Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins (16 page)

“Sweet.”

“Maybe we should try something that doesn’t involve making a ton of noise,” I say.

“Like what?” Matt says. “Knock on the door and say ‘Hey, guy, we’re here to haul you down to the police, could you let us in’? And what if he’s armed?”

“Sara? I mean, Psyche? Is he armed?”

“I don’t think so. Ow,” she says, pressing her fingertips into her temples. “I can’t—he’s too much, I need shut this guy out.”

The others, they exchange uncertain looks. Matt starts to speak but I wave him quiet and mouth
Give her a minute.

“Okay,” Sara sighs. “Okay, I’m good.”

“What did you do?” Matt says.

“I needed a sec to throw up my defenses.”

“You can do that now? Since when?”

“I’ve been doing a little work with Carrie.”

Matt shoots me a hard look. “What, you can practice with her but not with me?”

“She offered to help me.”

“So did I! A bunch of times! But I guess you’d rather practice with someone you’ve known, like, two whole weeks than with me, huh?”

“Hey!” I say. “I was only—”

“This isn’t about her,” Sara says, “or about
you
.”

“I’m not making this about me.”

“The hell you’re not.”

“Are we really doing this now?” Stuart says.

“No, we’re not,” I say. “Matt, I offered to help Sara out, she said yes, I wasn’t trying to step on your toes, so chill out. Sara, you should talk to Matt later because you’ve hurt his feelings. Stuart, get ready to force open the door. Not break
, force
. Try to keep the noise to a minimum. Missy.”

Our littlest ninja blinks at me expectantly.

“Great work. Keep it up.”

“Yay me!”

Now that that’s settled, it’s time to act like superheroes.

Stuart easily pushes the door open, as if it wasn’t locked at all, and we file in. Not the most dramatic of entrances, but at least we don’t jam up in the doorway. Things are improving.

“Nothing funny, either of you,” Stuart says. He might be only fifteen, but he’s burly enough to give the order decent weight.

One of the two men in the room, the marginally younger of the pair, jumps off his bed and gawks at us in a combination of alarm and confusion. The other guy, who looks and smells like he hasn’t bathed in weeks, is a little too calm for my liking. Going to have to watch him.

The standing man sputters and stammers and finally spits out, “What is this?! What are you doing in our room? Who are you people?”

“We’re the...the Hero Squad,” Matt says in his best authoritative voice, “and we’re bringing you in.”

“The Hero Squad?” Stuart says. “Oh my God...”

“Not now...” Matt says through clenched teeth.

“But dude, the Hero Squad?”

“It was the only thing I could think of!”

“Way to improv, Robin Williams.”

Dear Lord, I would like to order one lightning bolt, for immediate delivery.

“We know you two are behind the battlesuit that tore up Main Street,” I say, hoping to put this crazy train back on the rails, and then I notice the grubby hobo has a cable running from his head to what appears to be a smartphone strapped to his forearm. “Archimedes, I presume?”

He tenses. That got his attention. “You’re not what I was expecting,” he says.

“The Protectorate was busy so we’re covering this one,” I say. I know, I’m not authorized to namedrop, but if these guys think we’re with the Protectorate they might...look at me like they have no idea what I’m talking about?

“The Protectorate?” Archimedes says. “No. No, that’s not right.”

“I’ll tell you what’s not right: the killer funk you slobs are generating,” Stuart says, sliding past me. “I’m opening a window before we all pass out.”

“What you think is beside the point,” I say. Act like you’re in control, Carrie. Perception is reality. “We know that battlesuit is yours.”

“But it isn’t,” Archimedes says. “I stole it.”

“From ARC.”

“No, not from ARC.” He chuckles. “That suit is light-years beyond anything ARC could create.”

“Then who?”

There’s sharp pop and a tinkle of shattering glass and a deafening hiss, like someone has set the air itself on fire, and I duck a split-instant before an airborne Stuart takes me out.

Archimedes power-rolls off his bed and joins me on the floor. “Ah,” he says. “I believe
that
would be who I was expecting.”

Missy practically teleports into my arms. “There’s someone outside!”

“We’re on the second floor,” I say.

“He’s flying! Like you! Except not like you because you get all glowy and he’s wearing a scary suit with wings!”

I hope those wings make him a bigger target, because no way am I sticking my head up to check exactly where he is. If his weapon can flatten Stuart so easily...

I jump up and let him have it with both barrels—or hands, as the case may be. I’m firing blind but the metallic bang tells me I connect, and the crash of metal on asphalt confirms it. There’s nothing beyond the shattered window but open sky.

Archimedes throws me over the bed and runs for the door, calling out to someone named Roger. By the time I get back to my feet both Archimedes and his friend are gone.

I’m about to give chase when I catch sight of Matt curled on the floor in a fetal position, his arms wrapped around his head. He’s half underneath Stuart, whose entire chest is bright red, like he has a nasty sunburn, and it’s smoking, no lie,
his chest is smoking
, and then I remember there’s some winged armored guy outside who’s got to be in a seriously foul mood.

Dammit, there’s too much going on. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?

“Carrie?” Sara says, peeking over the edge of the bed.

“Check on Stuart and Matt,” I say, moving to
ward the hole that was once a window, “do what you have to for them, then go after Archimedes, you and Missy.”

“What about you?” Missy says.

Our attacker is down (on the ground, specifically) but not out. His battlesuit has wings like Missy said, batwings made of metal. The helmet makes me think of a lion’s skull because of its golden-brown mane, and he’s lying on top of a segmented scorpion tail attached to the back somewhere. His suit is made to intimidate.

“You’re dead, you lousy little—” he says, his voice cold and synthesized, and the tip of his tail emits a piercing whine. I drop as a corkscrewing energy blast punches a hole in the ceiling above me. It’s not exactly right to call it an explosion, but chunks of stucco and wood and concrete spray me as though a grenade went off on the roof.

And then I do what any sane person would do in a situation like this: I jump out the window.

FIFTEEN

Energy blasts pour out of me like machine-gun fire, something I’ve never done before, but I’m not complaining; half my shots miss and chew up the parking lot, but the rest connect, and lion-scorpion-bat guy is screaming bloody murder at me.

I ease up, mostly because I’m afraid I might kill the man if I don’t. His armor looks intact but he’s going to need a million dollars’ worth of bodywork.

“I have a lot more where that came from,” I say, my voice trembling, “so don’t try anything funny.”

“Sweetheart,” he says as he struggles to stand, “you have no idea who you’re screwing with.”

“Neither do you.”

“
Heh
. True enough. The name’s Manticore.”

Vaguely familiar, but I’m not placing it. “Lightstorm. Pleasure’s all yours.” That’s right, pal, I’m bad.

“Not yet it isn’t,” Manticore says.

There’s no whine this time, no warm-up before the pitch, and he nearly tags me. The tail snaps up over his head and spits a beam at me, short and sweet, not the same killer zap as before, but what it lacks in quali
ty, Manticore makes up for in quantity. Rapid-fire blasts chase me across the parking lot before I remember, hey, there’s a whole sky above me.

Don’t judge. I’m not fleeing. I’m not escaping. I’m staging a strategic withdrawal. I’m retreating so I can regroup.

Manticore is not on board with this plan. A bolt sizzles past me. Manticore is coming up on me fast, his steely wings at full extension, his tail arced up over his back and lobbing hot death my way.

I level off and floor it. Mach one comes and goes and for a few seconds Manticore falls behind, but then there’s a boom, like distant thunder, and he starts regaining lost ground. What’s powering that suit?

Outrunning him now feels like a losing proposition so it’s time for Plan B. It takes me maybe a full second to loop around and come up behind him, and now he’s the target. I fire. He dodges. He screws up my brilliant plan by returning fire. I veer out of harm’s way. It’s a panic move on my part, and by the time I recover he’s coming at me from above, tail blazing, forcing me to make another clumsy evasive maneuver.

I have badly underestimated this guy—or badly overestimated myself. Either way I’m in trouble because I’m clearly the amateur here. Manticore owns the sky. If I can’t get really brilliant really fast, he’s going to own me.

So I let him.

A volley comes way too close for comfort. It’s a near miss but I play it like a hit, complete with girly scream (I hate myself for that, but hey, that’s showbiz). I turn my power off and go into freefall. Manticore doesn’t follow. Soon he’s a dark dot against a backdrop
of blue, and then he’s gone.

I power back up once I start to see the details of a town below me coming into focus. Not a big town, not like Kingsport, more along the lines of a quaint little New England town that has bed and breakfasts instead of motels and mom-and-pop stores instead of Walmart. I touch down near a big old church, and I’m more than slightly stunned when I read the sign at the side of the road: Londonderry Presbyterian.

As in: Londonderry, New Hampshire.

I’m in freakin’ New Hampshire. Five minutes ago I was in Massachusetts.

Oh, crap...how do I get back?

“Carrie!” Missy cries out.

“Lightstorm,” Matt grunts. “Use her super-hero name.”

“Oh, God,” Sara says. She tries to roll Matt onto his back but he resists. “Are you okay?”

“I took a Stuart to the face.”

“Dude, I’m right here,” Stuart hisses. Sara resists touching a finger to the angry red welt splashed across his chest. “What hit me?”

“I don’t know,” Missy says, casting an eye toward the shattered window, “but it sounds like Carrie’s wailing the crap out of him.”

“Good. Tell her to save a piece for me,” Stuart says, forcing himself to sit up. “Ow.”

“I’ve never heard you
ow
before,” Sara says.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either.”

Matt rolls onto his hands and knees, his breathing shallow and labored. “Where’s what’s-his-name?” he says. “Archimedes?”

“Oh, crap,” Sara says, “we were supposed to go after him.”

“He got away?”

“He took off when—”

“Never mind about us. Go get him.”

“Matt, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine!” Matt says, convincing no one. “Get him before he gets away!”

“More than he already has,” Stuart says. “I got this, you go.”

Reluctantly, Sara and Missy step into the hallway and, each in her own way, pick up the scent.

“That way,” they say over one another.

Without comparing their hunches, they take off in pursuit. The trail leads down the hallway, down the stairs, and through the front lobby, where the desk clerk babbles excitedly into the phone about explosions and people shooting lasers at one another.

“Where’s Car—Lightstorm?” Missy says when she does not spot said laser-shooter.

“I don’t know,” Sara says distractedly as she reaches out with her superhuman senses, feeling for her quarry. “Come on.”

Following their respective invisible trails, the girls sprint down the long motel driveway, down along a four-lane road that hums with rush hour traffic. Sara’s lungs burn, on the edge of collapse, but she can’t go back to her friends empty-handed. She can’t return as a failure. She can’t. She won’t.

“There!” she huffs, pointing at two distant figures loping down the sidewalk ahead of them, struggling to maintain a fugitive’s pace.

“I got ‘em!” Missy says and she races away, leav
ing Sara to wonder how much Missy was holding back—and how much more she’s capable of.

Missy sails past her prey and skids to a halt, cutting off their escape route. “Stop right there! You’re coming with us!”

Manfred makes a sour face at the diminutive figure in black and, with a dismissive shake of his head, throws a punch that misses its nimble target by a wide margin.

“Could we not fight, please?” Missy says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t want—?” Manfred pants. “Oh, for...”

Manfred lunges and, again, misses, but succeeds in driving Missy into Archimedes’ waiting arms. He seizes the girl in a bear hug and lifts her off the ground. Before Manfred can capitalize, a force slams into him, hurling him backwards.

Too hard
, Sara thinks. Not that she feels bad about it.

“RogYAAAAHH!” Archimedes yelps as fingernails as sharp as steak knives dig into his ribs. Missy squirms free and cocks a fist. “No! Please!” he squeals, throwing his hands out to ward off the blow. “Please don’t hurt me anymore, please...”

“You going to give us any more trouble?” Sara says. Archimedes sinks to his knees to show his compliance.

“You swear?” Missy says. “You swear you’re not trying to trick me?”

“He’s not,” Sara says. “He’s terrified of you.”

“He is?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“You need to let me go,” Archimedes says.

“After everything we went through to find you?” Sara says. “Fat frickin’ chance.”

“That man, the man in the armor. Someone sent him to find me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he wants from me or who sent him,” Archimedes says. “I just want to get away from him. I’ll go back into hiding and I won’t cause any more trouble, I promise. I promise. Please.”

Through the static of his fear, Sara senses the truth in his words, and for a moment she considers his plea—but only for a moment.

“No. You’re coming with us.”