Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play

by Michael Bailey

  “Please,” Archimedes says. His legs fold beneath him. His hands clasp. Tears streak his face. “Please. Please. You can’t do this to me. I’m a human being,” he sobs.

  “You are a machine that dreamed of becoming a man.” The Foreman lowers himself to a knee and offers Archimedes a smile that is not wholly without pity. “That dream is dead.”

  The inspector from the US Marshals Service assigned to check in with “Archie Meade” won’t stop by for his next scheduled visit for two weeks. When he arrives, he’ll find an unlocked door, a refrigerator full of spoiled food, and a dead cell phone. He’ll relay this information to a supervisor, who will pass it on to the state marshals’ office, which will some weeks later take a look at the case.

  By that point, the names Archie Meade, Archimedes, and Ashe Semler — like the man himself — will have mysteriously and inexplicably disappeared from their databases.

  Want to know what happened in the months following the raid on Straitsmouth Island? Then read on, and enjoy this bonus Action Figures short story!

  ACTION FIGURES – LIVE FREE OR DIE

  There’s a lot to be said for the classics.

  As super-heroes, my friends and I have faced off against some fairly bizarre individuals — an artificial intelligence in a human body, mercenaries bristling with lethal technology, and a for-real demon lord, to name a few. We’ve rarely taken on plain old everyday human criminals, so we’re strangely excited when en route to Junk Food for an afterschool snack, we spot a trio of masked men armed with shotguns bolt out of the Kingsport Credit Union, which holds the dubious title of The Most Robbed Bank in Town.

  We charge in as the robbers pile into a car idling at the curb. The driver hits the gas. Tires squeal. Stuart derails their getaway plan by grabbing the rear bumper and lifting the back tires off the ground. The engine roars impotently.

  The back window explodes, spraying Stuart with glass and buckshot to no effect. One robber bails out of the back, another from the — no pun intended — shotgun seat. Missy chases after one of them. He won’t get far.

  Matt and I sprint after the other guy, which is something we can do freely now that our secret identities are no longer secret — no more wasting time changing into our uniforms behind a tree for us. Granted, we’re occasionally harassed by reporters interested in doing a story on the Squad, and not everyone in our school is completely comfortable with it — our principal, Mrs. McGann, is convinced some super-villain with a grudge against us will come crashing through the doors any day now — but for the most part, having public identities hasn’t been a problem. In cases like this, it’s a definite advantage.

  Nevertheless, our target has a good lead on us. Matt, who’s in way better shape than I am, pulls away and starts to close the gap. The robber glances over his shoulder, spots Matt, skids to a halt, and brings his shotgun around. Matt then does something totally uncharacteristic: he freezes. He puts on the brakes and stumbles to an awkward stop, and I feel a wave of pure, undiluted panic wash over him.

  Earlier this year, Matt had a vicious encounter with a gang of super-villain wannabes, Damage Inc., and almost immediately afterward went toe-to-toe with the Foreman. He walked away from it all, but only metaphorically. He spent a month in a hospital bed, another month recuperating at home, two months getting himself back into fighting shape, and the last several weeks itching for some action. Physically, he’s ready, but the mental trauma of taking a bad beating isn’t so easy to overcome. Natalie warned me that when the moment of truth came Matt might lock up, his survival instincts choosing flight instead of fight, and boy, did she call that one.

  As I catch up to Matt, I bring up a telekinetic shield. The robber empties his shotgun at us. It doesn’t occur to him we aren’t on the ground bleeding to death until he’s dry-pumped the gun four times. Then, because he apparently hasn’t met his stupidity quota for the day, he comes at us, the shotgun raised like a baseball bat.

  What I do next will prove either equally stupid or absolutely brilliant. I could easily take this tool down with a telekinetic shot to the knees, but Matt needs to get back on the horse, so to speak, so I make the hard decision to drop the shield, step back, and let whatever’s going to happen, happen.

  The butt of the shotgun arcs toward Matt’s head. He brings his arm up at the last second and takes the impact there instead of across the side of his skull. He bites back a yelp of pain. The impact staggers him. The robber winds up for another strike.

  An emotional reaction tends to accompany pain. Stub your toe or crack your shin on a piece of furniture and your impulse, as irrational as it may be, is to get angry at the inanimate object that hurt you — and Natalie said Matt might need a jolt of anger to push him through a panic attack.

  In other words? I’m brilliant — thank God.

  The robber swings. Matt steps into the attack, grabs the robber’s arms as he comes in, and pivots. The robber flips over Matt’s hip and crashes butt-first to the sidewalk. Matt follows up with a knee strike to the back of the robber’s head and then wraps an arm around his neck — a move that cuts off the flow of blood to the brain and puts the man out within seconds. The robber collapses into a puddle.

  Matt lets him go and releases a strangled cry, something between a roar of triumph and a moan of relief, with a hint of a sob in the mix. He doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees, and gasps for breath.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, then nods, then smiles, and then grits his teeth like he’s trying very hard not to throw up.

  “Did you let him take a swing at me?” he pants.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you have your shield up?”

  “Umm…no.”

  “What would you have done if he’d bashed my skull in?”

  “Apologized profusely?”

  “...Yeah, all right. That’s fair.”

  He’s okay.

  Maybe not the best way to kick off our summer, but it’ll do.

  ***

  At precisely two PM, my teacher utters one of the most glorious phrases known to studentkind:

  “That’s all for this year, guys. Enjoy your summer!”

  Kids flow out of their classrooms and make a beeline for the main entrance, pausing only long enough to trade hugs with friends. Some of them act like they’re never going to see each other again — which is the case in some instances. A lot of kids will be leaving for college soon, and they’re going to spend the summer getting ready for their big move, maybe working their butts off to save up extra money. They’ll be too busy to hang out with their soon-to-be former friends.

  I can’t say I’m sorry to see some of them go. Gerry Yannick, for example. We used to be friends, years ago, but after he joined the hardcore jock crowd, he pushed Matt and Stuart and me aside. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. Gerry didn’t just blow us off; he teased and mocked us in front of his new buddies to score cool points. He’s mellowed a bit over the last couple of years and at times has acted like a decent human being if not our friend, but he’s mostly still a jerk.

  And then there are people who I will miss, like Carrie’s ex, Malcolm Forth. Malcolm is a good guy on every level, the kind of person you know is going to go far in life. He’s heading to Stanford University in California and part of me strongly suspects that, aside from major holidays and family events, he won’t be coming back to Kingsport after graduation. He’ll find his place in the world somewhere else, mark my words.

  Fortunately, the people I care most about aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and I can’t express how grateful I am for that. Ever since Carrie took off for deep space, I’ve felt extra clingy toward my friends, like I’m scared any one of them might up and disappear on me.

  Sorry, no, it’s not like that at all; it’s exactly what I fear the most. I lost my parents last year and my best friend six months ago. I couldn’t deal with losing anyone else I love.

  “You okay?” Matt asks.

 
“Hm? Yeah, fine,” I say, snapping out of my reverie. “Just thinking about stuff.”

  “Like?”

  “Summer stuff. Settling in at my new job. Doing some more community theater. Spending lots of quality time with Meg. Maybe going a few months without getting into a fight.”

  “That’d be nice. Not going to hold my breath, but it’d be nice. I wouldn’t mind taking a summer off from super-heroing.”

  “Liar. You know you’re thrilled to be back in action.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

  Such a liar. Yesterday was a huge turning point in Matt’s recovery. Once the adrenaline subsided and he leveled out, it was as if a weight he didn’t realize he’d been carrying had fallen off his shoulders. Not to sound insensitive toward the good employees of the Kingsport Credit Union, but that bank robbery was the best thing that could have happened to him.

  We step outside and meet up with Missy and Stuart. Missy is sprawled out on a bench, basking in the sun.

  “I want to do this all summer,” she says, grinning.

  “Solid plan, Muppet,” Stuart says.

  “We should do something tonight, something special. Not just because it’s the last day of school but because it’s our last day of school as juniors.”

  “I might be able to help with that,” Peggy says, joining us. She sidles up to Stuart and plants a kiss on his cheek. He slips an arm around her waist. They’re so cute. Not as cute as Meg and I, of course, but they’re up there as cute couples go. “My parents gave me the go-ahead to host a small end-of-school party tonight.”

  “Yeah?” Stuart says.

  “Uh-huh. A small party,” she stresses, “for a select group of well-behaved, non-trouble-causing friends and their respective plus-ones. Will the lovely and talented Meg Quentin be joining us?” she asks me.

  “Oh, I think I could arrange that,” I say, taking out my phone to shoot Meg a quick text.

  “Yay! I like Meg. She’s fun. You should keep her.”

  “I plan to.” By which I mean, I hope to. On a practical, rational, grounded-in-the-real-world level, I understand that Meg and I face a lot of hurdles. We’re both young — Meg only turned eighteen a few weeks ago — which means we have a lot of growing up to do. We’re going to change as people. There’s a strong chance we’ll grow apart, like a lot of high school couples do. Like Carrie’s parents did.

  I don’t want that to happen. I want my happily ever after.

  “Missy? Matt? Are you plus-oneing?” Peggy asks.

  “I’m not, no, but thanks,” Matt says.

  “Dude, why don’t you ask Miranda?” Stuart says.

  Matt frowns. “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

  “Oh, come on, man, she flirts with you, like, constantly. She’d go in a hot second if you asked her. Do it. Dooooo iiiiiittt,” Stuart says, poking Matt in the arm. “Peer pressure. Peer pressure.”

  “Okay, all right. Jeez,” Matt says, pulling his phone out right as my phone bloops at me. Meg says she’s down for a party, and she’ll meet me at home in an hour (kissy face emoji).

  Screw you, Meg-less future. I said I’m keeping her.

  ***

  Meg holds me close and sighs contentedly. I love that sound. She glances at my alarm clock. Her second sigh is more resigned than content. “We should probably get ready for the party,” she says.

  “Probably. Unless you want to bag out?”

  She considers it. “No. We should go be social.”

  “Yeah.” With that, we get up and set about making ourselves presentable. “Hey, you didn’t tell me if you had any luck with the apartment search.”

  “That’s your fault for not giving me a chance to tell you,” Meg teases, but her playful mood doesn’t last. “No, no luck.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t expect to find anything, honestly. No one wants to rent to a college student for all of two months. I’m looking around to see if anyone is looking for a short-term roommate, but I think I’m going to end up living at home for the summer.”

  “Wouldn’t be that bad,” I say, trying to be optimistic. Meg is fortunate to have a really awesome family, her occasionally skeezy twin brother Kilroy aside. Living at home for a couple months would not be the worst outcome.

  “But I don’t want to live with my parents,” Meg snaps. “I want to be independent and self-sufficient, and living at home is neither.” She sags and mumbles toward the floor, “I feel like I’m failing the whole adulting thing.”

  Normally Meg is, I admit, the confident one in our relationship. Her moments of self-doubt are infrequent, but on the occasion they hit, they tend to hit hard. This apartment hunt has taken up a ton of time and energy, and it hasn’t come close to paying off. She’s kept her frustration in check for the most part, but all these rejections have worn her down. She needs a win.

  I can’t give her that, but I can give her a reassuring hug. I feel her tension melt away.

  “You aren’t failing,” I say. “It’s a setback, that’s all. You’ll get through it, like you always do.”

  She nods and glances over her shoulder at me. “You’re a good girlfriend.”

  I smile. “Love you, Sparky.”

  “Love you, Strawberry,” she says, her mood picking back up. “Come on, let’s finish getting ready. That party can’t be amazing if we’re not there.”

  ***

  We are, unintentionally, fashionably late to the party. Matt, Stuart, and Missy are already there along with several kids I only sort of know — mostly students who work with Peggy and Stuart at the youth club. It’s a relatively small gathering, fifteen people at most, and very well behaved for a gathering of teenagers. Guests chat quietly, the music is at a reasonable volume, and as Meg and I weave our way through the living room, I fail to detect any alcohol hiding in anyone’s red plastic cups.

  “I run a tight party ship,” Peggy says. “Mom and Dad said there was to be no drinking, no drugging, no smoking, no sexing, no tomfoolery of any kind.”

  “What about shenanigans?” Stuart says. “Were shenanigans okayed?”

  “Shenanigans fall under the general umbrella of tomfoolery, along with escapades, rascality, and espièglerie.”

  “Oooh, good word,” Meg says. “Where can we put these?” she asks, presenting our modest donation of cheap store brand soda.

  Peggy leads us into the kitchen, which the Squad has claimed as their hangout space. Stuart retrieves a baking sheet of pizza rolls from the oven, sans oven mitt, and sets it on the stovetop to cool. Missy sits nearby on the counter, and Matt and Miranda lurk in a corner, paying little attention to anyone or anything else. If they were standing any closer to each other, they’d be wearing the same jeans.

  “Get a room, you two,” Meg quips.

  “But not in my house,” Peggy adds.

  “Right, because that would be in violation of your home’s anti-shenanigans bylaw,” Matt says.

  “Stupid anti-shenanigans bylaw,” Miranda says.

  “I for one respect Peggy’s sovereign rule and look forward to partying under her reserved but benevolent regime,” Stuart says, popping a steaming-hot pizza roll into his mouth.

  “Wow, that was some impressive vocabulary for you,” Peggy teases.

  “Been watching a lot of Sesame Street lately. Show’s gotten pretty sophisticated since I was a kid.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if I care for the decidedly pro-communist socio-political stance Elmo’s taken lately.”

  “I could listen to you two banter all night,” Missy says. “You amuse me.”

  “We amuse us, too,” Stuart says.

  They continue to amuse and delight throughout the evening. Peggy is an excellent hostess, and Stuart wears the mantle of co-host quite comfortably. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were a newlywed couple throwing their first fancy dinner party for their friends. In cont
rast, Miranda Carradine acts like one-half of a newlywed couple who can’t wait to ditch everyone and grab some private time — and Matt, teenage boy that he is, isn’t discouraging her. I like Stuart and Peggy’s version of a relationship better. They make sense; the Matt/Miranda thing, not so much.

  No, I lie; I like the relationship Meg and I have better. I think we balance playfulness, comfort, and yes, young lust nicely — and we’ve finally found a balance to our emotional give and take. Early on in our relationship, I worried I was burdening Meg with all of my baggage — and oh, did I have a lot of baggage. She insisted I wasn’t a burden, that she was simply providing emotional support like a good girlfriend should, but it didn’t make me feel any better. It took me a while to deal with my crap so I could focus on being the kind of partner Meg deserved, so I could be there for her when she needed me.

  I’m proud to say, achievement unlocked.

  I’m also proud that I can sit in a room filled with people I don’t know and not feel like I’m another piece of furniture. Peggy’s guests talk to me; I talk to them; they throw out the casual getting-to-know-you questions strangers ask at parties; I answer them and ask a few of my own in return. There are a few passing inquiries about my life as a super-hero but nothing probing or intrusive. Everyone is more interested in how Meg and I met than in the whys and wherefores of running around in a costume fighting bad guys.

  “This is nice,” Meg says, slipping an arm around my waist. “I needed this.”

  “So did I,” I say. “No weirdness, no drama...”

  That old song “Black Magic Woman” drifts through the conversation, and Matt, Stuart, Missy, and I all reach for our phones.

  “It’s me,” I say, and no one’s more surprised than I am. Astrid never calls me. “Hello?”