he says. “Edison Bose pioneered the technology. You know, like what those Japanese bullet trains use, except the suit is freestanding: he doesn’t need a magnetic base to repel off. It’s uber cutting-edge. Why he gave that kind of cool tech to a tool like Concorde...”
“Can we stop talking about Concorde?” Missy says. “He said things I didn’t like and asked me questions I couldn’t answer and he got mad at me because I couldn’t answer them and Astrid told him to stop acting like such a huge d-bag but it didn’t help and he was mean to me.”
“Astrid called Concorde a d-bag?” Matt says.
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I’m in love.”
Countdown to Sara bristling in three, two — there she goes.
“You haven’t told us how the exam went, Muppet,” I say. “Clean bill of health, I assume?”
Missy’s eyes narrow. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
“But you’re okay, right?” Stuart says.
“Said don’t wanna talk about it. I’m fine. Shut up. Let me eat.”
“The Congo,” I say. “Monkeys, hats, et cetera.”
“Yeah,” Stuart says, eyeing Missy. “Right. The Congo.”
TWELVE
Something I’ve noticed about the super-hero biz: it tends to run hot and cold.
During the Archimedes case, we had periods of several days when nothing would happen, then things would go berserk and everything would happen all at once, then it would quiet down again. All told, that mess took close to three months to clean up.
It’s been a few weeks since we nearly burned down the library, and it’s been quiet — yes, I’ll say it, too quiet. Black Betty — assuming that is in fact our culprit — hasn’t made another move, or so Astrid assures us. She’s been keeping an eye on Kingsport, looking for any unusual magical activity (I can’t imagine what qualifies as
usual
magical activity), and so far, nothing to report. The only other bite came a few days after our second encounter with Stacy: the John Hay Library at Brown University in Rhode Island — which has in its collection a rare, original Lovecraft manuscript for
The Shadow Out of Time
, according to uber-geek Matt — was broken into and ransacked, but nothing was reported missing. The trail went cold after that.
Speaking of cold: winter has gone out of its way to be miserable and unpleasant, and maybe that’s why neither the Hero Squad nor the Protectorate have had much to do. Freezing temperatures, high winds, and the occasional heavy snowfall seem to be keeping all the bad guys inside where it’s warm.
The same goes for us, and I’m okay with that, but you want to hear something ridiculous? We’re getting itchy for a fight. How stupid is that? Here we are, living normal lives for a change, slogging through schoolwork during the week so we can relax and have fun gaming on the weekends, and what are we all secretly hoping for? A reason to risk our necks.
We’re dumb.
I’ve been trying to put the downtime to good use in a variety of ways. I’ve been plugging away at my much-hated math class to nudge my grades up (so far, so good); I’ve been helping Sara with her exercises so she can better control and fine-tune her telepathy (again, progress has been made); I’ve been exploring possible career options so I don’t feel so much like a loser with no future (still treading water there); and my cleric in our
Dungeons and Dragons
campaign is up to level ten, so I can turn low-level undead like nobody’s business.
Look, all work and no play and all that.
I can’t say whether I’m making any progress in my weekly sessions with Mindforce. Every Friday we sit, we talk — correction: I do most of the talking while he nods and
mm-hm
s and occasionally asks pointed and uncomfortable questions that force me to confront things I’d rather wipe from my memory...which, I guess, is the point of such questions.
“Y’know, you could always ask him how you’re doing,” Matt suggests at lunch.
“Maybe,” I say. I thought of
“Can we stop talking about Concorde?” Missy says. “He said things I didn’t like and asked me questions I couldn’t answer and he got mad at me because I couldn’t answer them and Astrid told him to stop acting like such a huge d-bag but it didn’t help and he was mean to me.”
“Astrid called Concorde a d-bag?” Matt says.
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I’m in love.”
Countdown to Sara bristling in three, two — there she goes.
“You haven’t told us how the exam went, Muppet,” I say. “Clean bill of health, I assume?”
Missy’s eyes narrow. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
“But you’re okay, right?” Stuart says.
“Said don’t wanna talk about it. I’m fine. Shut up. Let me eat.”
“The Congo,” I say. “Monkeys, hats, et cetera.”
“Yeah,” Stuart says, eyeing Missy. “Right. The Congo.”
TWELVE
Something I’ve noticed about the super-hero biz: it tends to run hot and cold.
During the Archimedes case, we had periods of several days when nothing would happen, then things would go berserk and everything would happen all at once, then it would quiet down again. All told, that mess took close to three months to clean up.
It’s been a few weeks since we nearly burned down the library, and it’s been quiet — yes, I’ll say it, too quiet. Black Betty — assuming that is in fact our culprit — hasn’t made another move, or so Astrid assures us. She’s been keeping an eye on Kingsport, looking for any unusual magical activity (I can’t imagine what qualifies as
usual
magical activity), and so far, nothing to report. The only other bite came a few days after our second encounter with Stacy: the John Hay Library at Brown University in Rhode Island — which has in its collection a rare, original Lovecraft manuscript for
The Shadow Out of Time
, according to uber-geek Matt — was broken into and ransacked, but nothing was reported missing. The trail went cold after that.
Speaking of cold: winter has gone out of its way to be miserable and unpleasant, and maybe that’s why neither the Hero Squad nor the Protectorate have had much to do. Freezing temperatures, high winds, and the occasional heavy snowfall seem to be keeping all the bad guys inside where it’s warm.
The same goes for us, and I’m okay with that, but you want to hear something ridiculous? We’re getting itchy for a fight. How stupid is that? Here we are, living normal lives for a change, slogging through schoolwork during the week so we can relax and have fun gaming on the weekends, and what are we all secretly hoping for? A reason to risk our necks.
We’re dumb.
I’ve been trying to put the downtime to good use in a variety of ways. I’ve been plugging away at my much-hated math class to nudge my grades up (so far, so good); I’ve been helping Sara with her exercises so she can better control and fine-tune her telepathy (again, progress has been made); I’ve been exploring possible career options so I don’t feel so much like a loser with no future (still treading water there); and my cleric in our
Dungeons and Dragons
campaign is up to level ten, so I can turn low-level undead like nobody’s business.
Look, all work and no play and all that.
I can’t say whether I’m making any progress in my weekly sessions with Mindforce. Every Friday we sit, we talk — correction: I do most of the talking while he nods and
mm-hm
s and occasionally asks pointed and uncomfortable questions that force me to confront things I’d rather wipe from my memory...which, I guess, is the point of such questions.
“Y’know, you could always ask him how you’re doing,” Matt suggests at lunch.
“Maybe,” I say. I thought of
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