  ***

  My hand hovers above the doorknob. I curl it into a fist in a vain effort to stop it from trembling.

  “I remember the first time I opened this door after Christina took me in,” I say. “I felt like an intruder. My hand shook so badly when I tried to open the door. I was scared Christina would ask me what I was doing, walking into her house like I lived there.”

  The details are different, but the fear gripping me now is the same: that Christina will tell me I’m not welcome here.

  Meg takes my hand, gently pries it open, and guides it onto the doorknob. “Have faith, my girl,” she says. “You know my mother. Give her enough time, she can figure out how to fix any problem.”

  We open the door together.

  At first I’m convinced the sound I’m hearing is Christina sobbing, but I’m wrong. It’s just been so long since I’ve heard her laugh I don’t recognize it anymore.

  I follow the laughter into the kitchen and stop short at the scene before me. Dr. Quentin leans on the counter, a glass of wine in her hand, while Christina plays mad scientist over a pot of pasta sauce, throwing in whatever spice happens to be close at hand with a rhyme and reason that makes sense only to her.

  She’s smiling. She’s cooking. She’s dressed in real clothes.

  “There they are!” Dr. Quentin beams with a crooked smile. “How was your afternoon?”

  “Good. Relaxing,” Meg says. “Looks like you ladies are getting along fine.”

  “Oh, yes, having a lovely time. We’re staying for dinner.”

  “We are, are we?”

  “Christina insisted — and after smelling this amazing sauce of hers, I am in no mood to refuse,” Dr. Quentin says to Christina.

  “Thank you, Gwendolyn,” Christina says. Wow, first-name basis and everything. “Don’t ask for the recipe because I won’t give it to you,” she says playfully.

  “Don’t worry. Joe does most of the cooking.”

  “He cooks too? He is definitely a keeper.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “Sara? Honey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m on the verge of tears — but this time, thank God, they’re happy tears.

  I spend the evening one tiny step away from crying in joy, in relief. It’s a bit surreal, having a casual dinner with my foster mother, my super-hero girlfriend, and her world-class scientific genius mom, but it all feels so normal. More than that, it feels right.

  After dinner we retire to the living room for coffee and some pound cake that’s been sitting in the freezer forever. Meg and I cuddle together on one end of the couch and go largely ignored by Christina and Dr. Quentin, who talk and talk and talk like they’re old college roommates who haven’t seen each other in years.

  “Told you,” Meg whispers to me. “Mom can fix anything.”

  I’m not going to call it fixed, not yet, but for the first time in days, I’m feeling optimistic.

  Dr. Quentin brays with laughter — I missed whatever Christina said to prompt it — that fades to a breathless sigh. “Christina, this has been a delightful evening, but we should get back home and make sure the men-folk haven’t trashed the house.”

  “Oh, yeah, they’re the ones with the track record of causing widespread household damage,” Meg says.

  “One time. One time — before you were born, I’d like to remind you.”

  “I’ve seen the pictures.”

  “Get your car keys.”

  “Thank you again for dinner, Christina,” Dr. Quentin says, easing out of her seat. She wavers on her feet, which makes me glad Meg’s driving.

  “Dinner was the very least I could do,” Christina says, briefly clasping hands with Dr. Quentin.

  “Good night, Sara,” Dr. Quentin says.

  “Good night, Dr. Quentin. Thank you,” I say. She skirts past me to avoid getting hugged. “And thank you,” I say to Meg, who happily accepts my hug.

  “Anytime,” she says.

  “I love you,” I say for her ears only.

  She squeezes me tight. “Love you, Strawberry.”

  Those beautiful words linger in my head long after Meg steps out the door. I hang onto them, cling to them as I turn to face Christina, unsure of whether the normalcy Dr. Quentin granted to us will last.

  “Gwendolyn is a...unique woman,” Christina says, meaning it as a heartfelt compliment.

  “I know what you mean. She takes a little while to get used to.”

  “That she does, but she’s good people. And it helped, talking to her. She said something about Carrie that —” She pauses. “She said Carrie will come back. She said that with such confidence, like it was an absolute, graven-in-stone fact. I asked her how she could be so sure.”

  “What did she say?”

  Christina smiles. “She said, ‘Have you met your daughter?’” she says in a decent impression of Dr. Quentin’s very precise enunciation. “There was more than that, but she made her point. Carrie’s going to finish up whatever business she has with the Guardians or whatever they’re called, and she’s going to come home, and I’m going to yell at her until I’m blue in the face for putting me through all this.”

  “I think Carrie would say, ‘That’s fair.’”

  Christina takes me by the shoulders. “I don’t like what you’ve chosen to do with your life. I hate it. It scares me to death. And as long as you live in my home, I’m going to ask you to quit. I’m going to ask you every day.”

  I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t say anything more. She just takes me in her arms and holds me. She holds me for a long time.

  TWELVE

  I spend the weekend at home. I spend it with Christina, bonding and doing normal boring life stuff. We clean the house, do laundry, and go grocery shopping in a supermarket that is unusually quiet for a Sa
turday. We’re in and out in a half hour, easily a new record. Looks like a lot of evacuees haven’t come back home yet. Not surprising. Things always happen in threes, they say, and so far only two big scary alien spaceships have shown up on Kingsport’s doorstep.

  We also talk a lot. Christina wants to know everything about my life as a super-hero, even the scary stuff. Especially the scary stuff. She’s trying to demystify what I do, make it familiar so maybe she’ll be less terrified. Some parts are tougher to get through than others, like everything that happened with the King of Pain.

  Okay, not everything. I can’t bring myself to tell her what really happened to my parents or how I wound up in a coma over the summer. I blame all that on the King of Pain — which is in a sense true — and leave it at that. She’s barely gotten used to the fact I’m a super-hero; no need to tell her I had a full-blown psychotic break and nearly killed Mom and Dad in a fit of rage.

  Christina is equally freaked out and impressed by the stuff we’ve done as the Hero Squad. She’d heard about us and had a rough sense of some of our accomplishments, but until now she never knew that Carrie saved Boston from getting nuked or that we put down a major prison riot. Until now, she didn’t fully grasp how much good we’ve done and how many lives we’ve saved. By the end of the weekend, she comes away with a greater appreciation of why we do what we do. It doesn’t completely defuse her anxiety, but it turns the volume down a notch or two.

  By the time I’m ready to walk out the door to go to school Monday morning, everything has normalized as much as I could reasonably hope. There’s small talk over breakfast and gentle inquiries into my plans for the day and a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

  “Have a good day,” Christina says. “See you tonight.”

  “Uh, actually, you won’t,” I say. “The Squad is meeting with the police chief tonight and I might be going on an overnight ride-along.”

  “Overnight? Sara, it’s a school night. I understand if an emergency pops up but you can’t stay up all night and expect to be good for school the next day.”

  “I know, but it’s a one-time thing. And the chief is insisting on it. Besides, it’s the last week of school before Christmas break. It’s not like any of the teachers are giving out any heavy homework.”

  “Oh,” Christina says, her face drooping. She suddenly looks ten years older. “Christmas. I forgot it was almost Christmastime.”

  Also known as Carrie’s absolute favorite time of year. She’s nuts for Christmas. She’s in the holiday spirit the second Santa Claus makes his big entrance at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She breaks out her silly Christmas stocking cap and sings Christmas carols under her breath and actually looks forward to the relentless onslaught of holiday ads on TV. Speaking as a half-Jewish girl who’s never been too into any wintertime holiday, it’s impossible to resist her infectious cheer. I was actually looking forward to it this year because I’d be spending it with her. That doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.

  “Call me when you know when you’ll be coming home,” Christina says.

  ***

  I climb into Matt’s car, where I’m greeted by glum expressions and distracted grunts passing as hellos.

  “That bad, huh?” I say.

  “Mom walked out on us,” Missy says.

  “Oh, God, Missy...”

  “I got home after the meeting and Dad said she packed up a couple of suitcases and stormed out. She didn’t say anything, she just...left.” I reach across the back seat to take her hand. I wince as she almost crushes my fingers.

  “I wish my parents would walk out,” Stuart says. “They found their anger over the weekend and spent, like, half of Sunday yelling at me. They actually called Grandma and said she needs to ‘get over here and talk some sense into this kid before he gets himself killed.’”

  “Whoa, wait, you didn’t tell me they told your grandmother,” Matt says.

  “They didn’t tell her I was a super-hero, but that’s coming.” He sighs. “My parents being pissed at me I’m used to, but Grandma? I could not take that, man.”

  “What about Gordon?” I ask.

  Stuart perks up slightly. “That there is the big shocker in all this. Not only is he not freaked out or upset or worried or angry, he actually said he admires me.”

  “Whoa,” Matt says. “Your big brother, Gordon Lumley, said he admires you?”

  “Nothing but respect for the Superbeast. Crazy but true.”

  “How’s Christina doing?” Matt asks me.

  “I think she’s getting used to it,” I say. “Dr. Quentin came over and, like, shared her wisdom on how to deal with having a kid who’s a super-hero. It seems to have helped a lot.”

  “I’d ask her to talk to my parents but I don’t think it’d help. They’re getting irrational. I caught Dad trying to sabotage my car yesterday so I couldn’t go anywhere.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Found him under the hood trying to take the battery out. I said, ‘I can still walk, you know. Or are you going to go Annie Wilkes on me and break my ankles so I can’t run into action?’ I’d like to state for the record, he did not say no.”

  “‘For the record?’” I chuckle. “You know every time you say that, you owe Carrie a dollar.”

  “I look forward to her collecting that debt.”

  “Me too,” Missy says.

  “Guys, I know this is hard, on all of us,” I say, “but we’re not alone. We have the Protectorate watching our backs, and the Quentins. We have Dr. Hamill on our side, and Gordon, and Christina’s getting there...it’s only a matter of time before everyone else comes around. We just have to keep trying. We have to prove ourselves to them. We proved ourselves to Edison, and come on, if we can win him over...”

  Maybe not the most rousing of rally speeches, but it does the job; the collective mood in the car lightens, if only a little.

  Matt shifts into drive. “We’re definitely not going to score any points by being late for school,” he says.

  “Onward, driver,” Stuart says. “Let’s go carpe some serious diem.”

  ***

  “This place is a dump,” Van says.

  “It’s abandoned is what it is,” Delroy says, “abandoned and secluded, which is what we need.”

  Mick turns in a slow circle, taking in the land around him, a former contractors’ yard belonging to local landscaping magnate Frank “Kurt” Kurtwood. Secluded, Mick decides, is not a precise description. Woods surround the property on all sides, and the nearest public street is a quarter-mile away, but if he were to travel down the dirt road connecting the warehouse to that street, he’d come out across from the Kingsport Mall. Cross the street, walk several yards down a side entrance used primarily by delivery trucks, and there it is.

  And Van is correct in his assessment; the place is — or rather, has literally become — a dump. Mini-mountains of stained mattresses, bald tires, broken kitchen appliances, garbage bags of yard waste, and recliners and couches missing their cushions lie scattered about what was once a parking lot for landscaping vehicles. Mick wonders what horrors await them in the warehouse itself.

  “Does Kurt still own the property?” Mick asks.

  “Technically,” Delroy says. “He’s been trying to sell it for years. Last time I talked to Kurt he was planning to clean the place up, make it look all nice, and try to unload it. He put a fence up last year to keep the dumpers out...”

  “Doesn’t look like he’s done anything,” Jonas says.

  “It’s Kurt. You know how bad he procrastinates.”

  Van snorts. “No kidding. Douchebag’s owed me close to a thousand bucks for three years now.”

  “Get in line,” Jonas says.

  “All right, all right, enough about Kurt. Come on, let’s check out the warehouse,” Delroy says.

  To Mick’s relief, the inside is not as bad as he dreaded. The stubborn, persisting smell of gasoline and stale motor oil mingled with rotting vegetation �
� the ghosts of lawnmowers past — is thick enough to make him queasy, but opening a window or two should fix that. What he feared most, that the warehouse had become a miniature slum for homeless people, proves unfounded; there’s no sign that anything larger than a rat has used the floor as a toilet.

  “Looks promising,” Mick says. There’s certainly plenty of storage space, and the mezzanine overlooking the main floor could serve nicely as a common area. “I think it has potential.”

  “Are you serious, man?” Van says. “You think we should live here?”

  “Van, once we’re back in action we’re going to need a safe place to chill,” Delroy says. “We can’t run around robbing banks or whatever and go back to our homes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Van. Four guys, armed with fancy power tools, calling themselves Damage Inc. You really think nobody won’t figure out we’re the same gang?”

  Van shrugs mildly. “We have different costumes,” he mumbles.

  “This is how it is, man. Once we go public, that’s it. Our old lives are over. We can’t go back to our homes, we can’t hang out at the bar, we can’t even go buy groceries unless we’re in disguise.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way, I’d be crazy to say no,” Jonas says.

  “Yeah, you would. Is there anything going on in your life you’d actually miss? Any of you?” Delroy gives them a fair chance to respond. “I ain’t saying it won’t be rough, I ain’t saying it won’t suck, but that’s short-term pain for long-term gain. We go out there, take some names and kick some ass, we prove ourselves, and we get ourselves noticed. After that, we can write our own tickets.”

  Mick frowns. It was a stirring speech but it felt...incomplete, perhaps? Like a conversation entered partway through, lacking context. Prove ourselves? To who? he wonders. Get noticed by who?

  “This town is ripe for the picking,” Delroy continues. “The police force is down to a skeleton crew, the newspaper said the Protectorate and those Hero Squad punks are short people...that alien spaceship might’ve been the best thing that ever happened to us. Kingsport is vulnerable and we need to capitalize on that. We go out there, hit hard and hit fast, and we could be ruling this town in a week.”