Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect (34 page)

Missy doesn’t stop. She
doesn’t slow down. She barrels full-speed into Joy, her momentum carrying them
both over the hood of the car, which burns some serious rubber getting out of
there.

I perch on the roof of the
nearest store to play sniper. My intent is to take advantage of any clear shot
I might get and put Joy down hard. I’m not out to steal Missy’s thunder but
let’s be pragmatic here: Joy has slipped away from us twice. I refuse to let
her escape again.

Besides, I’m watching Missy’s
back. That’s what teammates do.

Missy and Joy get to their
feet at the same time. Joy roars, charges, rakes at Missy, who nimbly weaves
out of the way. Joy pivots, comes in for another strike. Missy throws herself
back and hits the ground in a reverse somersault. She rolls into a low crouch.
Joy, frustrated and infuriated, launches a nasty kick at Missy’s head. Missy
tumbles to one side. Joy’s foot finds nothing but air.

So it continues: Joy
attacks, Missy evades, Joy attacks, Missy evades. It doesn’t click right away,
but I realize Missy isn’t desperately flailing around to avoid being gutted.
She’s not panicking at all. Her eyes are dark, intense, focused. There is no
fear on her part whatsoever. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She is in full
control.

Joy, on the other hand, is
losing it fast.

“Dammit, stand still!” she
screeches. Missy bobs and weaves around a series of sloppy slashes. She
over-commits to a grab for Missy’s throat and Missy finally retaliates, driving
a knee into Joy’s ribcage. Joy barks in pain, staggers back, and takes a tiny,
bony fist to the point of her nose.

Missy is not a trained
fighter. Her moves are fast and strong but graceless and imprecise. None of
that matters. Joy’s running on fumes and has nothing left for defense. She
takes the full brunt of every punch, every kick, every rake of Missy’s claws.
It’s the most savage beating I’ve ever witnessed, yet throughout it, Missy
remains in command of herself.

That does not make the
beatdown any less scary. On the contrary, when Joy stumbles back, blood
dripping from countless gashes riddling her from head-to-toe, I’m sickened,
horrified
by what Missy has done. Joy may be a murderous whackjob, she was absolutely
overdue for some industrial-strength comeuppance, but my God...

“Last chance, Joy,” Missy
says with impossible calm. She isn’t even breathing heavily.

“You’re dead, you hear me?”
Joy pants, defiant to the last. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill you. I will
open you up, bitch!”

Missy gives Joy a tiny
smirk. “Go for it, cupcake.”

Joy goes in for one last
all-or-nothing assault. It’s pure desperation. She knows she can’t win, but she
sure as hell is going to go down swinging and take Missy with her if she can.
Missy ducks under the attack, spinning as she drops, and swipes at the back of
Joy’s legs. A scream catches in Joy’s throat as she collapses to the ground.
She doesn’t stand back up. I don’t think she can.

I don’t think she’ll ever
stand up again.

TWENTY-NINE

I never thought I’d say
this, but I would love it if Concorde showed up to take over for us.

The cleanup process is a
long, tedious affair that keeps us on the scene until early evening. We have to
coordinate extensively with the police to formally arrest and charge Joy and
her minions, and then with Byrne to arrange transportation for the prisoners,
and then with the fire and building departments as they inspect the arts center
for structural damage that could compromise the auditorium’s integrity, and in the
middle of all this, we have to stand guard over Team Bad Guy as EMTs treat
their wounds.

Two members of Team Bad Guy
get to join the injured cops for an ambulance ride to Kingsport Hospital: the boy
Matt took down, a kid named Kurt Martens, who suffered serious head and neck
injuries, and Buzzkill Joy, who no longer has functional hamstring tendons. The
EMTs dope both of them up and take them to the hospital under the watchful eye
of a quartet of armed Byrne guards. The rest of the gang gets off light with a
lovely collection of bumps and bruises, all of which are treated at the scene
before they’re whisked away to Byrne.

“This your first time
handling the post-game show, huh?” Chief Bronson says to me at one point.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re doing all right.
Don’t worry, this’ll become second nature soon enough.”

Oh, yay.

Chief Bronson’s next
statement has a more positive effect on my mood. “You did good work here
today.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” I
say. I’m not being modest. “A lot of your guys got hurt, the fight spilled over
into a civilian area...”

“My people know the risks of
the job. None of them were killed, and no one will be out of action
permanently, so that’s your silver lining there,” Chief Bronson says. “And
yeah, it would have been nice to take these jokers down nice and tidy-like, but
that’s not always how it works. Years ago, when I was still on the street, I
got called in to a liquor store hold-up...I won’t bore you with the details,
but suffice to say I understand what it’s like for a situation to get away from
you. All you can do is learn from it and do better next time.”

The chief gives me a look
that isn’t quite a smile, but I take it as such.

“We’re just about done here.
You want to go make a statement to the media?” he says, jerking a thumb toward
a clump of reporters and photographers hovering at the edge of the parking lot,
corralled behind a rambling barricade of yellow sawhorses. There’s even a news
van here, its telescoping satellite dish at full extension. I count eight
people total. Not exactly a media circus, but I do not relish the thought of
dealing with them.

“And rob you of the
pleasure?” I say. “They’re all yours, chief.”

“Gee, thanks. Right then,
you kids go home, grab a shower, get some rest. You’ve earned it. We’ll make
sure the civilians get home safe.”

Civilians? Oh, right, as far
as the police know, Missy was kidnapped along with her father and is not now,
nor has ever been, a super-hero.

“I’ll let them know,” I say.
I gather the team around Dr. Hamill and Missy, who sit together under a blanket
on the bumper of a police cruiser. “How are you doing, Dr. Hamill?”

He takes his time answering
what is, I admit, a tricky question. “It’s been an interesting day.”

I’m not sure, but I think
Dr. Hamill just cracked a joke.

“Interesting for you,
maybe,” Matt says. “This is what passes for normal for us.”

Dr. Hamill nods. “At least I
know Missy is in good hands,” he says. “She’s very fortunate to have friends
like you.”

Oh, God. He knows.

Well, duh, Carrie, of course
he knows. He’d have to be rock-stupid not to have figured it out by now.

“Daddy,” Missy begins.

“I’m not going to say
anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Dr. Hamill says. “You might not
have noticed, but I excel at keeping secrets.”

And that would be joke
number two. Man, I guess trauma does change a person.

But as I look at Dr. Hamill
sitting there, hugging Missy to his side in the first display of genuine, open
affection I’ve ever seen from a man I’d come to regard as aloof, detached,
distant, even cold, I can’t help but think that it’s a change for the better.
This was Dr. Hamill’s crucible, and he’s emerged a better man — a better
father.

The journey may have sucked,
but I can’t complain about the destination.

     “What did you tell your mother?” Edison says.

“A version of the truth,” I
say. “The incident made the paper, so it’s common knowledge Missy’s father was
kidnapped by a group of super-villains, so I told Mom that we were with Missy
all night comforting her.”

Edison nods. “Not bad, as
cover stories go.”

The elevator doors slide
open and we step out. Trina is nowhere to be seen. It’s just us up here.

Edison opens his office door
for me, closes it behind us, and he joins me at the small table in front of his
desk. “I won’t keep you long,” he says, “but we need to discuss a few things.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I spoke to Chief Bronson
this morning. He filled me in on what went down last night,” he says. “On the
bright side, there were no fatalities, the injuries were relatively minor, all
the collateral damage was restricted to a building no one cares about, and the
charges against Joy and her gang look like they’re going to stick.”

“You’re welcome?” I don’t
know what else to say; I’m not used to Edison praising us. Ah, but I worry for
naught, because here comes the criticism and recrimination portion of this
afternoon’s program.

“However...seven police
officers injured, significant damage to the special response team van and to
the arts center property, countless civilians who had the snot scared out of
them, and one juvenile offender who’s been crippled for life.” Edison sighs and
shakes his head. “You kids are going to have to do a lot better if you’re going
to be part of the team.”

“Edison, look, we did the
best we could, and I’m sorry if we —” Wait. Back up. “Part of the team? What
team?”

“The Protectorate.”

What? No. No, I can’t be
hearing him correctly.

“Not as full members, of
course. The Hero Squad would be a formal associated organization,” Edison says.
“That means you’d remain a separate, independent team, you’d operate without
any interference from us, but you’d have full access to our resources, we’d
provide any training you want or need...”

“Is this for real?” I say.

“Yes, Carrie, it is. This is
a sincere offer, with no strings attached and no catches, save for one: The
Squad will be subject to periodic performance reviews, to be conducted by the
entire Protectorate, not just me. If you fail to live up to our expectations,
we will shut you down, and Mindforce, Natalie, and Catherine are all in
agreement on that point. You wanted a fair chance to succeed or fail on your
own merits? You got it.”

Wow. Holy wow. Holy frickin’
WOW.

“If you’d like a few days to
think about it —”

“No!” I blurt out. “No, I
don’t — okay, I should pitch it to the others, but I don’t think they’ll — I
think they’ll be okay with it.”

Okay
with it? If that’s not the
understatement of the century...

“Now that that’s settled, I
have one more thing I’d like to discuss, and it concerns you and an internship
opportunity,” Edison says.

“Oh, for — Edison,
seriously, please stop,” I groan. “I appreciate the offer, I’m flattered that
you think I’d do well here, but this company isn’t for me. I don’t want the
internship. Really. Give it to someone who wants it, someone who deserves it.”
A light bulb goes off in my head. “Since you’re all into giving people a fair
chance to succeed or fail on their merits, why not give Matt a shot at it? Make
him apply for the position, interview him, the whole routine, but give him a
chance.”

I get ready to hit Edison
with
You owe me that much,
because I can and will milk my wrongful
incarceration for all it’s worth. Hey, that’s money in the bank and I’m in a
spending mood.

“All right. That’s a fair
request,” Edison says. “However, I wasn’t talking about the internship here.”

Edison takes a business card
out of his pocket and places it on the coffee table. It reads SULLIVAN
CRENSHAW, ESQ.

“Explain?”

“Sullivan was very impressed
by you back at Byrne, the way you cited, accurately, case law in your defense,
and he said he could use someone like you at the firm. You see,” Edison says,
folding his hands in his lap, “the law as it applies to super-heroes is a very
specialized field. Sullivan is the only member of his firm versed in super-hero
law, and he’s the only one who knows all our secret identities, which means he
has to handle all business with us personally, even if it’s something as simple
as getting our signatures on a legal document. That can be time-consuming.”

“And he wants me to, what,
be his assistant?”

“Basically. It wouldn’t be
anything glamorous — filing, processing paperwork, that sort of thing — but
you’d get to learn about super-hero law hands-on, and you’d get a respectable
paycheck out of it.” He smiles at me. “You’re right, Carrie, Bose Industries
wouldn’t be a good fit for you, but I think the Law Firm of Crenshaw and
Associates would. Something to think about.”