Atomic Parks Suburban Housing,
Metroville,
USA, 8/12/1975, 10:20 am
Chris Worthy continued to take the new car through its paces for a while after Nick had been dropped off. It was certainly a magnificent piece of equipment, but something bugged him about it. The car, the super-suits, were sent courtesy of an "M" from, oddly enough, Mirage Industries. Had Mirage, Chris' boss, put two and two together and pegged him as Stuntman? He guessed so, especially considering her contacts in the world superhero community – they would know the signs to look for. Chris' dash to save pilot Henson would most likely have cast a suspicious light on his activities over the years, and it wouldn't have taken much probing to reveal that Chris had a habit of making important phone-calls during emergencies.
He sighed and pulled the Jaguar into his garage. Pulling on the handbrake, he aimed the remote control behind him and pressed it, causing the metal door to clatter down abruptly. Switched the car off, its "reactor" spluttering into inaction, he grabbed his new suit from the rear of the vehicle, taking it into the kitchen.
Chris found a wire hangar and slid the suit onto it. Hanging it on a door lintel, he took a seat and studied it from the kitchen table. As he had noticed before, it was a vibrant, yet not an oppressive, orange, with golden streaks running along the arms and legs. The cape was red. Chris squinted at the emblem on the uniform's chest – it was a white biplane superimposed over a metallic diamond. The aeroplane's contrail formed a stylised letter "S". The fabric shone like brass in the watery sunshine.
'Thanks, Mirage.' Whispered Chris. He stood up and returned to the garage to grab the Jaguar's user-manual.
He sat in a comfy chair for a while, reading the first few chapters. The car was less a normal super-transporter and more like a sleek infantry fighting vehicle. Not only was it heavily armoured, complete with rudimentary "phase shields" – whatever they are – but its onboard weapons payload could put a main battle tank to shame.
Chris finished a section entitled "Arming the Emergency Traffic Clearance Device" and closed the book slowly. He wasn't a slothful man in the least, but it seemed now that it would be the first time in a long while he had some free time. He gazed around. No pictures were askew, no clothes needed to be put away, no washing up… he put the book on and end table and grabbed the super-suit from the lintel.
Chris emerged from the bathroom a minute later and looked at himself in the bedroom mirror. He flexed his muscles then relaxed with a moan. He had kept in shape over the years, constant action did that for him, but he couldn't shake the knowledge that age was catching up with him. Still, life begins at thirty-six.
He did a few body reinforcement practices, and a couple of star-jumps, the last one of which he didn't finish, instead staying suspended in the air. 'Everything still works, good.' Appeased, Chris took the suit off and got dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a loose fitting flannel shirt.
He was about to go for walk around the block when he remembered last night. He had been out for a long time and wondered what his son had gotten up to. He headed to the cellar door and read a note pinned on the door. "Please wear safety clothing – goggles required." 'Yeah right…' He opened the door and saw three large lab-coats and pairs of darkened goggles hanging from pegs on the wall. He shrugged, taken aback, and slid into the biggest white coat.
Chris hit a light switch and a grid of harsh fluorescents clicked on. He first made a cursory check of the room, walking the perimeter, making sure everything was in its correct place. As per usual, Nick's set up had been flawless. He paused for a second, fiddling with the police scanner in the vain hope that there was a situation that called for a super's intervention. It was a frustratingly slow day by the sound of things, most radio communications consisting of mentions to doughnuts and the annual MVPD gala evening.
He got ready to climb back upstairs when he spotted something on the work-desk – a strange looking gun, with a very short muzzle and a pistol grip. It was made out of some kind of greenish alloy and alongside it were a couple of equally strange "clips" which looks more like nine-volt batteries.
Chris reached for it when he spotted a post-it note on the pistol. "DO NOT TOUCH" it stated, and this warning was exclaimed numerous times. Chris picked it up anyway, and saw another note stuck underneath it. "I knew you couldn't resist… feel free to test-fire but DO NOT set it higher than LOW. DO NOT try to change the charge-pack".
Chris smiled and held the gun up to his ear, giving it a shake. It didn't make a sound, and felt very sturdy in his hand. The words "RAYGUN MK. II" were scratched on the side of the barrel, probably by the end of a screwdriver. He saw a metal sheet hanging from the far wall and raised the weapon to fire. Squeezing the trigger, he heard a faint humming and a series of glowing sine waves streamed from the weapon at the target. The metal started to glow, then melt, then the area on which the beam was focused exploded with a poof of black gas.
Chris made an impressed noise and saw a tiny dial on the grip. It went from "low" to "overkill". Thinking no harm could come of it, and disregarding Nick's note, he turned it to "high" and aimed at a pile of breeze-blocks below the previous target.
He pulled the trigger, but the gun just made a grunt, a few unimpressive sparks flying from it. 'Ah, come on!' Chris tried again, and this time the weapon started to emit a rapidly loudening wail and got very hot, prompting him to drop it to the floor. 'Not good… OH BUGGER!' Chris jumped up the stairs two at a time, slamming the cellar door behind him before he heard a muffled bang and a shattering sound. White wisps of smoke drifted underneath the door.
He was about to check what damage he had caused but, to his relief, the phone jingled at him from the kitchen. As glad as he was to ignore the ray-gun fiasco, the news wasn't good.
'Mr. Christopher Worthy?' Said a high-pitched voice at the other end of the line.
'Yes, this is he.' His voice was rapid. 'Who is this calling?'
'This is vice-principal Kilgore from the Constance Fudge High School. We have a problem…'
'Oh dear!' Exclaimed Chris. 'Is my son alright?'
'Oh, he's perfectly fine Mr. Worthy. It's the young boy he almost knocked-out whom we're a bit more concerned about.'
Chris rubbed his hand over his face in an exasperated gesture. 'Oh Lordy… I'll be right there, Mr. Kilgore, we'll sort this out.'
---
Constance J. Fudge High School,
Metroville,
USA, 8/12/1975, 12:00 pm
'Come in, sir.' Murmured Kilgore from behind his mahogany desk. Chris stalked across the room, taking an uncomfortable wooden chair next to his disgruntled son, facing him.
He looked at Nick. 'What's this all about, then?'
Nick spoke clearly and concisely. 'A friend of mine, a girl, was hurt by the boy I hit, so I took it upon myself to… discuss the matter with him.'
'Discuss it, as in, you decided to introduce your fist to his face?' Chris tutted.
Nick raised an eyebrow and exhaled. 'I didn't intend for it to be a long discussion.'
'How was she harmed?'
'Emotionally.' Nick replied, un-crossing his arms. 'This Tony fellow dropped her when he realised that she wouldn't put out.'
Kilgore snorted and clasped his hands together on his desk. 'So, Nick, you admit there was no need for such action-?'
Chris snapped at the vice-principal. 'He admits nothing! The way he tells it, I'm beginning to agree with my sons motive, if not the execution.' Nick grinned.
Kilgore appeared shocked. 'I beg your pardon?' His mouth turned down at the edges. 'You are aware that he barely knew this girl?'
'What better way to get to know her than to stick up for her?' Chris turned in his seat to look at Kilgore. 'I always raised my son to help out anybody that needed it, no matter what kind of assistance it would be. Nick is remarkably empathic; he probably felt for this girl and as such decided to leap into action to ease her pain...'
'It would ease her pain to see Tony hit?' Kilgore quizzed.
'If I were her, it would.' Nick added.
'Nobody asked you!' the VP yelled.
Chris sprung to his feet. 'Excuse me, Mr. Kilgore, but that was uncalled for!' He got his son up. 'Nick, what lessons do you have this afternoon?'
'Maths, private study.'
Chris looked at Kilgore with angry eyes. 'I will return to pick my son up from school at the beginning of his private study session. I find your attitude to be, frankly, awful.' Nick started to chuckle but his father smacked him in the back of the head. 'And you can be quiet! Rest assured you will be dealt with when I come for you… you have nothing to look forward to!' Again to Kilgore, who was lost for words. 'I will discipline my son… If it makes you feel better, tell this Tony's parents that you had him partially excluded. That should make them happy enough. Though I doubt he will, if Nick ever does anything like this again, don't bother calling. Deal with him as you see fit.'
Kilgore smiled devilishly, eying Nick as he walked from his office.
---
In transit, Traction Road,
Metroville,
USA, 8/12/1975, 2:18 pm
Nick and Chris had remained mostly silent on the way home from school. Nick felt awkward being out in a sports car when he should have been in school, but maybe it was for the best.
He glanced at his dad and thought about saying something, but then changed his mind. As it was, Chris was the first to make a noise, bursting out with a belly laugh.
'HA! Well done, son!' He stretched out a hand and Nick slapped it with his.
'Cheers, dad… but, maybe I should have left it?'
Chris frowned. 'Nonsense. You did what you thought was right.'
'I didn't need to hit him, I can hold my own in an argument.'
Chris shrugged. 'Son, you have a temper, probably got it from your mother, God bless her soul…'
'Yeah…' Nick said. 'I have to calm down I think. It's just that when something happens it can just… get me, right-' He pointed at his chest. 'Here. Right here.'
'I know what you mean.' Chris pulled over in front of an ice-cream parlour. 'I started getting that when I was a teenager as well. It's a good thing.'
'It's not a good thing if I end up beating the snot out of another student.'
Chris undid his belt and looked at his son. 'Nick, part of being a hero is to react like that when someone is in anguish, or being threatened. But you'll find that you know when to show restraint and when to fight tooth and nail. What I'm getting at is that Tony probably just needed a little shock, but you wouldn't have killed him… would you?'
'N- no… now I think back, I didn't want to hurt him badly.'
Chris smiled and opened his door. 'What did I tell you?'
---
Atomic Parks Suburban Housing,
Metroville,
USA, 8/12/1975, 4:10 pm
'Well…' Said Nick, his belly full of chocolate ice-cream. 'That was lovely, but I can't help thinking that you're buttering me up for something…'
Perceptive boy, thought Chris. 'Wow. I couldn't eat another thing, son… phew!'
'Dad?' Nick got out and stretched. 'You're being evasive.'
'No I'm not.' Chris locked the car and stood blocking the front door.
'Then why aren't you letting me in?'
'No reason… really…'
Nick shook his head and clucked his tongue. 'You touched the ray-gun, didn't you?'
Chris nodded.
'You set it higher than I said, didn't you?'
Chris, again, nodded. 'I'm sorry, son.'
'Never mind, the bang shouldn't have been too bad at medium setting… thank God I know you aren't daft enough to have put it on high, or higher…'
Chris shuffled his feet nervously.
'No… you're joking!' Nick laughed. 'Please tell me you didn't!'
'I'm really sorry, son.'
'No… you couldn't…' Nick pushed his way past his father and into the house, then slammed the cellar door and ran downstairs.
There was a shocked silence and then Chris heard his boy screaming blue murder from below the floor. 'OH YOU BLOODY FOOL! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?'
Chris slowly closed the front door and moved to the living room while strings of curses and the noise of clearing up emanated from beneath his feet.