The Sidekicks Initiative Read online

  Despite being tall and skinny, Randy had the beginnings of a slight podge around his middle. Hair grew unevenly from it, mostly thanks to a couple of burn marks that rippled the skin to the right of his belly button, and which were completely bald.

  “My God. What happened?” asked Sam.

  Anna winced at the sight of the damage, then took a good-sized glug of wine to help take her mind off it.

  “A lifetime of crime-fighting, that’s what happened,” Randy growled. He pointed to a gouge-mark on his shoulder. “That was Millennium Bug,” he said. “Got his suckers into me real good back in ninety-nine.”

  “Wow,” said Anna.

  “It was New Year’s Eve,” Randy said. “Had to burn him off with a dessert sparkler.”

  “Jesus,” Sam muttered.

  “That’s nothing,” said Randy. He pointed to the gunshot wounds. “Sniper fire from an international assassin sent to kill the president.”

  “The US President?” asked Anna, her wine glass almost to her lips.

  “President of the Denver Horticultural Society,” said Randy.

  “Oh. So next best thing,” said Anna.

  Randy nodded, apparently missing the sarcasm. “You’d be amazed how seriously those guys take what they do.”

  “So it seems,” Sam conceded.

  “This was Burn Baby. That little bastard,” Randy spat, continuing the tour of his torso. “And you see these bite marks?”

  “They’re pretty hard to miss,” said Sam.

  Randy nodded. “You know Pat Sharky? The gangster?”

  Sam wracked his brains. “No…”

  “Based in Vegas?” Randy explained. “Has a sister who married a cop? Caused all kinds of friction in the family back in the day.”

  “Um… It’s not ringing any bells,” Sam was forced to admit.

  “Drives an old Pontiac Firebird? Muscles in on a few casinos, but makes most of his money from drugs and people trafficking? Brings them in from Eastern Europe?”

  “Which ones, the drugs or the people?” Anna asked.

  “Both. Usually one inside the other,” Randy growled. “And not in the order you probably think.”

  Sam puffed out his cheeks. “No. Can’t say I know him.”

  “He walks with a cane? Always has a handkerchief in the top pocket of his suit, a different color for every day of the week?”

  Sam gave a vague shrug of his shoulders. “No…”

  “Has the head of a shark?” Randy said.

  “Oh, Pat Sharky,” said Anna. “The shark head guy? Gotcha.” She pointed to the bite marks. “Was that him?”

  “You bet your ass it was,” Randy growled. “Well, someone pretending to be him, anyway. Which is pretty much the same.”

  “Loosely,” said Anna.

  “More or less the same,” Randy insisted.

  “Yeah, but more less than more,” said Anna. She topped up her glass. She had so far not offered any of the wine to Randy, mostly because she didn’t want to have to watch him lapping it up.

  There was something bothering Sam about Randy’s torso. The scars and bruising were the big headline events, obviously, but there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something not quite right.

  “Nipples!” he cried, when the realization finally hit him.

  Randy regarded his chest. “Oh. Those. The Flesh Collector took them.”

  Anna snorted into her glass, inhaling wine through her mouth before immediately exhaling it through both nostrils. “Who?” she wheezed.

  “The Flesh Collector.”

  “Who the fuck is the Flesh Collector?” Anna demanded.

  “He was one of the Great Gassby’s big villains. Took both my nipples for his collection.”

  “Jesus. For his collection of what?” Sam asked.

  “Nipples, presumably,” said Anna. She looked to Randy for confirmation. “Right?”

  “Well, just body parts in general,” Randy replied. “He took both nipples, one of my earlobes, and a three-inch square section of my left butt-cheek.”

  “But… why?” asked Sam. “I mean that is…”

  “Totally fucking bananas,” Anna concluded. “Can I assume he’s safely locked up forever in a psychiatric hospital somewhere?”

  “He was in the Cityopolis Asylum,” growled Randy. “But he escaped. Just like they always do.”

  “You know, I always wondered about that,” said Sam. “I mean, the Justice Platoon spent… what? Ten billion dollars on a space station? They couldn’t have helped pay for better locks for the asylum? I swear to God that place has a revolving front door.”

  Anna topped up her glass again. “Speaking of crazy…” She gestured to Randy’s ruined torso. “How come you kept doing that stuff to yourself?”

  “I didn’t,” said Randy. “Those villainous scumbags did. You think I cut off my own nipples?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Carved a chunk out of my own ass? Shot myself? Stabbed myself? Vigorously sandpapered my own scrotum?”

  “No—also, ew, too much information—but what I’m saying is, you didn’t have to get involved in any of that stuff. You could’ve just walked away.”

  Randy looked blankly back at her. “Walked away?” he said, speaking the words slowly as if trying them out for the first time. “When the world was in danger? How could I walk away?”

  “Easy,” said Anna. She used two fingers to mime a walking action. “Like that. The Justice Platoon and all those other guys could’ve taken care of it, I’m sure.”

  Randy appeared to consider this. He pulled his covers back up, hiding his scars. “I was given great power,” he said.

  Sam and Anna both opened their mouths to dispute this, but the look of sincerity on his face stopped them both.

  “With that great power…”

  “Comes great responsibility,” said Sam.

  “Came awesome opportunities,” Randy corrected. “To kick villains in the balls. And occasionally the vagina. And also to make the world a safer place for those less capable, less able to defend themselves.”

  Sam thought about pointing out that Randy’s own inability to defend himself had led to him having both nipples and part of his ass removed, but the poor guy’s day had been rough enough without him being hit by that particular dose of home truthage.

  “Maybe you two felt comfortable turning your back on the world, but not me,” Randy spat. “You may have quit being soldiers, but for Butterfly King the war never stopped.”

  “OK, well… good for you, I guess,” said Anna. Both her bottle and glass were now empty, which seemed to be her cue to leave. She collected both, caught Sam’s eye, and motioned with her head toward the door.

  “We’d better let you rest,” said Sam. “Chuck tells me we have a big day tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need rest,” said Randy, but the way he stifled a yawn suggested this wasn’t entirely true. “But you two go. Do what you have to.”

  “OK,” said Sam.

  “Just don’t have sex with each other.”

  Sam’s cheeks tingled. He glanced at Anna and gave a derisive laugh. “Ha! What? As if! No. I wouldn’t! Nuh-uh. No, way.”

  “Thanks for the confidence boost there, Sam,” Anna replied. “Appreciate it.”

  Sam’s cheeks stung hotter. “Well, I mean… We… You wouldn’t. We wouldn’t. That’s just… Haha! No. Right?”

  “Depends how much wine Chuck’s got stashed away,” she said, looking him up and down. “I mean, it’d have to be a lot…”

  “Don’t do it,” Randy warned. “We all know what happened with Wildebeest and Lady Magma, right?”

  “No,” Sam admitted.

  “They started a relationship, and when it all went wrong they couldn’t work together. Their whole team collapsed. And all because Lady Magma couldn’t keep it in her pants.”

  “Couldn’t keep what in her…?” Anna began to ask, before deciding that she didn’t really want to know. She bu
stled Sam toward the door. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll keep it in mind and try not to have sex with each other.”

  “Promise me,” said Randy. “Swear it—in the name of justice!”

  “Cross my heart, hope to, you know, whatever,” said Anna. She waved an empty glass vaguely in his direction. “Get some rest. See you tomorrow!”

  “Take care, Randy,” Sam called, but he was bundled out into the corridor before he could catch the reply.

  A few moments of uncomfortable not-quite-silence followed, as Sam tried to find the right words to say, but found only ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ and other vague vocalizations.

  “So…” was pretty much the pinnacle of it. He followed that up with a few sporadic clicks of his fingers, some uncomfortable shuffling, and a nod toward Randy’s door.

  “You see all those scars?” he eventually asked. “Wow.”

  “Right?” said Anna. “Crazy.”

  “Cra-zee,” Sam agreed.

  “Remind me never to cross swords with the Flesh Collector,” said Anna.

  Sam laughed, a little too loudly. “Ha! We don’t want you losing your nipples, too!”

  Shit. Why had he mentioned her nipples?

  He realized he was staring at them.

  Double shit!

  “Or anything else!” he quickly added. “I wouldn’t want to see any part of you being cut off. Or carved out. Or otherwise removed.”

  “Aww. That’s so sweet of you,” Anna said. “I mean, I think.”

  Sam could feel himself becoming a babbling mess. He was uncomfortably out of his depth here and sinking fast.

  “No, I just meant… I mean…”

  “It’s fine. I get it,” said Anna. “Relax.” She jabbed a thumb along the corridor behind them. “I’m going to find some more wine. You coming?”

  Sam’s jaw flapped open and closed a few times. He pointed in the opposite direction, toward a door. “Actually, I think I’m going to go get some rest, too.” He yawned theatrically. “I am beat. It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s three-thirty in the afternoon,” Anna pointed out.

  “Loooong day,” Sam reiterated. He stretched, yawned again, then gave Anna a sheepish wave as he made for the door. “So, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, then,” said Anna. She watched him open the door. He stared into it in silence, not quite sure what to do. “You do know that’s a closet, right?”

  “Hmm?” said Sam. “Oh! Yes. Yes, I know,” he said. Then, with a final smile and an awkward nod, he stepped inside, turned around, and quietly closed the door.

  Anna waited.

  The door opened. Sam stepped out.

  “Yep. That’s… Everything seems…” He gestured the other way along the corridor. “So… this way?”

  “This way,” Anna confirmed. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam’s night was a restless one, plagued by nightmares when he could sleep, and worry when he couldn’t.

  He’d been allowed to phone Laura to check how Corey was after his ordeal, but Brian had answered. Brian had told him that Laura didn’t want to speak to him, then had spent a good eight or nine minutes admonishing him, as if it had somehow been his fault that Corey had been put at risk.

  In hindsight, of course, it sort of was, but he was damned if he was going to tell Brian that.

  “Here’s the thing, Sam,” he’d said. “Laura has moved on, as you know. She’s with me now, we’re very happy.”

  “And I’m very happy for you,” Sam had lied.

  “Thank you. That’s good to know,” Brian had replied, but in the tones of someone who knew bullshit when they heard it.

  It was at this point that he’d caught Sam off guard.

  “Here’s the other thing, though—Corey, he hasn’t moved on. He’ll never move on. I might be living in the house, driving him to school, having regular athletic sex with his smoking hot mom…”

  There was a thwack sound, and Sam could picture Laura slapping him on the arm.

  “But you’re his dad. Always will be, Sam,” Brian continued. “The kid’s nuts about you. Talks about you all the time. You’re his hero.”

  Sam had felt his heart surge at that. So much so, in fact, that it had blocked anything coherent coming out of his mouth. “Uh, well… That’s…”

  “But you can’t go putting him at risk like that,” Brian continued. “You want to play the hero? You do it on your own time, not when you’ve got Corey with you.”

  “The guy had a gun pointed at Corey’s head,” Sam had protested. “What was I supposed to do, let him shoot him? I did the right thing. I’m not the bad guy in this situation, Brian!”

  “Oh? Then how come you’re the one who ended up in jail?” Brian had asked.

  The conversation had ended very soon after. Sam had hung up the handset eight or nine times, each one more violently than the time before, then found Mari and asked her to take him to his quarters.

  His quarters, it turned out, were so cramped they were more like eighths. The room was barely large enough to contain the set of bunk beds and small sink that made up the entirety of its furnishings.

  At first, Sam had worried that they were all going to be sharing accommodation, but when midnight came and went, and there was no sign of anyone else, he began to relax a little.

  By 3am, he’d never felt more lonely in his life.

  Next morning, Sam stood in a line between Anna and a surprisingly mobile Randy, listening to Chuck. He was complaining about their performance so far, which came as no surprise to Sam or Anna, but seemed to be a personal affront to Randy.

  “Fitness test results were disappointing,” he said. “We all saw what happened to Randy. Anna, I’m pretty sure you clinically died at least twice…”

  Anna nodded, almost proudly. “Right on.”

  “And Sam, yours was just generally something of a letdown.”

  Sam took issue with that. “I thought I did OK. I hit a pretty steady jog.”

  Chuck peered at him as if over the rim of a pair of invisible glasses. “And you think that’s going to take down a supervillain, do you? A ‘steady jog’?”

  “Well, no. But…”

  Chuck folded his hands behind his back and resumed pacing before Sam could offer any sort of counter-argument.

  “Mari and I reviewed the footage of your fight with the henchmen yesterday. Some of the moves we saw there were surprisingly effective.”

  Sam and Anna exchanged looks of pleasant surprise. Randy rocked back on his heels a little with satisfaction.

  “Sadly, they were all moves made by the other guys. You three were terrible.”

  “Two,” Randy corrected.

  “Say what?” Chuck asked.

  Randy gestured down the line. “Those two were terrible.”

  “No. No, it was all three of you,” Chuck insisted.

  Randy smirked. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Well… I know so.”

  “Sure,” said Randy, winking behind his goggles. “You keep telling yourself that. We both know the truth.”

  “One of us knows the truth,” said Chuck. “And that’s me.”

  “Gotcha,” said Randy. He tapped himself on the side of the nose and winked again.

  Chuck sighed, spent a long time just standing there shaking his head, then moved back to loom in front of Sam. Placing his hands on his hips, he addressed all three of them.

  “Turning you into a cohesive and organized team of crime-fighters is going to be more of a challenge than I thought,” he said.

  “I’ve said that from the start,” said Sam. “Maybe we should forget the whole idea. I mean, I know we have to stop the Beef Chief, but maybe we could act as, like, advisors or something, you know? Rather than actually go do the fighting stuff.”

  “I’d be up for that,” said Anna.

  “Run from the mission? I’d rather be impaled through both thighs by a rusty metal spike,” Ran
dy growled. “Again.”

  “Again?!” said Anna, leaning past Sam.

  “Spike Master,” Randy said, like that explained everything.

  “Everyone shut up,” Chuck barked. He turned to the door of the briefing room, where Mari stood waiting. “Can you go bring him in?”

  “Sure thing!” Mari chirped. Her various parts spun as she turned herself toward the door. It slid open at her approach, then closed behind her as she left.

  “Are we getting someone new to play with?” asked Anna.

  Chuck nodded. “I’m bringing in a mentor. Someone with experience of running a superteam,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. Sam expected the agent to produce a business card or something else that would reveal the mentor’s identity, but instead, he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  “Who?” Sam asked again. He was pretty up to speed on the Justice Platoon, but hadn’t kept track of the smaller teams that had sprung up across the country over the years, let alone who had led any of them. “Red Dervish?”

  Chuck drew a single cigarette from the pack and clamped it between his lips. “Red Dervish died in oh-four.”

  “No, I meant the other Red Dervish,” said Sam. “The new guy.”

  “Oh, that one. Died in oh-five.”

  “Wow.”

  “Bomb up the ass,” Randy added.

  “Jesus.”

  Sam looked to the others for suggestions while Chuck lit up his smoke.

  “Power Rod?” Anna guessed.

  “Dead,” said Chuck, inhaling slowly.

  “Brasshands?” Sam suggested. “I think he led the West Coast Protectors for a while.”

  Two plumes of white smoke drifted from Chuck’s nostrils. “Did he?”

  “For a while. I think,” Sam said.

  “It’s not him. And he’s also dead.”

  Sam blinked. “Wasn’t he invulnerable? Or was that just his hands?”

  “Just his hands. They’re still fine.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess that’s something.” He puffed out his cheeks. “So, who? If it wasn’t one of those guys, then who…

  “Wait. Not Magic Circle?” Randy snarled.

  “Christ, no,” said Chuck, coughing out a lungful of smoke. “Last I heard he was in some fucking… I don’t know. Shadow realm. With any luck he’ll stay there.”