You Think You're a Hero?
Bobby awoke with a gasp. His head jerked up before he could open his eyes. His skin prickled as consciousness returned to him. Goosebumps ran from his shoulders to his calves, and the humid air dampened his brow with a fresh layer of sweat.
Slowly, Bobby blinked open his eyes. It took a few tries for them to focus. Hazy swathes of metallic and violet hues clashing together until his brain acknowledged their shapes, and he couldn't muster up a scream.
His brain registered that he was sitting in a tall, rusted chair. Leather straps pinned his wrists to the thin armrests and his ankles to the wooden bar connecting the chair legs. Something heavy clamped around his head, matting his wild orange hair to his scalp and pushing clumped locks out to the sides. It fully blocked his peripheral vision. Grunting, he squirmed in place, twisting his hips to no avail. Nostrils flaring, he focused his glare on the straps, gathering the heat swelling in his chest, but they refused to ignite.
He gnashed down on his few good teeth and cursed under his breath. When he tried again, a spark ran through his scalp like the dull edge of a knife gouging into his mind. He shrieked, a strangled cry similar to a cat's yowl. Sinking back into his seat and catching his breath, he hung his head and groaned. The object weighing down on his head felt as if it was squeezing his brain like a tight rubber band around a watermelon.
Raising his head with some effort, he looked at what was directly in front of him. The walls seemed to be padded with brown leather, but he wasn't sure. Something metallic flashed in the corner of his eye. But what he could make out was a chalkboard filled to the brim with white markings. He couldn't understand any of it. It was all nonsense from one side of the board to the other.
But he did notice a string of words that raised the hairs on his neck. The names of his fellow PSI cadets filled the bottom left corner of the board. Almost all of them were crossed out in a thick white line. Phoebe Love, Quentin Hedgemouse, Mikhail Bulgakov, Whispering Rock's highest ranking campers fell victim to something that Bobby didn't understand, but when his eyes fell on her unmarked name, he froze. As if he had collided with a train, the memory of their capture struck him.
Bobby believed he had made up the lake monster. The Hideous Hulking Lungfish of Lake Oblongata should have been nothing more than a ghost story he told to torment the newer campers. It never should have been alive. It never should have tricked them by grabbing that airplane to lure Chloe to it. It never should have smashed its lure over his head. It never should have knocked him into a tree, leaving him helpless to watch as Chloe screamed when it gobbled her whole before devouring him.
He immediately resumed struggling. Thrashing back and forth, he ignored the pain shooting through his arms. The straps dug into his skin, leaving behind red welts and marks. Clenching his fists, he gouged his calloused skin with nail-bitten fingernails and panted, stewing in his own fury.
Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Bobby screamed at himself. That stupid monster wasn't supposed to be real, you stupid asshat! It wasn't supposed to be real!
Bobby sucked in air through the wide spaces of his teeth. He clenched his eyes shut, warding off the impending headache. Tiny electrical currents danced on his scalp. Moaning, Bobby leaned in his chair and rested his head back.
Something clunked against the object on his head. Straightening his back, he craned his neck as far as he could look over his shoulder. There, through his mess of hair, sitting right behind him, was a white, vaguely spherical helmet with splashes of blue. His eyes shot wide open when he took in her yellow, wrinkled camp shirt, her identity right on the tip of his tongue.
But just as he was about to open his mouth, footsteps caught his attention. They echoed outside, and he pulled his head over to the entrance. A nearly pitch black sky stupefied him. He had no idea how much time had passed since they were captured, but the sound of creaky, wooden flooring mystified him. When he squinted, he noticed nothing but the sky extended past the steps, and his heart sank deeper into his stomach.
How far up are we? he wondered, breathing through his mouth.
Voices whispered in the wind reached his ears. Someone whimpered, her pitch rising as the footsteps turned to stomps.
"No, no! They're really strong, I promise! Just give them a chance before you discard them!" a woman howled in a voice that grated Bobby's ears.
"They're weak! Pathetic! These brats can't shoot the backside of a barn!" A shrill screech filled the night, and the woman cried out. "I thought these kids were fighters! They're training at a government facility, Sheegor, and they still don't know how to fight!"
"But - but Doctor-! Maybe if you just ask them-"
"Do not try that on me! Simpering and reasoning with me will certainly be the downfall of your little friend."
A tall, looming shadow crossed into the doorway. Their head seemed bulbous, jostling as they shook it. They wore a strange, muddied smock and lab coat. But what dumbfounded Bobby was their arms. One long, gangly limb was covered in a deep green glove. The other wasn't an arm at all; it was a three-pronged claw with fidgeting pincers.
He swallowed. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the entrance. Sweat trickled down his face, his scalp burning from the weight of his unwashed hair and apprehension. As they accosted Sheegor, Bobby fixed his gaze on the straps, but he couldn't find any lock and realized they were buckles he couldn't tear open with his hands confined to the armrests.
"Sheegor! The general will be here soon with a new package. Go inform him that I'm in the middle of two-" They cackled. "-extractions!"
Bobby's mind raced. He glared at the chalkboard, at the names of the PSI cadets. He tried piecing together the puzzle, but with the dull ache pervading his thoughts, all he could do was writhe and twist in place. He thrusted his hips upward, his knees knocking together, but the straps repelled his efforts. Bobby collapsed in his chair, eyelids fluttering, the pain doubling to the point where even gasping tautened his chest.
Footsteps crept closer. He didn't want to look. If he did, then the monster would be in front of him. He knew this scenario far too well, but when he listened, he heard the doctor sauntering around him. Bobby cracked open an eye, catching legs as wiry and long as a spider's maneuvering to her.
A single thought seeped out. No. Leave her alone.
"Let's see," they mumbled, the sound of papers rustling catching Bobby as odd. "Chloe Barge. Tender Brain. Budding telepathic prowess. Mediocre control over basic psychic powers. Eh, nothing special here. What of the other one?" More papers flipped. Bobby heard only his heartbeat in his ears when silence reigned. They grunted, a noise of confusion hitting Bobby like a gong. "Wait, what? How does something like this happen? Oh, the general wrote on the back." A metal clasp opened, and a paper was tugged out. They resumed reading, Bobby's fingers curling into fists. "I see. How-"
A clipboard was thrown to the wall. Those long legs strode in front of him. Bobby smelled the stench of paper wafting off them, his nose instinctively wrinkling, even though he was accustomed to foul odors. Overshadowed, he gulped, as both heat and chills uncomfortably tingled on his clammy skin.
The gloved hand seized his threadbare shirt. He was jolted forward, forced into a proper sitting position. His eyes met discolored lenses that observed his every move. A black-lipped smile stretched into their cheeks, the figure towering over him, the steel pincers glinting with lime green residue.
"-remedial. My dear, squirming boy, much like a tooth abscess, it's like your brain became so infected that it ruptured your potential!" Dr. Loboto sneered, his wicked laugh echoing throughout his lab, and Bobby trembled, a flurry of emotions overwhelming him as the fabric of his shirt twisted in Loboto's grasp.