Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women by Michael Bailey Page B
Authors: Michael Bailey
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the box.
“Concorde’s getting a lot of mileage out of this thing, isn’t he?” I say.
“I don’t see the guy smile often, but he’s like a kid at Christmas playing with this bad boy — which, I’d like you to note, went down because you did
that
to it.”
Natalie points at the chassis, the only piece of the suit still in one piece (more or less), but she wants me to see something specific.
“What am I looking at?”
“This.” Natalie kneels down, and runs a finger along the edge of the hole I put in the chassis. It takes a minute for me to catch on: the edge is smooth, and there are no signs of cratering. A force blast would have left the hole rough and jagged, but this...I didn’t punch through —
“I melted through,” I say. “How did I do that?”
“That’s what we’re going to figure out,” Natalie says.
Mindforce takes Sara not to the medical bay, not to the interview room, but to the common room, where he invites her to sit at the table in the kitchenette.
“Soda?”
“No thanks, but I’ll take some Gatorade, if you have it,” she says.
He smiles, and brings her a bottle from the fridge. “Sounds like you’ve developed some good habits.”
“I am trying to live the life of a good little psionic,” Sara says. “Lots of iron-rich foods, supplements if I need them, I keep an eye on my electrolytes...”
“It shows,” Mindforce says, taking a seat across from Sara. “Your color is looking better.”
“Yeah, I’ve upgraded from deathly pale to pasty.”
“Sleeping better?”
“Much.”
“Have you been practicing?”
“I have. Carrie’s been a huge help.”
“Good. Good.”
Sara presses her fingers to her temple, and squints at her mentor. “I’m sensing...I’m sensing a ‘but’...”
Mindforce laughs. “A small one. You’re doing well on the basics, but I think it’s time to start pushing you a little. Based on your performance at the Quantum Compound, it’s clear that your control over your telekinesis —”
“Sucks.”
“Needs work. We’ve been focusing on your telepathy out of necessity, and I don’t want you to neglect your exercises, but I believe you’re ready for the next level.”
With a thought, Mindforce pulls Sara’s drink across the table. It slides toward him, like a hockey puck gliding across ice, and comes to a smooth, gentle stop.
“Take it back,” he says.
She does, but much less gracefully; the bottle lurches across the table, topples. She falls out of her chair avoiding the wave of red liquid that splashes at her.
“Nuts.”
“It’s okay,” Mindforce says. He gestures with a finger, as though bidding Sara to stand, but it’s the bottle that rises, righting itself. A second motion, a twirling of his spread fingers, gathers the spilt liquid into a quivering sphere that, with a third gesture, morphs into a twisting column, which arcs in mid-air and returns to its container. Mindforce mimes grasping the cap. It rises, flips, and spins onto the mouth of the bottle.
“Showoff,” Sara says in an awestruck hush.
“Maybe a little,” Mindforce concedes, “but it was more of a demonstration. Did you notice what I did?”
“Uh, yeah, hard not to.”
“I mean this part,” he says, recreating his various hand motions.
“I thought you were being dramatic.”
“Not at all. Do you remember the trick I taught you to shield your mind from outside thoughts?”
“Yeah. You told me to imagine I was building a wall around me.”
“Visualization. That’s all this is,” Mindforce says, extending a hand and closing his fingers around an imaginary bottle, causing the real one to rise from the table and hover before Sara. “Looks silly, yes, but it’s effective.”
Sara thinks back to the team’s encounter with Stacy Hellfire, to the oil tanker, to the explosion she contained by force of will alone — a force she shaped with outstretched hands.
“Yeah,” she says, “I guess it is.”
“Not that I
“Concorde’s getting a lot of mileage out of this thing, isn’t he?” I say.
“I don’t see the guy smile often, but he’s like a kid at Christmas playing with this bad boy — which, I’d like you to note, went down because you did
that
to it.”
Natalie points at the chassis, the only piece of the suit still in one piece (more or less), but she wants me to see something specific.
“What am I looking at?”
“This.” Natalie kneels down, and runs a finger along the edge of the hole I put in the chassis. It takes a minute for me to catch on: the edge is smooth, and there are no signs of cratering. A force blast would have left the hole rough and jagged, but this...I didn’t punch through —
“I melted through,” I say. “How did I do that?”
“That’s what we’re going to figure out,” Natalie says.
Mindforce takes Sara not to the medical bay, not to the interview room, but to the common room, where he invites her to sit at the table in the kitchenette.
“Soda?”
“No thanks, but I’ll take some Gatorade, if you have it,” she says.
He smiles, and brings her a bottle from the fridge. “Sounds like you’ve developed some good habits.”
“I am trying to live the life of a good little psionic,” Sara says. “Lots of iron-rich foods, supplements if I need them, I keep an eye on my electrolytes...”
“It shows,” Mindforce says, taking a seat across from Sara. “Your color is looking better.”
“Yeah, I’ve upgraded from deathly pale to pasty.”
“Sleeping better?”
“Much.”
“Have you been practicing?”
“I have. Carrie’s been a huge help.”
“Good. Good.”
Sara presses her fingers to her temple, and squints at her mentor. “I’m sensing...I’m sensing a ‘but’...”
Mindforce laughs. “A small one. You’re doing well on the basics, but I think it’s time to start pushing you a little. Based on your performance at the Quantum Compound, it’s clear that your control over your telekinesis —”
“Sucks.”
“Needs work. We’ve been focusing on your telepathy out of necessity, and I don’t want you to neglect your exercises, but I believe you’re ready for the next level.”
With a thought, Mindforce pulls Sara’s drink across the table. It slides toward him, like a hockey puck gliding across ice, and comes to a smooth, gentle stop.
“Take it back,” he says.
She does, but much less gracefully; the bottle lurches across the table, topples. She falls out of her chair avoiding the wave of red liquid that splashes at her.
“Nuts.”
“It’s okay,” Mindforce says. He gestures with a finger, as though bidding Sara to stand, but it’s the bottle that rises, righting itself. A second motion, a twirling of his spread fingers, gathers the spilt liquid into a quivering sphere that, with a third gesture, morphs into a twisting column, which arcs in mid-air and returns to its container. Mindforce mimes grasping the cap. It rises, flips, and spins onto the mouth of the bottle.
“Showoff,” Sara says in an awestruck hush.
“Maybe a little,” Mindforce concedes, “but it was more of a demonstration. Did you notice what I did?”
“Uh, yeah, hard not to.”
“I mean this part,” he says, recreating his various hand motions.
“I thought you were being dramatic.”
“Not at all. Do you remember the trick I taught you to shield your mind from outside thoughts?”
“Yeah. You told me to imagine I was building a wall around me.”
“Visualization. That’s all this is,” Mindforce says, extending a hand and closing his fingers around an imaginary bottle, causing the real one to rise from the table and hover before Sara. “Looks silly, yes, but it’s effective.”
Sara thinks back to the team’s encounter with Stacy Hellfire, to the oil tanker, to the explosion she contained by force of will alone — a force she shaped with outstretched hands.
“Yeah,” she says, “I guess it is.”
“Not that I
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