Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins (27 page)

“And the moral of the story is?” Matt says. “I’m still waiting to hear the part that reassures us we’re safe.”

“Someone has Archimedes on a leash,” I say. “Archimedes never cared about the Thrashers beyond using them against us, but whoever made them
does
care—enough to spring him out of Byrne and make him run interference for the Bestiary.”

“Exactly, and that same someone is unlikely to let Archimedes go after you again,” Mindforce says. “That risks exposure, and my sense is that whoever
owns the Thrashers is trying to keep as low a profile as possible.”

“That’s a great theory,” Matt says, “but that’s all it is.”

Mindforce, reluctantly, concurs. “I can’t guarantee anything. I’m sorry.”

“You should have told us about Archimedes,” I say. “And don’t say you were trying to keep us from panicking. If you’re wrong and we are on someone’s hit list, it’s better to be scared and prepared than calm and blindsided.”

Concorde, whether he was right or wrong, would have argued the point. Mindforce doesn’t. Nevertheless, there is some merit to the theory
ignorance is bliss
because here comes the panic.

“What are we supposed to do now? If Archimedes
is
after us, he could nail us a dozen different ways and we’d never see him coming,” Matt says.

“Would he come after us at home?” Missy says. “Or go after our families? I don’t want anything to happen to Mom and Dad!”

“What if he attacks us again at school?” Sara says.

“Not much fun, is it?” Concorde limps into the room. Nina trails him, hands out like she’s ready to catch him if (or when) he passes out. “Worrying whether some super-villain is going to come gunning for you.”

“Concorde, this is not the time for an I-told-you-so speech,” I say, but he ignores me.

“Well, you better get used to it, because that’s part of the life. Don’t like it? Tough. You’ve made your first enemy, and he’s definitely the vengeful type.”

“Concorde, stop,” Nina says.

“They need to hear this.”

“Not like this we don’t,” I say, “because it’s not helping. What would help is some advice—
real
advice, because your standard chewing-out routine isn’t going to do us a bit of good if, God forbid, Archimedes or Manticore or whoever does come after us. If you’re truly half as worried about our safety as you say you are, stop yelling at us and
help us
.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Concorde says, almost apologetically. “It’s all on you, and all you can do is keep your eyes open...but I think Mindforce is right. I don’t think Archimedes or anyone else is that interested in you. The Bestiary was here for one thing and they got it.”

“Mostly. You still have one of the suits,” I point out.

“With a com unit trashed beyond repair.”

“So?”

“With a functional com unit, Concorde might have been able to trace a signal back to the suits’ point of origin,” Matt says. “We know the suits use wireless broadband. Send a ping back on the unit’s carrier wave and you could locate its home network.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to do,” Concorde says. “How in the world do you know all this stuff?”

“I read.”

“Anyway,” Nina says, getting us back on track, “I think the take-away here is that no big bads are going to come a-knockin’ on your door. They came here for a specific reason and it had nothing to do with you.”

“Agreed,” Mindforce says, and he tells us to go home and not to worry.

If only it were that easy.

TWENTY-SIX

I take small comfort in the fact I was not the only one who barely slept last night. The dark circles under Sara’s eyes are wicked bad today and could pass as fresh bruises. We get to Stuart’s for a much-needed day of relaxation and our host greets us with giant mugs of fresh coffee.

“You’re a prince,” I say.

“Figured you might be dragging,” he says. “I know I am.”

Missy is asleep in her seat when we join her and Matt at the gaming table. “Wow, she’s out cold,” I say, and she snaps awake instantly.

“Yeah I was,” she says. “Hi.”

“Hey, Muppet. Right, so, what’s on the fun agenda today?”

“I was thinking we could maybe pull out the
Dungeons & Dragons
stuff and get a dungeon crawl going?” Matt says.

“I’ve never played
Dungeons & Dragons
,” I say, and I know it’s a mistake as soon as the words leave my lips.

“Sold!
Dungeons & Dragons
it is, and we play
old-school,” Matt informs me. “First edition. Four major classes, seven races, THAC0-based combat, the way God intended.”

“Half-orc assassin!” Missy says.

“Bard!” Sara says.

“Fighter class, of course,” Stuart says.

They’re all speaking English, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. Clarity is slow in coming.

“THAC0 means ‘To Hit Armor Class Zero’,” Matt explains, pointing to a line of numbers on my character sheet (I’m a cleric so the party has a healer and someone who can turn the undead. Whatever that means). “If your opponent’s armor class is a positive number, you add that to your THAC0 to get your attack roll, if it’s negative, you subtract it. A higher THAC0 means your target is easier to hit. You attack by rolling the d20—”

“Blah blah blah opponent blah blah number blah blah target blah blah blah,” I say.

“It’ll make sense once we get going,” Sara assures me. “It took me a while to get used to it.”

“Just remember,” Missy says, fiddling with her dice, “whenever you can, distract people so I can backstab them because I get extra damage.”

“What do you think?” Stuart says, holding up two character sheets. “Dwarven fighter or Drow ranger?”

“Drow,” Matt says. “The Drow are your people.”

“Don’t mock my proud Nubian heritage, man. Not cool.”

“You’re only a quarter black.”

“I’m one-quarter African-American, thank you
very much,” Stuart says, nose in the air, “and you’ve met my grandmother, so you know how awesome that one-quarter is.”

“This is true. All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Matt says with an air of ceremony, “the game is
The Keep on the Borderlands
.”

“Dude, we’ve played that one, like, a million times.”

“But it’s the traditional introductory module for newbies,” Matt says.

“But I know where everything is. I know what all the monsters are.”

“Fine.” Matt searches through a stack of modules and pulls out one with a dark green cardstock cover. “
Palace of the Silver Princess
. Acceptable?”

Stuart makes a flourishy gesture. “I approve. Proceed.”

“Don’t proceed,” I say. “I need the powder room.”

“Upstairs,” Stuart says. “The downstairs can is broken. Not my fault.”

With his parents off Sunday brunching with friends, the Lumley home is quiet except for the eager chatter of my hardy companions in dungeon exploration. It reminds me of Missy’s place, except the Lumleys have a sense of style that lends personality and warmth to their home. Plus: no plastic on the furniture.

The stairway leading up to the second floor is so covered in framed photographs you can barely make out the wallpaper underneath. It’s the Lumley Family History in pictures. I spot a photo of Stuart’s parents at their wedding, and both of them are noticeably skinnier
than they are now (I imagine Stuart would someday go the same way if he didn’t have a blast furnace for a stomach). Nearby there’s a formal portrait of a striking African-American woman I assume is Stuart’s grandmother. There’s a gleam in her eye that makes her instantly endearing, even in photographic form. Near that is a Sears Portrait Studio job of three obviously related young boys in matching nerdy suits. The middle boy with the unkempt, overgrown hair is giving the camera a sly, lopsided grin. I’d recognize Stuart’s
How you doin’?
face anywhere.

That face, now a few years older, is inhaling potato chips when I return; Stuart has a family-size bag sitting in his lap and a two-liter bottle of orange soda on the table, all for himself.

“And the gorging begins. Do you get a whole turkey to yourself at Thanksgiving?” I say, and everyone goes freeze-frame on me.

“We don’t really do Thanksgiving here,” Stuart says like it’s no big deal. I’m about to ask why but I catch Matt surreptitiously shaking his head at me and Sara slips into my head to tell me
Let it slide, Carrie, don’t say anything else about Thanksgiving
.

“What we do do is take you to the mystical land of Greyhawk,” Matt says, swerving us away from whatever mess I nearly drove into.

Over the next several hours we trudge through the Misty Swamp and the Moorfowl Mountains to discover the titular Palace, and along the way slay a lot of orcs and kobolds and freaky three-headed monsters and some giant killer monkeys (no lie, giant killer monkeys) to recover a legendary ruby worth a ton of gold. I walk out alive but a few years older (I got aged
by a ghost), but I scored a couple of magic wands and a magic cooking pot (which I guess is way cooler than it sounds). Sara got a crystal harp, Missy got a magic dagger, and Stuart snagged a sweet ruby sword. Despite the complete lack of either dungeons or dragons, it’s a fun way to kill a Sunday.

It’s almost dinnertime when we break. I’ve eaten nothing but junk so I could use real food, but I’m not all that eager to go home and spend another awkward night barely talking to Mom. Granted, maybe all our not talking is why things are still weird between us...

Speaking of things unsaid, “Is someone going to tell me what I almost stepped in back there so I don’t do it again?”

The group shuffles to a stop at the end of Stuart’s front walk. Matt looks at Sara who looks at Missy who looks at Matt who says, “Thanksgiving’s kind of a sore subject for the family.”

“How come?”

Matt looks at Sara who looks at Missy who looks at Matt. Could the saying
I’m out of the loop
be any more literal?

“Just avoid bringing it up,” Matt says before abruptly taking his leave, I suspect to avoid any further probing on my part. Missy follows suit.

“Please don’t ask,” Sara says.

“I’m not trying to be a noodge,” I say.

Sara starts walking. “I know, but it isn’t my place to say anything—and don’t ask Stuart about it. Seriously. He doesn’t talk about it, we don’t talk about it.”

Matt, Sara, Stuart, they’ve known each other since they were little kids, and Missy’s been part of the
group for a few years. As quickly as I became friends with everyone, I often forget I’m the newcomer. I shouldn’t be surprised there are pieces of personal history I’m not privy to. I shouldn’t be offended that they don’t automatically let me in on certain sore subjects.

I shouldn’t be. Doesn’t mean I’m not.

A phone call to Dad sets me straight. Sara’s totally in the right for not telling tales out of school, as he puts it, and I shouldn’t take it personally. Stuart’s baggage is Stuart’s to share and no one else’s, he says. I know all this, but hearing it from someone else, from him, is what I needed.

Bonus: calling Dad gives me a perfect excuse to lock myself in my room right after dinner and avoid the maternal unit. I know, I’m acting like a petulant little girl by avoiding her, but I look at it as the best way to avoid conflict; my temper has been on a hair-trigger lately and I don’t know why.

No, that’s a dirty rotten lie. I know exactly why I’ve been so pissy lately: between his birthday and the holidays coming up, I’m missing Daddy more than ever and I’m taking my frustration out at whoever gives me an excuse.

I shouldn’t. It doesn’t solve anything.

And yet, I’m finding it harder and harder to give a crap.

Monday comes, Monday goes, and in the history of Mondays, I believe this one will not go down as the Mondayest of Mondays. It felt more like a Tuesday, really: plain and dull and uneventful.

Which is perhaps why today, being Real Tuesday, has been one long bout of déjà vu. From waking
up late to my hasty breakfast of coffee and strawberry Pop-Tarts (finest of all Pop-Tarts), to the walk to school with Sara, during which we discuss schoolwork and after-school plans while a light breeze blows dry autumn leaves about our ankles, to the drudgery of the school day, it all feels like a rerun of the day before.

That is, until I see something I have never seen before: Stuart looking like he’s about to kill someone.

The bell rings, freeing me from the evil clutches of math class so I can go subject myself to the cafeteria’s mad science experiment du jour, and en route I see Stuart jamming his books into his locker like a sadistic prison guard throwing an uppity inmate into solitary confinement.

“Stuart? Something wrong?”

Dumb question, that. His chest is heaving like he’s just run a marathon. “Tell Matt to call me when he gets out of school,” he rumbles.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Home.” He leaves without another word or without closing his locker door, which now has a faint imprint of his hand in the steel.

“That’s all he said?” Matt says when I relay the news at lunch.

“Call him, he’s going home, that’s it,” I say. “But let me tell you, he looked totally apehouse. Like, one step away from taking someone’s head off.”

“He was fine this morning,” Sara says, which is true; three hours ago he was normal ol’ Smilin’ Stuart Lumley, Mr. Cool himself. “I can’t imagine what happened since this morning.”

But imagine is all we can do until the two o’clock bell sounds and lets us loose upon the world, by which
point I’ve come up with any number of theories, all equally unpleasant, all equally unlikely; I highly doubt Stuart was getting kicked out of school for doing something stupid like getting into a fight or smoking.

“Stuart? God no,” Matt says, leading us out toward edge of the school grounds, well away from prying ears. “Stuart’s never been in trouble in his life. Well, except for a few scuffles with school bullies, but that’s not—”

Everyone stops and Matt looks at Sara looks at Missy looks at Matt and no one looks at me and my my, doesn’t this all feel familiar?

“Oh, Matt,” Missy says, “you don’t think...”