Action Figures - Issue Five: Team-Ups Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Michael Bailey

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1519300966

  ISBN-10: 1519300964

  AISN: B01BH4WX3O

  Michael Bailey/Innsmouth Look Publishing www.innsmouthlook.com

  Cover illustrations Copyright © 2015 by Patricia Lupien

  Cover design by Patricia Lupien

  Book production by Amazon Create Space, www.createspace.com

  Edited by Julie Tremblay

  “Everyone’s here. Are you ready?”

  Sara’s eyes flutter open as though she’s emerging from a trance. She’s folded into a lotus position at the foot of her bed — legs crossed, hands resting lightly on her knees. She takes a long, deep breath.

  “Not really,” she says, adding with a wan smile, “but I’m not going to let that stop me.”

  Sara takes her time untangling her legs. One might think she was procrastinating, trying to stave off the inevitable for as long as possible, but I know her better than that. She’s simply choosing not to rush.

  It’s been more than two months since a man known only as the King of Pain turned Sara’s life upside down. He was a boogeyman of the super-hero community, a serial killer who stalked and picked off eleven people before coming to Kingsport. He’d chosen Sara to make it an even dozen, but she turned the tables on him.

  That’s a very diplomatic way of saying Sara killed him.

  That act came after Sara lashed out at her parents, using her psionic abilities to erase their minds, and before Sara turned on her friends in a psychotic rage. Okay, I might be misusing the term “psychotic” here, but I don’t know what else to call it. The King of Pain, a psionic himself, used his power to screw with Sara’s mind until she snapped, so...yeah.

  Sara pauses at the top of the stairs and grasps my hand. “I can do this,” she says. “I have to do this.”

  “You can do this,” I confirm.

  She lets go of my hand and heads downstairs.

  Matt offers a thin smile as Sara enters the living room, but he’s the only one here who looks remotely pleased to see her. Missy shrinks into the corner of the couch. Stuart, who’s chosen to stand, throws a death-glare Sara’s way. The tension in the room spikes to eleven.

  I can’t blame them. Sara hurt all of us, but Missy and Stuart took the worst of it. Missy spent most of her summer in a full leg cast and the last few weeks in physical therapy. She still walks with a slight limp, but that should go away once she’s built her leg strength back up.

  The damage Sara inflicted on Stuart is much deeper and can’t be healed through bed rest and exercise. Instead of attacking him physically, Sara telepathically assaulted him in the most personal way possible: with his own memories of his little brother Jeffrey’s death. She made him relive every moment, every emotion. Imagine having an entire Thanksgiving meal, including desserts, pureed and forced down your throat with a fire hose, and you get the idea.

  Sara stands at the edge of my mother’s living room set. She folds her hands and bows her head, completing the image of a condemned criminal facing her jury as it hands down her sentence.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say, mostly to Stuart and Missy. “I know this isn’t easy for any of us, but we need to talk about what happened. Letting this fester isn’t going to help us move on.”

  They respond with stony silence. Not so much as a dismissive snort or an indifferent grunt. Tough room.

  “Stuart. Missy,” Sara begins, “I know nothing I say or do will ever make up for what I did...”

  “Damn right,” Stuart mutters.

  “Let her talk,” Matt says.

  “Why? You heard her. She can’t make up for what she did.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Guys, please,” I say. They turn away from each other. Their friendship was another casualty of the King of Pain debacle; Stuart drew a line in the sand, and when Matt refused to abandon Sara, he wrote Matt off. He wrote me off as well, and where goes Stuart, so goes Missy’s nation.

  The cruel irony is that Matt wasn’t there for Sara in the days that followed — although that has nothing to do with Sara’s temporary madness and everything to do with her coming out as a lesbian (which, for the record, are not related conditions, so don’t even go there). I try not to be mad at him. I can’t say I’d react with good grace if I were in his position, if I discovered that the person I’d been crushing on my entire life would never return that love, but he can’t claim he wants to stay friends while almost completely ignoring her.

  One problem at a time, Carrie. Deal with what’s in front of you first.

  “Go ahead,” I tell Sara.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, opting to skip over whatever lead-in speech she might have had prepared. “I never meant to hurt you, or anyone, but I did. I’m not going to make excuses for myself, and I’m not asking you to forgive me. I don’t expect you would if I did, but I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

  Her apology is utterly sincere, as is her vow to atone. If Stuart and Missy asked her to, she’d open a vein and bleed herself out to earn their forgiveness, but her words fall on deaf ears.

  “Great. You’re sorry. We done here?” Stuart says.

  “Come on, man, she apologized,” Matt says. “You’re supposed to forgive her.”

  “Uh, no, I’m not supposed to forgive her. That’s my choice, and I choose not to.”

  “What, you’re going to hold it over her head forever? She wasn’t in control of herself.”

  “So she says.”

  “Okay, don’t believe me, then; believe Bart. He said the King of Pain made her go...you know,” Matt says, exercising a rare sense of tact.

  “I don’t trust her. You can blame the King of Pain all you want, but she’s the one who attacked us,” Stuart says, leveling a damning finger at Sara.

  “You’re right. I am,” Sara says, “and I can’t be trusted. As long as I have my powers, I’m dangerous.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I know what’s coming next. I was hoping Sara would change her mind, but no, she’s committed to this terrible decision.

  “That’s why I’ve asked Bart to take my powers away,” she says.

  Stuart’s jaw drops. Matt’s hands curl into fists.

  “You what?” Missy says. “Bart what? What what?”

  “Take your powers away?” Stuart says. “Bart can do that?”

  “Yes and no,” Sara says. “He can’t actually strip me of my powers. What he’ll do is go into my mind and set up mental blocks that’ll prevent me from accessing my powers, and they won’t come down unless Bart takes them down. For all intents and purposes, I’d be a completely normal girl.”

  Stuart and Missy exchange looks as they process Sara’s announcement. I’m tempted to say something to drive home the extent of her sacrifice because, as sacrifices go, this one is huge. The way Bart explained it, he’d be depriving her of one of her senses. It’s on par with Sara asking Bart to gouge out her eyes.

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” Stuart says. “Come on, Missy.”

  “You’re not even going to give her a chance?” Matt says.

  “Matt, stop,” Sara says. She turns to face Stuart and Missy. “I can’t force you to forgive me. Either you do or you don’t, and if you don’t...” She shrugs. “I’ve said my piece.”

  Sara stands aside to let Stuart a
nd Missy pass. They skirt by her, never taking their eyes off her, never turning their backs to her.

  “Do one thing for me,” she says. “Hate on me all you want. I deserve it. But don’t take it out on Carrie and Matt. They’re still your friends, even if I’m not.”

  Stuart starts to leave without acknowledging the request one way or the other. Missy, however, takes a limping step toward me and throws her arms around my waist.

  This is good. Muppet hugs are good.

  Missy hugs Matt as well, and for the briefest of moments, I think she’s going to include Sara in her goodbye hug-a-thon. Instead she veers away and follows Stuart out the front door.

  “That went well,” Matt says.

  “Honestly, it went better than I expected it to,” Sara says. “I said what I had to say. It’s up to them now.”

  “We’ll work on them,” I say, but Sara shakes her head.

  “Don’t. If you push them, they’ll only dig their heels in. They have to come around in their own time.”

  If they come around, but she’s right; it’s their choice.

  “Now what?” Matt asks.

  “Lunch?”

  “I could eat,” I say, but Matt apparently has no appetite.

  “I’m good. I’m going to head home, I have some stuff to do,” he says.

  “Oh. Okay,” Sara says, failing to mask her disappointment. “I’ll go get the takeout menus,” she says to me, and then she ducks into the kitchen.

  “Matt, don’t go,” I say. “Sara misses you.”

  “I miss her,” Matt says, though his meaning is very different from mine. “I need some more time.”

  “You’re avoiding her.” Matt doesn’t dispute my accusation. “Look, I understand what you’re going through. She basically broke up with you.”

  “We were never together.”

  “That’s a technicality. You loved her and she rejected you. She even gave you the ‘I hope we can still be friends’ speech —except with her, it wasn’t a line to let you down gently. She meant it.”

  “I know. I want to be friends.”

  “Then be her friend.”

  Matt frowns at me. “Stuart and Missy aren’t the only ones who need to come around in their own time.”

  Jeez, Carrie, haven’t you learned your lesson? Before Sara came out, I put a lot of energy into pushing her into a relationship with Matt and blithely ignored the fact she didn’t want one, and now here I am, trying to push Matt into a friendship he’s not ready for.

  “You’re right. You’re totally right,” I say, holding my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s okay,” Matt insists. “You’re watching out for her. I can’t get mad at you for that.”

  Sara returns as Matt leaves. The timing isn’t coincidental.

  “Thank you for trying,” she says.

  “Reading my mind?” I tease. “Or eavesdropping?”

  “Educated guess. You hate seeing people in pain, and it’s your nature to help...”

  “And I’m a big know-it-all buttinsky who doesn’t know when to back off...”

  “That too. It’s why I love you.” Sara thrusts a handful of takeout menus at me. “Choose. Pizza, Chinese, or barbecue. Me, I’m leaning toward barbecue. I want to build my strength up for tomorrow.”

  Right. Tomorrow.

  The day Sara goes to get psychically lobotomized.

  ONE – LIGHTSTORM AND PSYCHE

  THE TRIAL OF SARA DANVERS

  1.

  I glance over at my alarm clock. Six on the nose.

  I roll out of bed and briefly consider whether to proceed with my morning rituals. I opt to put my hair in a ponytail and throw on a T-shirt and the first pair of jeans I lay my hands on. This isn’t an occasion worth dressing up for.

  The smell of fresh coffee and something distinctively breakfasty greets me as I head downstairs. I can’t imagine where that latter aroma is coming from. Granddad was the master breakfast-maker of the Hauser clan. I made a few attempts to fill the role but ultimately decided that trying to cook before I’m properly caffeinated is too challenging. Consequently, I haven’t made anything for myself more ambitious than frozen waffles and microwavable bacon (both of which are as bland as they sound). I enter the kitchen to find Sara hovering over a sizzling skillet, poking its contents with a spatula, her face scrunched in concentration.

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure,” she says, “but I think I’ve successfully made an omelet.”

  “You have?”

  “I think. Don’t worry, I’ll be the guinea pig.”

  “It smells delicious.”

  “Does it?” Sara carefully works the omelet loose from the pan. “Good, maybe I didn’t mess it up. I thought I’d start simple and just add a little cheese, a few spices...”

  “In other words, the ‘What was Available in the Kitchen Special.’”

  “Pretty much. Grab a plate?”

  I bring a plate over. Sara deftly folds the omelet, scoops it up, and deposits it on the plate. My mouth waters at the sight of it, all golden brown and steamy. Not bad for someone who claims to have minimal kitchen experience.

  “What brought this on?” I ask. “I didn’t think you cooked.”

  “I always wanted to learn.” She pauses. “I know your grandfather made breakfast for you and your mother, and I wanted to find some way to contribute around here, so...”

  Sara looks to me for approval, or at least to make sure I’m not angry at her for stepping uninvited into Granddad’s shoes. I’m not. It’s sweet, really.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” I say, fishing a couple of forks out of the silverware drawer.

  What we have here is a darn tasty omelet.

  Sara finishes making a second as Mom enters, one eyebrow cocked in curiosity. “What’s going on here?”

  “Breakfast is going on,” I say. “Omelets.”

  Sara scoops the omelet onto a plate and hands it to me, and I hand it to Mom. She accepts it, her expression unchanging.

  “It’s super yummy,” I say.

  “It doesn’t suck,” Sara says modestly. “Let me pour you some coffee.”

  “You made coffee too?” Mom says.

  “Uh-huh.” Sara prepares a mug and places it on the counter near my mother then waits for her to sample the morning’s fare.

  Mom tries a bite, her face perfectly neutral. I know that look. She’s braced to pretend it doesn’t taste like the crud someone scraped off the inside of a garbage can lid. I got that same look the first time I attempted to make lasagna (totally warranted, by the way). Mom lights up after taking the first bite then starts scooping forkful after forkful into her mouth.

  We carry our breakfasts out into the dining room so we can eat like civilized ladies. Civilized ladies who talk with their mouths full, but the theory applies nevertheless.

  “Would you like me to drive you into town?” Mom offers. As far as she knows, Sara has an appointment with her therapist, the esteemed Dr. Bartholomew Connors, and there’s nothing weird or unusual about it.

  This is but one of the many stories that comprise the increasingly large, increasingly complicated work of fiction that we call our normal lives. On paper, Sara is recovering from a suicide attempt fueled by growing tension between her and her homophobic father and sparked by the Danverses succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning in their home, and she’s going to spend the morning talking to a professional psychologist about her feelings.

  Sustaining the lie is hard (and I don’t mean because of all the details we have to keep straight), but the truth would cause way more problems than it would solve. I say that based on experience. Last month I revealed my secret identity to my father, and it went over like the proverbial lead balloon. We used to talk on the phone a few times a week, maybe less if one of us was busy. Now he calls or texts me every day literally just to make sure I’m still alive, and at
least once a week, he implores me to quit. I’ve done my best to ease his fears, and he understands why I do the whole super-hero thing, but he’s a father worrying about his little girl. If there’s a secret to putting that kind of nuclear-powered anxiety to rest, I haven’t found it yet.

  What’s your new mantra, Carrie? One problem at a time.

  Sara makes a thoughtful noise as she pretends to consider Mom’s offer. “No, that’s okay.”

  “You sure?” Mom says.

  “I don’t mind walking. It’s a nice day out. But thank you.”

  “Well, I’m home all day, so you call me if you decide you’re not up for the walk home.”

  “I will.”

  Sara dutifully collects our dirty dishes and puts them in the dishwasher, prompting my mother to remark, “I think she’s after your job.”

  “She wouldn’t want it. The boss is a wicked hard-ass,” I retort.

  Mom smirks. “You can leave now.”

  2.

  Sara and I head right out so we can take our time walking into town. It’s early enough in the morning that it feels like the first days of fall rather than late summer, but a cloudless sky and the tinge of moisture hanging in the air tells me it’s going to get hot and humid soon enough. I predict we’ll be calling Mom so we can ride home in air-conditioned comfort. Death by sweat is an ugly way to go.

  Sara’s phone rings a few minutes after we hit the road. “It’s Bart,” she informs me. “Hi, Bart. A what? Why? Oh, okay. Sure, no problem. Bye.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Last minute change of plans. He asked me to go to the Protectorate’s office instead of his office.”

  “How come?”

  Sara utters a phrase that always makes me nervous coming from Bart or Edison. “He said he’ll explain when we get there.”

  We arrive at the Protectorate’s Main Street office, a tiny space amidst a block of small businesses, including my favorite bakery (their mocha swirl cheesecake is pure creamy heaven). I reach for the door, my hand pausing on the handle.