Marrow (7 page)

Oracle’s words pierced my gut and twisted my insides like a fork in spaghetti.

“My father?” I said, breathless.

Leaning forward, the withered old woman set her cup on the coffee table. She interlocked her knobby fingers, contemplating her next words.

“You haven’t seen him,” said Oracle. This was not a question. Then again, she didn’t need to ask questions. She could see straight into my brain.

“Of course I haven’t seen him,” I said. “He a sadistic psychopath. Why would I have seen him?”

Oracle did not respond right away. She continued to stare at me for several long seconds before leaning back in her armchair. Whatever was going on inside her head, she clearly wasn’t satisfied. I was swallowed in a realization that singed my nerves.

“Is that the reason I’m here?” I asked. “So you could look inside my brain and see if I was in cahoots with my old man?”

“I never assumed you were in
cahoots
with anyone,” said Oracle. “But I couldn’t leave any possibility unchecked. If Spine really has returned, there was a possibility that he might have shown himself to you. I had to make sure.”

Suddenly, I felt violated, knowing that Oracle had probed my brain. Sure she had done it once before but that was to determine the nature of my power. I didn’t like being interrogated, even if I was oblivious to it.

“So that’s it,” I said. “That was my mission. Come over here so you could poke around inside my head.” I could barely contain my irritation. Even when I was trying to make the most of my crappy situation, I was being manipulated.

“I know how you feel, Marrow,” said Oracle. “But that’s not the only reason you’re here. I need your help with something else.”

I bit my lip, fighting back a surge of cynicism. “Oh yeah?” I grumbled. “What’s that?”

“I need you to bring Flex here. I need to speak with him.”

Great. The most menial task in the world which also happened to be the most impossible. Something snapped inside of me. I wanted to throw my hands in the air in exasperation. I wanted to pull my hair out. I wanted to scream. I had worked so hard to be the best at FIST, only to get shafted by that cheating scumbag, Nero. Yeah, I was cocky, but I deserved to train with Fantom! I earned it! And now here I was, nothing but a messenger boy and apparently the untrustworthy son of a Supervillain who needed to have his thoughts examined by a brain-hacking Telepath.

But instead of saying any of those things out loud, I laughed.

This wasn’t a normal laugh. There was nothing funny about it. In fact, a part of me wanted to break down and cry like a big fat baby. The result was the sort of maniacal laugh you’d expect from some sort of whack job in a straitjacket.

“Is something funny?” Oracle asked. Her expression was neither shocked nor irritated by my bizarre reaction. I was reminded again that she could still see directly inside my head. I could only imagine what a mess it looked like inside there.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” I said, shaking my head overzealously. “Why would something be funny? You’re only asking me to fetch the one lazy bum who doesn’t listen to a single freaking thing I say!”

My voice amplified with every word until I was practically shouting.

Again, Oracle seemed unfazed. In fact, her tight-pressed mouth loosened with the slightest hint of sympathy.

“Marrow, can I show you something?”

Breathing in through my nose, I attempted to calm myself. My wild-eyed hysterics lowered a notch. “Show me what?”

“I’m not just a Telepath,” said Oracle. “Sometimes I see things. Dreams. Prophetic images. Glimpses of the future.”

Standing upright—as far as her back would allow—Oracle stepped around the coffee table and approached me. She then sat down beside me on the couch.

“Would you like to see my most recent premonition?”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d never heard of Oracle showing anyone anything of the sort. In theory, this sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime. But how exactly did she intend to show it to me? Better yet, did I even
want
to see what she had to show me? I was starting to feel genuinely weirded out.

So naturally, I said, “Okay.”

Oracle reached forward and placed a clammy, withered hand on my forehead. “Now don’t wig out,” she said. “This is going to feel a little—”

Her sentence never finished. But it
felt
like I was being folded inside out as Oracle’s bookshelves and conspiracy theory décor suddenly swirled together in a raging vortex of color. It was like a Skittle volcano exploding through the eye of a tornado, and I was right in the middle of it. My body felt like Jell-O being sucked through a vacuum cleaner, but as far as my uncontrolled vision could see, I didn’t seem to have a body anymore.

All at once, the color flashed into a solid image—a shocking, surreal image, just as epic as it was horrific.

I was back inside Oracle’s house—at least what used to be her house. The place was ravaged to ruins. Furniture was thrashed and broken, and fragile decorations were shattered. An entire wall had been blown wide open, leaving a gaping, jagged hole of broken planks and splinters. A hazy, smoldering view of the blood-streaked evening sky glowed from the other side, accompanied by the red and blue flash of police lights.

Bodies were littered all over the floor, contorted in awkward, limp angles. Motionless.

Two dark figures stood opposite each other like shadows in a mirror. One I recognized instantly. Every muscle was accentuated in a red and black bodysuit. A simple black mask obscured the top half of his sculpted masculine face. A crimson cape trailed behind him like fire.

Fantom.

The other figure was even bigger, but lacked the sleekness. Thick dark hair erupted from his scalp, long and knotted, meeting his beard like the mane of a lion. He wore a heavy black coat over his hairy bare chest. His ripped and tattered pants were tucked into army boots that seemed capable of crushing a human skull. His gloves were ripped off at the fingers, exposing dirty, chipped fingernails like claws. The most terrifying feature, however, were his eyes. They were crisp and blue, like a tropic ocean bleached by the noonday sun.

They were my eyes.

My father’s eyes.

Spine.

His power was like mine, but with an addition that had scary possibilities. This was made manifest as he raised both fists and sharp bones spiked out of his knuckles. This was just
one
of the nearly limitless ways in which Spine was notorious for manipulating his bone structure. 

I barely remembered my father, but this dark stranger seemed nothing like that distant memory. My father was merely a dream. This monster was reality.

My bizarre, fixed perspective zoomed out as the two men charged each other, fists pulled back. The image was bending . . . distorting . . . rounding. The scene was soon captured within a sphere, discoloring to a sharp tint of blue.  The center was dotted black, and white encompassed the blue.

It was an eye. My eye.

I zoomed out on my face, bruised heavily on the right side, with deep cuts over my right eyebrow and lip. I was sprawled belly-first on the floor. Flex was lying behind the cut and bruised version of me. His battered form observed the scene in wide-eyed horror.

A white light flashed and then dimmed to a dark, cluttered living room. I was staring at Oracle’s empty eyes now. Her hand was still on my forehead.

I blinked. I was back.

Oracle pulled her hand away and rested it in her lap. She didn’t speak or even smile. Apparently I wasn’t the only one disturbed by what I had just seen.

“What was that?” I finally managed to ask.

“Exactly what it looks like,” said Oracle. Her face was grim. “A battle that looms over our future. And apparently it happens in my house and both you and Flex are there to witness it.”

There were so many questions racing around my skull, I could barely focus. But one managed to escape my mouth, as the image was the most fresh in my mind.

“All those people . . .” I said, breathless. “Were they . . . ?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The word was like acid, burning my thoughts.

Oracle’s face remained expressionless. “I don’t know.”

So many people . . . What were they all doing in Oracle’s house? The lingering image sent shards of ice into my skin.

Oracle cleared her throat after I failed to say anything. “Your father . . .”

“Don’t call him that,” I snapped. I couldn’t fight the defensive edge to my tone. “He’s not my father. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” said Oracle with an understanding nod. “Spine, like you, has the ability to alter his bone matter. After much practice, he has mastered a very particular type of bone matter in his skull that prevents my telepathy from reaching his brain. It’s not so different than the way Flex’s elasticity deflects my power. And after my recent premonition, I cannot ignore the possibility that Spine was the one outside my home.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why snoop around your place and not do anything? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s much of this whole situation that doesn’t make sense,” said Oracle. “But Flex was a part of this premonition also. That is why I need you to bring him here.”

“But you can’t even read his mind,” I said.

“I don’t need to read his mind,” said Oracle. There was solid assurance in her grandmotherly voice. “Flex will tell me everything that I need to know.”

I wasn’t in the mood to challenge her. My mental capacity for arguing was maxed out. But that didn’t change one slightly significant question.

How the heck was I going to get him here?

Even with everything I had seen and heard, it didn’t change the fact that Flex was still the most stubborn bum in the universe. I stood a better chance of convincing him to wear a bear costume and hibernate for the winter. Actually, he might accept that challenge willingly.

Oracle stood up from the couch and shuffled over to the long line of bookshelves. It wasn’t until she reached the end that I realized that a small section in the corner was a solid shelf of black. They were VHS tapes. Though her eyes couldn’t see, she ran a knobby finger across the tapes before stopping at a particular cassette. She removed it and cradled it gently in her veiny hands. For a brief moment, she appeared lost in thought. After a few long seconds, her head perked back up and she wandered into the kitchen. She was gone for only a moment. When she returned, she held a manila envelope in the other hand. Slipping the videotape inside, Oracle licked it shut and handed it to me.

“You give this to Flex,” said Oracle, “and he will come.”

I didn’t realize how long I’d been gone. As I left Oracle’s crooked house, the sun was already sinking behind the sharp-edged horizon. Skyscrapers stabbed into the painted orange sky like razorblades. My eyes drifted down to the package in my hands.

There was no message or even a name on the manila envelope. What the heck was this thing? How was a stupid videotape supposed to get Flex to leave his apartment?

I wondered if the cassette had any sort of label on it. If Oracle hadn’t licked the envelope and sealed it shut, I would have looked already. Would Flex notice or even care if I ripped it open? It wasn’t like he was expecting a package from Oracle. I could just hand him the tape without the envelope, right? He’d never know better.

As much as I justified it in my mind, something outweighed my curiosity. I didn’t even know what it was. Unusual, since my curiosity almost always prevailed.

I tucked the package into my jacket, out of sight. Hopefully out of mind.

My eyes grazed a man in a business suit removing a paper from a clunky metal newspaper dispenser. As he vanished into the crowds, I immediately recognized the two faces on the front page of the newspaper in his hand—each glaringly recognizable.

Fantom and Nero.

I nearly tripped on my own feet. After stumbling, flinging my arms out desperately for balance, and nearly running into half a dozen people at once, I regained my balance. Weaving frantically against the current of people, I broke free of the crowds.  Then I hunched down for an eye-level view of the newspaper dispenser.

Sure enough, it was Fantom and Nero. Fantom looked as epic and daring as he always did, fists at his sides, chest puffed out, and sporting a toothpaste-ad smile. Surprisingly, Nero wasn’t sporting the cocky smirk I would have expected. His mouth was a straight line, and his eyes stared off into some invisible point in space. Maybe Nero wasn’t happy being Fantom’s sidekick after all.

As much as I wanted to relish his unexcited expression, the newspaper headline had to go and ruin it for me:

Fantom and new sidekick, Nero, capture flame-wielding villain, Torcher, and unveil the Cronus

Cosmo City – Fantom has done it again and in true hero fashion. Notorious Supervillain, Torcher, created a stir Thursday morning when he literally “opened fire” on a gas tanker truck. The tanker exploded, injuring the driver and seven other motorists and passengers on the highway. Torcher proceeded to set fire to multiple vehicles, but was intercepted in record time by Fantom who happened to be training his new sidekick, Nero, nearby.

Literally
flying onto the scene, Fantom used his super speed and strength to immobilize Torcher in minutes while Nero—via telekinesis—twisted a nearby guardrail around him in order to secure him. For the first time in Fantom’s crime-fighting history, the world-renowned Superhero delivered a Supervillain to the CCPD rather than killing him in action. Despite his fame, Fantom has been under scrutiny for years for his violent tactics. When asked if this sudden change was due to his training a new sidekick, Fantom responded that it was much bigger than that. He restated his distrust that Cosmo City’s correctional facilities are equipped to handle an able-powered Super, let alone the dozens that he has faced over the past year alone. However, his capture of Torcher became a springboard for the unveiling of a revolution in radioactive technology—the Cronus Cannon.

Ever since the impact of the Gaia Comet and the birth of the Supers, Fantom has demonstrated immense interest in the science behind Gaia’s alien radioactivity. Thus was born the Tartarus—a unique underwater research facility designed to further study the properties of Gaia’s point of impact. At the heart of Tartarus and the scientists’ experimentation is the Cronus. Fantom announced that the Cronus Cannon is a machine that utilizes Gaia’s energy to remove a Super’s power. In essence, it acts as a reversal of the comet’s radioactive mutation. The Cronus, says Fantom, is the solution to Supervillainy. Although the government has yet to approve such a correctional method, Fantom feels confident that it is only a matter of time until it is approved.

“The power of a Super is a gift,” said Fantom in a recent interview. “If that power is abused, then it needs to be taken away. I believe the day will come when the title ‘Super’ will actually live up to its meaning.”

Indeed, that day may soon come. Until then, Torcher’s uncertain fate hangs in the balance. Torcher is yet another Superhero-gone-bad. It is presumed that his moral spiral began when his brother was mugged and killed last fall. Over the ensuing months, Torcher has been responsible for numerous arson-based crimes. He certainly seems the perfect candidate for the Cronus.

When newcomer, Nero, was asked what he thought of working with Fantom as well as this revolutionary new development from the Tartarus, he said, “Fantom is great, and the Cronus is what we need. I know a fellow FIST classmate that could use a good zap from it.”

Nero is training with Fantom for the summer as one of the most promising young . . . (Continued on page 7.)

I wanted to throw up.

I couldn’t process what I had just read. Tartarus? Cronus Cannon? What did it matter?

All I cared about was pushing Nero off a very steep cliff. Preferably into a chasm with jagged rocks below. Shark-infested waters were a plus.

I pulled my gaze away from the front page story. I had to walk away before I ripped the newspaper dispenser out of the concrete. The crowds were still thick on the sidewalk. My excitement for being in Cosmo City was dying. I was hardly claustrophobic, but being around this many people was making me nauseous.

I decided on a shortcut through an adjacent alley. At least, I hoped it was a shortcut. If it continued through, it could very well cut my trip in half. Veering out of the herd of people, I merged into the open alleyway. I stretched my elbows with a renewed sense of freedom.

Despite the shadows, the neon graffiti seemed to glow on the brick walls. Most of the graffiti spelled words, but the outlandish designs made them about as simple to read as Chinese. These bright messages were instantly contrasted by grimy litter strewn on the floor, murky puddles, and an occasional cockroach scurrying from my presence. The only dumpster in sight was already filled to the brim.

What a lovely detour. If this turned out
not
to be a shortcut, I might punch a wall and smash my way through.

I rounded the corner and was thankful to see an end to the alley and moving traffic beyond. Thank freaking goodness. I pulled my jacket tight, securing the package, and walked faster.

A silhouetted figure stepped into the alley, blocking my way.

I halted. Not that size had ever bothered me before. If some thug wanted to pick a fight with me, so be it. I hoped he had good health insurance.

My train of thought shattered as several footsteps echoed behind me, splashing carelessly through the puddles. I whipped around. There were almost a dozen of them—punk kids that looked like they were in their late teens or even early twenties, some with Mohawks, others wearing spikes. One even had so many piercings in his face he resembled a pincushion. All of them were armed with crowbars, chains, or aluminum baseball bats. At their lead was a familiar face with a shaved head, sad excuse for a goatee, and a tank top and sleeve tattoos. His lip was puffed out and shiny where Flex had decked him in the face.

“I told you you’d be sorry,” said Tad, sneering. He flipped out his switchblade.

My stance tensed, but I refused to let any intimidation show. If these punks were half as stupid as Tad, this would be an easy fight.

“Bring it, turdbucket,” I said.

“Oh, no, we’re just here to enjoy the show,” said Tad. He pointed his switchblade past me. “We have a freak of our own.
He’s
the one who’s gonna hurt you.”

My stomach sank. I turned to find that the large man on the opposite end of the alley was approaching. Light spilled across his gargantuan frame. His face was uglier than my butt—this huge, disproportioned thing with beady eyes, a bulbous nose, and teeth like a horse. Mutton-chop sideburns extend well past his large ears, engulfing his cheeks. Though his legs were thick and sturdy, his hairy arms were just as large, weighing his upper half down like a gorilla, barely contained in a trench coat.

I could hear Tad’s grin grow wider behind me. “Meet Nightmare. He’s going to hurt you.”

I wasn’t about to be caught off guard. I tapped into my bone structure, and my feet became clouds, barely touching the ground. When Nightmare made his move, I would be ready to strike back.

Nightmare didn’t move. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be looking at me. His beady eyes shifted past me, gazing further down the alley.

“Hey, Nightmare what the freak are you waiting for?” said Tad. “We aren’t paying you to stand there and look stupid.”

Nightmare’s ugly-as-butt face didn’t flinch. “I didn’t come here for your money.”

At that moment, one of the gang members screamed—Pincushion Face. He backed away from the others, wide-eyed and swinging his baseball bat frantically.

“What the . . . ?”

“Hey, man, what are you—?”

Another gang member cried out. And then another. In a matter of seconds, the entire gang had suddenly become a psyche ward, shrieking and swinging weapons at invisible forces. Tad was practically sobbing as he dropped his switch blade and took off down the alley.

A shadow fell over the alleyway, accompanied by a screech that reverberated throughout the skies. My shocked gaze darted heavenward. The clear sky had become a churning pool of billowing darkness. However, no storm could have been nearly as frightening as the flock of winged creatures circling above. One particular creature swooped low, bug-eyed, open jawed, and baring a crowded mouthful of razor teeth. The winged monster might have been a flying monkey if it had a single hair on its body. These creatures were more reptilian, their scaly skin glazed in a slimy residue.

A second shadow loomed over me from behind. No sooner had I spun around, than Nightmare grabbed the back of my head and brought a cloth to my mouth. My senses hardly had a moment to process the fumes before my world became a blur, and I slipped into nothingness.