by R. L. Ullman
I hop into the leather command chair, punch a few codes into the keyboard, and up pops an image of an abandoned warehouse. There’s a red call-out that reads: Identity Unknown.
Whoever’s causing the Meta Monitor to go bonkers must be in there.
Unfortunately, the Freedom Force is off saving the Ominous Eight. Somebody ought to check it out. But, there’s nobody around but us.
I look down at Dog-Gone, who answers back with a low growl.
Scratch that.
It seems there’s nobody around …
But me.
I SEE WHY CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
I know I shouldn’t be doing this.
But, I’m betting that hauling in a real villain will do more to convince my parents to put me back on the team than completing some training module. Of course, this could all be for naught if I get toasted.
So, here’s to hoping that doesn’t happen.
I give Dog-Gone the slip by baiting him with doggie treats and locking him in the Galley. Boy, is he upset. I’m five levels down in the Hanger, and I can still hear him howling. I feel terrible, but thankfully dogs can’t talk, so I know he won’t be snitching on me anytime soon.
I hop into one of our brand-spanking new Freedom Ferries and jet to Earth. The Freedom Ferry is TechnocRat’s latest invention. It’s basically a slimmed down version of the Freedom Flyer, designed to transport up to three people from the Waystation to Earth and back again. After having two Freedom Flyers demolished in less than a year and building a third one, TechnocRat says he won’t have to attend as many anger management classes when we inevitably wreck one of the Ferries.
But getting blown out of the sky isn’t on the agenda.
I’m on a stealth mission.
It’s early morning when I touch down, landing perfectly in a clearing in the middle of a forest, hundreds of yards from my destination. Admittedly, getting there is going to be a haul, but I don’t want the noise of my rocket-powered shuttle giving me away.
I carefully pick my way through the underbrush, my costume catching on so many thorns I look like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a pack of angry porcupines. After a while, my skin starts itching all over, giving me the horrifying thought that I may be wading through miles of poison ivy.
Freaking fabulous.
Then, through a small opening in the trees, I spot the warehouse.
It’s a huge building that’s clearly seen better days. Swaths of beige siding cling loosely to the exterior, boarded windows line the building, and the lawn clearly hasn’t been mowed in years. The only sign of life comes from a chimney on the far side of the roof that’s pumping out black smoke.
Which means someone’s inside.
I don’t see any security cameras or obvious booby traps, so I make a mad dash for the back door. When I get there, I press snugly against the rotting wall. The only sound I hear is my own beating heart—and goodness, isn’t that deafeningly loud for a so-called superhero?
Now, I just need to get inside—undetected.
I grab the door handle, roll my wrist, and pull. The door swings open with a screech so loud you’d think I let loose a colony of bats.
So much for the element of surprise.
Now I know why Shadow Hawk carries WD-40 in his utility belt.
I decide to lay low, just in case I’ve given myself away. I wait a good five minutes, trying to breathe as little as humanly possible. Since no one came to kill me, I consider the coast to be clear. I count to three, and slip inside.
It’s dark—pitch dark.
I reach into my belt, and pull out my flashlight, thankful I had the foresight to rummage through the Freedom Ferry’s glove compartment before leaving the ship behind. I thought it might come in handy—Master Mime’s extra ketchup packets, not so much.
I turn on the flashlight, and shine it around.
The inside of the warehouse is cavernous. Wooden, brown crates are stacked stories high on metal fixtures. There’s a catwalk bolted to the ceiling, traversing the fixtures, and providing a bird’s-eye view of the facility. Dust-covered forklifts are scattered all about, seemingly untouched for years.
There’s a bunch of doors along the perimeter, all of them closed. Nothing seems particularly unusual, until my flashlight hits the last door on the right.
It’s cracked open.
Bingo!
I slowly make my way over, careful not to knock over a crate, fall into a vat, or step onto some imaginary clown’s horn my mind keeps placing in front of my feet. When I finally reach the door, I crane my neck, listening intently. All I hear is a low humming noise.
At this point, I have two options—enter the dark, scary room, or go home and face a really ticked off German Shepherd.
I came all this way, so logically I should probably see it through. So, why isn’t my body moving?
Truthfully, I have no idea who, or what, is behind this door. It could be mothballs and packing tape, or it could be the freakiest Meta villain in the history of caped crusading. Of course, if I were a real superhero I’d just step inside and deal with whatever came my way, but I’m not on the Freedom Force anymore, am I? So, I guess there’s no obligation to go any further.
Then, I think about what Dad would do.
And then I wonder why I had to think about that.
Well, here goes nothing.
I take a deep breath, and enter the room.
A musty smell attacks my nostrils. I notice the room is windowless, which means it’s somehow even darker than the main part of the warehouse. It’s freezing in here, and my body starts shaking like a leaf. The temperature must be thirty degrees colder than the rest of the building. What gives?
I scan the interior with my flashlight. More crates. A stack of brown boxes. An empty storage rack. A broken conveyer belt. A mustached face. A pile of coffee cups. A … a …
I scream.
Flight mode kicks in, and I bolt from the room, my blood pumping in my ears. I’ve got to get out of here! I’ve got to get back to the Waystation! I’ve got to … to …
Wait a second!
I look behind me, and realize I’m not being chased. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Or, is my mind playing tricks on me?
I take a deep breath and re-enter the room, aiming my flashlight in the direction of the disturbing face. The light catches it full on. Yep, it’s real—a pale, square-jawed face of a mustached, masked man. His eyes are closed, and he’s wearing a red mask. But there’s more than a face.
I scan down to his chest, his atom insignia flickering in the light.
It’s the Atomic Rage!
I shine the flashlight all around. He’s standing stock-still in some sort of a chamber. And he’s not alone!
To his left are more chambers! Lots of them!
Fire Fiend … Airess … Die-Abolical … Think Tank … Back Breaker … Frightmare … Rundown ….
It’s the Ominous Eight!
They’re all here! Unconscious!
I step closer to the Atomic Rage’s chamber, and touch the outside. It’s smooth, and cold, and vibrating. That humming noise is coming from the chambers themselves! It’s like the Ominous Eight are trapped in … refrigerators?
I shine my light on the Atomic Rage’s face again, and notice tiny icicles hanging from his eyelashes and moustache. Someone’s put them on ice! They’re trapped in some kind of frozen sleep—like suspended animation. It’s like they’re being preserved for something.
Then I remember the Atomic Rage’s distress message. Someone was coming for him. Someone was coming for all of the Ominous Eight!
And I must be standing in their secret lair!
I quickly deduce that I’m way out of my league.
I’ve got to get the Freedom Force!
I charge out of the storage room, but before I reach the exit, I notice something out of the corner of my eye.
Another door is open.
One that was closed before.
And the light
is on.
My brain tells me to bolt. To get out of here as fast as I can, jump in the Freedom Ferry, and wait patiently for reinforcements.
But curiosity is pulling me towards the door.
I turn off my flashlight and grip it tight. It may be the only weapon I have. I know what I’m doing is incredibly stupid, but I can’t stop my feet from advancing.
I peer into the doorway.
There’s a large man in black leaning over a gigantic furnace. I follow the thick pipes as they run up the wall, and out the ceiling. This must be where the smoke was coming from! The man nonchalantly tends the fire, placing logs inside to keep it going.
Even though his back is facing me, it’s impossible not to notice his broad shoulders and massive muscles. My senses start tingling. It’s time to start listening to my brain. I’m about to scram when—
He turns.
I’m frozen.
His face is way younger than his physique suggests—he looks like a teenager! His skin is pale, and his hair is light blond, bordering on white. There’s something oddly familiar about him.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his face breaking into a disconcerting smile.
“Um, nope,” I answer. “Just passing through. You wouldn’t happen to know the fastest way out of here, would you?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” he says, his blue eyes erupting into smoldering embers of red. “Unfortunately, that exit is closed.”
The door slams shut behind me.
How’d he do that?
Then, I see a wave of black atoms flashing around his fists.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
“You’re a Meta,” he says. “Show me what you’ve got.”
How’d he know that? I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s dangerous, with a capital D.
So, I go with my first instinct, and throw my flashlight at his head. As soon as it leaves my hand it stops in mid-air. Then, he twists his wrist, and it comes flying back at double the speed. I duck as it crashes straight through the wall behind me.
“Come on,” he says, “You can do better than that. I can feel it.”
Feel it, huh? Oh, he’ll feel it alright.
I concentrate, and blanket him with all of the negation energy I can muster.
Suddenly, the red embers crackling around his eyes go out, and the atoms encircling his fists disappear.
There, he’s powerless.
“Yes,” he says smiling, his head back, almost soaking it in. “Well played. You are powerful. Maybe I’ll add you to my collection. You’re Epic Zero, right?”
That’s freaky. How does he know my name?
“Who are you?” I ask. My mind flips through every Meta profile I’ve studied, but comes up empty.
“Oh, you don’t know me,” he says. “But I know you. And if what I’ve heard and read about you is true, what you did at Lockdown against those aliens was impressive.”
He takes a step towards me. This guy is huge. Even without powers, he could rip me to shreds.
“Let me solve the mystery for you,” he says. “My name is Siphon, and I’m going to make every Meta on the planet my slave.”
“Um, okay,” I say, backing towards the door. “And, why would you want to do that?”
“Let’s just say I need them,” he says.
Need them? For what? And then I remember the Ominous Eight in their chambers.
Siphon must have used Airess’ energy manipulation powers to turn the flashlight back on me! And before that he used Think Tank’s psychic powers to shut the door! And the atoms circling his fists must be from the Atomic Rage!
“Hang on,” I say, “You said you’re name is Siphon. Like, you siphon the powers of others?”
“That’s right,” he says. “And I can’t believe my luck that you wandered through that door.”
“And, why is that?” I ask, nervously.
“Because you’re the one who took away the only family I’ve ever known,” he says.
What? Now I’m really lost. What’s he talking about?
Then, his eyes flare up again, the red energy swirling wildly around his face.
But … that’s impossible! I made him powerless!
Suddenly, I realize where I’ve seen energy like that before. It couldn’t be!
“Y-you’re … ,” I stammer.
“Now you’re getting it,” Siphon says. “I’m Meta-Taker’s son. Only I’m more powerful.”
“Meta-Taker had a son?” I blurt out.
“Hard to believe, huh?” Siphon asks. “But I’m not surprised you don’t know about me. I’ve spent my entire life hidden away, just like he wanted. My father always said we were different than everyone else. We didn’t look like other people, we didn’t age like other people, we didn’t fit in. We couldn’t trust heroes or villains, it was the two of us against the world. And then, one day, he disappeared. Without a mother, I struggled to survive on my own. But I learned how to use my powers to get what I needed. I made it work.”
His eyes look sad, like he’d never told his story to anyone before. I couldn’t imagine growing up so isolated—without a family. I know they get on my nerves, but not having them around ...
“And when I heard he finally returned,” Siphon continues. “I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited to get back together. But then … you killed him. And I swore I wouldn’t hide in the shadows anymore.”
I watch as his neck veins pop out.
“Look, I’m really sorry. I had no idea. But I swear to you, I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill your dad. It was the Skelton. Those aliens at Lockdown—they killed your father.”
“So now,” he says, “I’m going to show all Metas what it’s like to fight for survival. What it’s like to beg—to grovel. Especially you.”
“Was that the dinner bell I heard?” I turn for the door, when a giant demon materializes in front of me! I back up, before realizing it’s an illusion—he’s using Frightmare’s magic! I grab the doorknob when it suddenly becomes hot to the touch! I pull my hand away. Now Fire Fiend’s power!
I turn to face Siphon. He raises his fists, the atoms from Atomic Rage’s power swirling around them faster and faster. He’s gonna vaporize me!
“Listen!” I yell, waving my arms in front of my face. “I didn’t do it! I don’t care how evil you are, no kid should suffer like you did!”
Siphon hesitates for a moment, staring at me.
And then, his whole body is encapsulated in a strange orange energy.
“Hey!” he screams.
The energy surrounds him. Engulfs him.
He starts lifting off the ground.
“What are you doing?” he yells. “Put me down! Let me go!”
But I don’t know what’s happening to him. I’m not doing anything.
“Let! Me! G—”
And then he vanishes into thin air.
I DECIDE LIFE’S NOT FAIR
Sometimes there’s no reward for doing the right thing.
I could have pretended the whole warehouse thing never happened. I could have returned the Freedom Ferry to its parking spot, refilled the tank with rocket fuel, and buffed it clean. I could have left the Ominous Eight in their freezers to become human popsicles. I could have said nothing about Siphon and his plans to rule over all Metas. I could have ignored the whole freaking thing.
But I couldn’t do it.
I figured that if I want to be a superhero, then I need to act like a superhero. So, I called in the Freedom Force and told them everything.
And then my parents grounded me for a month.
Where’s the justice in that?
Mom said I was impulsive, reckless, and obstinate.
Obstinate? Can you believe it?
I don’t even know what that means!
Anyway, while I sat around fuming, the Freedom Force cleaned up the mess. Since the Ominous Eight were already on ice, TechnocRat simply transferred them in their cryo-chambers straight to Lockdown, the Meta-ma
ximum security prison. TechnocRat said he’d build new cells for them once they got there.
So, I basically handed over eight Meta villains in one fell swoop. Did anyone say great job, Elliott? Nope. Did I get a pat on the back or a medal of honor? Nope.
Instead, I got punished.
And, to top it off, Dog-Gone is furious with me. Since we returned to the Waystation, he’s basically given me the cold nose treatment. I tried making peace with a game of fetch, but he wasn’t interested. I didn’t know how serious it was until he walked away from a doggie treat. He’ll come around eventually.
I hope.
So, everyone’s basically annoyed at me, and I’m equally annoyed at them. All I want to do is go to my room and shut the door. But, of course, it’s Sunday dinner, and no one’s allowed to sit that one out.
Joy.
If the team’s not stopping some criminal mastermind, we get together every Sunday evening for a group dinner. Dad started the tradition before Grace and I were even born. He calls it team-building. From the hours of dish duty I’m stuck with, I call it a violation of child labor laws.
When dinner prep gets going, the Galley turns into a three-ring circus on steroids. Mom and Master Mime do all the cooking. Between Mom’s telekinesis, and Master Mime’s magic, there’s always pots, pans and food products flying all over the place. Blue Bolt sets the table, zipping back and forth in the blink of an eye. Makeshift creates desserts, porting in exotic ingredients from who knows where. Dad chases everyone around with a dustpan and broom, advocating kitchen safety. Grace and I pitch in where needed. But poor Shadow Hawk has the worst job of all. He tries to keep TechnocRat’s paws out of the kitchen until dinner is served.
With so much action, someone inevitably ends up wearing part the meal before it starts. Tonight was my turn. So, after I peel a fistful of spaghetti off my shirt, we’re finally ready to sit down.
That’s when Grace pokes the bear.
“Brother, dear,” she says ever so sweetly. “Can you please pass the garlic bread? That is, if you’re not too wiped out after your adventure.”
