Curse of Arachnaman (2 page)

"Because I enjoy doing it,” Calais murmured, his smile kooky and lopsided. Oh,
baby
.

My face warmed up. “Dayum. Dress the guy in super-tight spandex, and he morphs from sweet geek to animalistic sex machine. Okay, you're forgiven."

Spirit Wire clucked. “Man, you're sure bitchy for an innocent victim."

Everyone fell silent when a deep, familiar, very masculine voice spoke from out of the blue. “All right, everyone. That was pretty bad. You're letting yourselves get distracted by trivial things and the fact that this is only a search-and-rescue practice mission. When we regroup tonight, we'll have to go over details with Dr. Dibbs before we head on out to the mean streets of Vintage,” Magnifiman declared. His speech was fluid, his manner confident. He was simply Mr. Perfect, which I really didn't want to say in front of Calais because of the usual brotherly dynamics between them when in superhero mode. Heaven knew, Calais already put up with so much stuff about his older brother's intimidating list of virtues everywhere he turned.

"Does that mean that we have to get together an hour early?” Miss Pyro asked.

"Yes, Miss Pyro. It's necessary to clear things up before tackling our next mission. Are there any other questions?"

I cleared my throat. “Yeah,” I replied, raising my voice. “Can I get paid for being the repeat victim in these practice runs? It's not easy, you know, getting tied up or stuffed inside something, while everyone figures out what catchphrases to use when destroying people."

I stared at the old speakers that were mounted against one of the half-crumbling walls. The Sentries had set up several of those things up and down the subway tunnels for these practice missions, and Magnifiman and Dr. Dibbs always used them to communicate their observations of everyone's performance. There were cameras set up, too, that monitored the heroes’ progress, and I'm sure that behind the scenes, all kinds of fancy gizmos and gadgets were all at Magnifiman's disposal. I was never shown what went on behind the scenes, naturally, seeing as how it was all, you know, classified information and stuff like that.

For a few seconds, Magnifiman was quiet. “Okay, are there any other questions?” he asked.

I sighed, my shoulders drooping. “I'll have to take this up with my union,” I said. Of course, I just needed to form one.

"Very well, then. We'll meet at the usual powwow time and place later. Oh, and Calais? Mom wants to know what you want for dinner, so be sure to give her a call ASAP. Magnifiman, over and out.” Then the speakers went dead.

Mom. Magnifiman said “Mom.” Well, wasn't that just the cutest thing
ever?
I glanced at Calais and grinned. He pointedly ignored me as he squared his shoulders back, lifting his chin, and pretty much did all he could to look extremely blase and macho about it. Yeah, every once in a while, there'd be this little slip between the two brothers about family-related matters, which always embarrassed Calais. It was sort of like when you showed up at your kid's school with a big, pink bouffant because you'd had an accident with your hair color the night before. Calais’ level of embarrassment tended to be somewhere in that part of the Teenage Humiliation Spectrum. So no matter what he did, putting on a show of manly indifference, the blush that always crept up from his neck onto his face always took the wind out of his sails. I guess it didn't help during that moment that everyone else was grinning at him.

"Okay, everyone, you heard the man,” Spirit Wire said, finally. “Let's go and get ready for today's powwow.” She paused when her stomach let out this gurgling, bubbling sound. “Well, not until after we grab a bite to eat. I'm starving."

"I haven't had pizza in a while,” Freddie, who'd transformed into Oscar the Grouch, said. He glanced down at his green, stumpy, shag carpet-like furry body, clucking and shaking his head. “Oh, Christ..."

"I'm game,” Miss Pyro chirped. “We can go to my favorite unpopular pizzeria. It's not too far from here. We can all walk there. I promise, it's not froufrou."

It was agreed, and so the little gang of superheroes changed back into their “normal” forms. Incidentally, it was always a good thing to be in the company of only one superhero during the transformation process because each of them had his or her own “poof-voila!” method, and when they all changed at the same time? It was like total brain meltdown. In fact, I'd call that my own personal psychedelic moment without the drugs.

I had to pinch my eyes shut while flailing and crying out because Miss Pyro exploded in a blinding burst of fire, Calais melted into a pillar of swirling, twisting haze, Spirit Wire literally flickered black and white, sort of like a TV screen going crazy, and Freddie—who continued to escape Bambi Bailey's notice, so he still didn't have a superhero alias; he was the lucky one, I guess—"melted” from one form to another. Weird, but his transformation had evolved, from what I saw. Before, when the Trill was still alive, he just vanished behind a burst of white light, but I guess that with his powers gathering strength and complexity, his transformation method also morphed along with his, well, powers of morphing.

So imagine being in the middle of all those transformations. If I first thought that being the sole victim for their heroic practice sessions entitled me to monetary compensation, getting all blinded and brain-damaged from Simultaneous Heroic Combustion pretty much secured my eligibility. I mean, seriously, how many other regular people out there had to be subjected to that, once, twice a week? Zero. I counted.
Zero
.

Within seconds the air cleared, and it was safe for me to open my eyes again. Sure enough, instead of four impressive and dangerous superheroes standing around me, there were four teenagers in urban gear all straightening their clothes and patting their hair and all that. Calais was Peter. Miss Pyro was Wade. Spirit Wire was Althea. Freddie was, uh, Freddie. They exchanged relieved grins, with Wade turning around and waving at us to follow her.

"Oh, you guys are gonna like the deep dish pizza,” she said, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. “It's totally awesome."

Peter held my hand as we followed them out of the crumbling underground subway. As we walked through one tunnel after another, our voices echoing up and down the damaged area, I noticed the remains of balloons littering nearly entire platforms and train tracks. The Sentries were expected to come around later to clean up the place and then secure it from accidental visitors outside. These tunnels used to be the Trill's fake hideout. Now the heroes used them for practice, and the area was completely blocked from the rest of Vintage City.

See, in my world of unexpected superheroes and supervillains, we never had the benefit of high-tech headquarters, hideouts, and training whachamacallits that you always see in superhero comic books. Hell, no. We had to use what was there, namely, Vintage City's crumbling urban landscape. I guess we should've been grateful because being forced to make do pretty much taught everyone to be good in improvisation. I mean, seriously, helium monsters to whack at for practice rescue missions? Who'da thunk?

Anyway, the heroes had a small collection of “practice areas” all over. There were a couple of abandoned warehouses near the city's southern border that they'd taken over with the mayor's permission. There was this old, old, run-down apartment building that was
this
close to being condemned. Yeah, they got permission to use that, too. Of course, the kicker was that with me being their prized “victim,” I'd be bound and gagged and left helpless in some choice spot somewhere in these hulking safety hazards. Half the time, I just wondered when the roof would cave in on me as I lay there, completely immobilized, while they all fought their way through all kinds of obstacle courses set up by the Sentries.

It's good to be appreciated, ain't it? By the way, my family knew that I'd agreed to help with superhero practice missions. What they didn't know was in what capacity. I figured it was best to shut up about it for now before Mom and Dad freaked out and tossed me into a seminary.

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I guess the only consolation I got after these superhero practice missions was the fact that Peter always took me home after a meal either together or with the group. Sometimes he went in with me, and we made pretty good use of what little time we had left together by playing video games in the living room and/or with me pulling him down for a torrid makeout session on the couch. Yeah, we could've moved on to my room, but that would mean running up to the attic, and, really, would anyone expect horny toad teenage boys to delay gratification?

We'd been caught a couple of times already, after the fact. It was a good thing that the front door was locked and was also hard to open, so that we'd have some warning when big sis, Liz, would fight with her house keys and try to break the door down by throwing her weight against it. Unfortunately, during those two times, we'd gotten a little too tangled up, so that we nearly broke furniture scrambling to button up and make ourselves look decent. Of course, when Liz saw us as she made her way toward the kitchen, we were both disheveled, beet-red, shirt buttons poking out of the wrong buttonholes, and grinning stupidly at her.

"Uh-huh,” she said.

"Hi Liz! You're home!” I replied, my voice louder than it probably should've been.

"Hey, how's it going?” she asked, her eyes narrowing and moving shiftily from me to Peter and back.

"It's going good. Even better. Is it? Yeah, I guess. Good. Really good. Totally better,” I babbled, while Peter could only manage a raised hand in greeting and a weird phrase like, “Down the basement."

Liz rolled her eyes and trudged off, calling back as she vanished from view, “I want the results of pregnancy tests from both of you by the time I get out of the shower!"

That day, though, a pretty nasty surprise awaited me when he drove me home after pizza. I'd been praying like hell that no one would be home because I seriously needed to be physical with my boyfriend. That was what happened whenever said boyfriend teased me with a hand rubbing the inside of my thigh while gobbling down gigantic slices of mushroom pizza. Seriously, how much more Freudian could he get? So when we drove up to the sidewalk directly in front of my home, I nearly screamed inside the car.

"Oh, you've
got
to be kidding,” I said, my jaw dropping, as I stared at a scuzzy-looking station wagon parked in front of us. It looked like a damn hearse, which was perfect for the guy who owned it. I wouldn't have been surprised if it used to be a hearse that was converted to make it look harmless and suburban in that Stepford Wives kind of way.

Peter stared at me, shocked. “What?"

"It's him. He's here."

He looked back at the car. “It's an old station wagon that looks kinda like a hearse in disguise. What's the big deal?"

I turned to him. “Can I move in with you for a while? Like, till after Liz breaks up with Scanlon...or maybe marries him and moves out?"

"Who's Scanlon?” Peter's gaze dropped to my hands, which had somehow developed a mind of their own and had attached themselves to his right arm. My fingers curled into his jacket sleeve, looking like pale, bony claws. I didn't even realize that I'd grabbed him.

"My sister's boyfriend. Sort of. He wants to be with her, anyway, and he's trying really hard, but he's, like, something from a midnight carnival, and he won't go away, no matter how much garlic I hang around the door.” I stole an anxious glance at the front door. “Please? Can I hang out with you for a little while longer? Until he goes away?"

Peter looked lost as he continued to grip the wheel with both hands. I had a feeling that I'd planted seeds of panic in him. “Eric, you know I can't do that. The heroes have a powwow coming up, and I can't be late. Maybe you should enter the house from the back. How about the fire escape?"

Beads of sweat actually broke out on my forehead. “I can't. The back door has its own lock, and I only have the key to the front door. The fire escape only goes so far down, and I can't jump it without making enough noise to catch Liz's attention. Besides, my bathroom window's shut and locked from the inside.” Note to self: never,
ever
do that again.

"Eric, calm down. Eric?” Peter pulled my hands away and took my face in both of his, forcing me to stare at him. “You'll survive. Just go through that door, say hello, and run like hell up the stairs. Or pretend like you're sick and make all kinds of gross puking sounds."

"I'm going to die, Peter,” I said, my voice finally cracking. “I'll never make it to the stairs. Scanlon's vibes are like a vacuum from hell. He took me out for ice cream one time—ice cream, fer chrissakes! He thinks I'm ten years old!"

Peter blinked and then frowned. “We take each other out to ice cream all the time."

"Not at the Krazy Klown's Kreamy Karnival, we don't. Have you ever had ice cream with a complimentary clown's nose devaluing your manhood, Peter? Or that red curly wig that they give out to customers on Fridays?” I shook my head, shuddering from the memories. “God, I swear, I'm going to throw myself under the nearest bus if Mr. Stepford Cthulhu subjects me to more humiliation like that."

"Then suggest someplace that's more grown-up."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “Peter, you obviously don't get it."

No amount of begging, bribing, or self-whoring would sway him, though. I guess I'd have to take the issue up with Magnifiman and voice my grievance over Peter's indoctrination into virtuous living. I mean, seriously, folks...what the hell?

So before I knew it, I found myself alone, abandoned, and staring helplessly at the front door, my house key in hand. I told myself to do exactly what Peter suggested, so while turning the key, I mentally calculated how many seconds it would take for me to cover the length of the hallway from the front door to the bottom step of the stairs if I were to break out into a run at full cheetah speed. I guessed somewhere in the five-second range. Two, if I were to not just run, but leap like a freaked-out gazelle on steroids.