Archive of Our Own

Prison Rehabilitates Hatchet Kid

We weren’t allowed to have names on the Inside. I wasn’t the Hatchet Kid. I wasn’t Thomas McDermott. I was Villain 216. If they heard you using a name – yours, anybody’s, it didn’t matter – there was trouble. Some guys were easy to recognize. 435 was bright green and oozed slime everywhere. I only ever heard of one villain like that – Mr. Stickyfingers. And considering 435 was the go-to man if you needed anything illicit, it didn’t take a genius to figure out his name. But you couldn’t let on that you knew it.

That was annoying. But on the whole, it wasn’t too bad. The food was ok and I didn’t have to worry about a nemesis popping up everywhere and trying to kill me. I had my own room. No cellmates in this prison. I guess they didn’t want us talking to each other too much. Makes sense – the last thing you need in a state-of-the-art facility containing the worst villains that ever fought a hero is those villains making some kind of plan with each other. I liked having my own room.

Of course, I didn’t have it so bad. I am a little Uncanny, but not what the doctors in the know would call Powered. The ones that were Powered had it bad. They had collars that interfered with what they could do. Something about disrupting brainwaves. Can you imagine being able to fly, and then losing that?

No wonder some guys went crazy. Of course, in a place full of villains, a good number were crazy to begin with. Which is why they had a gazillion psychologists on staff. I swear we had more doctors than guards.

I didn’t lose track of the weekdays like some people. Tuesday was my appointment. I liked Dr. Flagg. She was pretty nice. She was short, curvy, and she smelled like she went home and baked cookies. I only had one appointment every week. In the beginning, I had more, but I guess they decided that I wasn’t going to do anything interesting they could write a book about.

“So, what have you been reading this week?” Dr. Flagg asked.

They let me check out books from the library, one at a time, once they realized I wasn’t going to use them to escape or murder anybody with them. I got bored, so I started reading. It was fun. I’d never had time to read before, on the Outside – too busy trying to survive.

“Fluffy stuff.” I shrugged. “Nothing too exciting. Girl meets boy, love happens. The author’s pretty good, though.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“I guess I like how she writes. Simple. Real. No, not real… Just enough different to make it beautiful, but still like it’s really happening. You know?”

“And you admire that?”

“It makes it fun to read. It’s easier to get into it.”

She wrote something down.

“Have you been working on the exercises I gave you last week?”

“You mean the meditation thing? Yeah. It’s hard, though.”

“Which part?”

“Concentrating. 217 was screaming again this morning.”

She frowned, as if she didn’t know that 217 was one of the crazy ones. He got nabbed by Lightning Maker, too, only his brain got a little fried in the process. At night, sometimes, he screamed. It usually meant the weather was about to change.

“Did you forget an umbrella?” I asked her. “When he’s screaming, it usually means you’re going to need one.”

“No, I have an umbrella,” she said. The frown didn’t go away. We weren’t allowed out in the yard when it rained. That meant we got crammed into the rec room, and that sometimes got messy if someone was in a bad mood. Maybe that’s why she was frowning.

She changed the subject. We talked about feelings for the rest of the session. Pretty silly stuff, really. I opened up. I mean, why not? That’s what they want, and I figured out a while ago that if you gave them what they wanted, they left you alone.

No, I didn’t like talking about my feelings and my childhood and why I did what I did, but it isn’t like I had a choice. At the beginning, I tried rebellion. I tried glaring and stony silence. But they had all the time in the world to make my life hell, so I gave up. We got along, more or less. Twenty years is a long time to hold a grudge.

Sure enough, it rained. A lot. The gym had windows, so I could see the yard turning into gooey brown soup as I worked out. I worked out every day. It was something to do. And they let me read on the treadmill. The guy and the girl surmounted their obstacles and got together. It was sweet.

No one bothered me. No one dared.

I don’t know if anyone ever pegged me as the Hatchet Kid, but they knew not to mess with me. I nearly killed a guy with a spork once. They gave us plastic sporks in the cafeteria to eat with. A couple of big Brutes were picking on a little guy. You know the kind – huge, muscles like rocks under their skin. They might have been rocks. One of the guys had a collar, so he was Powered. The little guy was one of those gawky, skinny types, probably a Mastermind of some sort. Helpless without his powers or his mystical weaponry or his supercomputer or whatever it was that earned him a place on the Inside. The Brutes wanted his pudding. Yes, it is stupid.

“Hey, knock it off,” I said. They didn’t.

One of them started trying to pick a fight with me, insinuating stuff, being a jerk, throwing his weight around. So, I threw my spork at him. I was aiming for his nuts, but I nicked his femoral artery instead. That was a decade and a half ago, but no one messes with me. Ever. And nobody messes with the little guys, either, because I don’t like hearing fights and beatings with my breakfast. And they still give us sporks.

I liked Wednesdays a lot. That was my day to work in the library. They let me shelve books and stuff. It was my favorite job. They make us work, those of us that can. Mopping floors, cleaning toilets, that kind of thing. Maybe it’s so they can save on janitors. Or maybe the janitors all quit when they saw the goo 435 leaves behind everywhere.

A lot of people liked the library, but not for the books. We shared it with the women’s side, and sometimes we were allowed in at the same time they were.
Again, you could pick out who some of them were, like Succubus (aka 392). She’s purple and she has giant horns. She’s hard to miss. But most of them? You couldn’t recognize them without their costumes or powers. They were just women. I’m a guy. I like girls. It was nice to see women.

Especially Villain 778. She’s tall and soft, with dark eyes and a crooked nose. She has glasses. She hadn’t always. A little after when I’d first discovered books can be pretty awesome, she showed up to shelve one day with glasses.

“You’ve got glasses. That’s new,” I said.

“So?”

I shrugged. “They look good on your face.” And that was that. I never mentioned them again. We talked about books instead if we talked at all.

The best part of Wednesdays was after I’d shelved or organized or whatever my task was for the day. I got to browse and read.

So, I was not happy when a guard came in and told me I had a visitor. I’d just picked up a mystery, and there’d just been a really unique murder.

No one visited me. Not since my mother died.

A couple of times there were journalists or biographers. One sent me a copy of her book when she finished it. I think she missed her calling as a Romance writer. She described me as “a serious man with a nose like his namesake, cheekbones that could cut glass, and an intense steely glare.” It sounds like someone who belongs on the cover of one of those cheap paperbacks in the library, the ones with their spines creased so they fall open to the sex scenes, the ones where the woman is swooning out of her absurd historical dress in the arms of a shirtless duke or whatever. I’m not a duke, but when I was the Hatchet Kid, I was shirtless.

Once, a pair of Hollywood screenwriters interviewed me for the Thunderbird movie. They left disappointed. They probably made something up, something more interesting than what actually happened to Thunderbird, which was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him. It was nothing personal. He was a hero, I was a villain, he was trying to stop me, I was trying to get away. Sure, I meant to hurt him or distract him, but it was dumb luck that the hatchet hit his feathery helmet in just the way it did, dumb luck that it split his head open like a cantaloupe. Like I said on the stand, I don’t think I could make another throw like that if I tried. They never showed us the movie.

I think that’s what triggered The Push, as they call it on the Outside. We called it The Bust. Thunderbird’s death. He was a big-name hero, one of the ones everyone tried to take down and kids looked up to. He funded charities and adopted puppies and built orphanages. And if a villain can take down a man like that, what else could we do? How many more people would get hurt?

So, they built a special prison. No regular facility could hold a Powered individual for long. Even I managed to escape from a regular prison once. They rounded up every villain they could get their hands on and threw us on the Inside. No one ever escaped. They built it really well. A couple of people died trying. Their own stupid fault.

So, when they called out that someone wanted to talk to Villain 216, I thought they made a mistake.

“You mean me?” I asked.

“No, I mean the other Hatchet Kid.”

It startled me. I hadn’t heard anyone call me by that name in years. Literally years. It didn’t even say it on the file in Dr. Flagg’s office. I was a number there, too. So, I went along with it.

They didn’t take me to the visiting rooms, which was odd. They cuffed my hands in front of me and marched me past there and into the Warden’s office. It was a big office, filled with guys in suits and Dr. Flagg.

“Please take a seat,” said one of the suits. I recognized him as the warden. We had to sit through a speech every Christmas. I sat. My handcuffs clinked. I waited for someone to explain. I’m good at waiting now. I learned to be. The suits were not good at waiting.

One of them – blonde, with thinning hair – cleared his throat. “Mr. McDermott…” he began. “May I call you Mr. McDermott? Or would you prefer Hatchet Kid?”

I shrugged. “Whichever.” I didn’t feel that ‘Hatchet Kid’ really applied any more. I was almost forty. But whatever made Mr. Thinning Hair explain faster was fine by me.

“Mr. McDermott. It’s been twenty years since The Push, the Last Great Battle in the War Against Crime.”

This was not news. This sounded like a sales pitch. I let him pitch to me.

“The Metropolitan Heroic History Association has put together a museum featuring exhibits on some of the greatest and most terrifying villains of our time. Including the Hatchet Kid.”

He paused, expecting a reaction of some kind. I didn’t give him one. He looked distressed. I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to be pleased or outraged to be one of the greatest and most terrifying villains of all time.

Another suit took over. This one had more hair, but no chin. “We’d like you to make a public appearance. The warden and Dr. Flagg here have told us you are a low flight risk. It’s safe for the public to let you appear on a stage. Would you be interested in attending the grand opening of our Villain Museum?”

On one hand, it would be something new to do. On the other hand, I disliked showing off. That’s one reason I still hate Lightning Maker, the hero who put me away. Did I say twenty years was a long time to hold a grudge? I still have one against Lightning Maker. That guy is a flashy, preening asshole with bad breath. On the other other hand, it would be nice to get Outside.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

The suits looked relieved. What, they thought I’d say no?

They went on to detail what I’d be doing, and I began to see why they thought I might refuse.

“We plan to have you appear in your old costume, do a press conference, walk across a stage. Have some pictures taken beside your exhibit, that sort of thing,” explained Mr. No Chin.

I didn’t relish the thought of being paraded around like a trained monkey, but I did relish the thought of doing something different after twenty years of doing the same thing. I could probably even fit into the old leather pants. I wasn’t as ripped, so I wouldn’t look as good with no shirt, but the time for vanity had long passed. I might get a little cold, but so what? Maybe they still had my jacket.

“And if we could get your hair like it was…” added Mr. Thinning Hair. I guess he had a thing for hair. Poor guy.

“No,” I said. The blue Mohawk was gone, and it would stay gone. The thing was a bitch to keep up with, and I no longer had the patience for it. I’d let the cut grow out and they didn’t let me have any more dye. I don’t know why. It’s not like it gave me any special powers. I liked my shaggy black hair just the way it was now.

Mr. No Chin suggested some blue streaks ‘so I would be more recognizable.’ I agreed to that. I liked blue. Mr. Thinning Hair looked like I’d given him a pony.

The warden stepped in to point out that I’d be manacled and well-guarded, transported in a secure armored van and all that jazz. I shrugged. I’d expected as much. There were some papers to sign, and I was on my way back to the library.

I passed Villain 435 getting marched towards the office by a pair of guards. He left a faint trail of sticky goo wherever he stepped.

“Early parole?” asked 435.

I shook my head. “It’s much weirder.”

It was all over the cafeteria at dinner. News travels fast in a prison, even when half the inmates are still in solitary, probably for their whole lives. After the spork incident, I was in solitary for a while. Actually wasn’t too bad. Peaceful.

556 slid onto the bench next to me. Ever since I saved his pudding, he’s considered me a friend. I’ve considered him an acquaintance.

“Did they ask you?” asked 556.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you going to do it?” he wanted to know.

“Yes,” I replied.

He lowered his voice. “I heard one of the guards slipped up in the library and called you by your name. Is that true? Are you really?”

I spotted a guard at the end of the long table and cleared my throat. 556 clammed up.

On the other side of me, 217 turned his tray over. Mashed potatoes, or what we were told was mashed potatoes, splattered everywhere, especially onto him. He started giggling and babbling something about circuses. I guided him down the hall to the bathroom before anyone could get pissed about being covered in mashed potatoes. Everyone thinks of him as sort of my pet, just because I put up with his crazy. He’s my next-door neighbor. I have to put up with him.

A guard followed us. Very unsubtly.

I tried to scrape off some of the potatoes with a paper towel, but then 217 started mushing them into my hair. I gave up and dragged him into the shower, clothes and all.

“It’s raining!” he cried.

“Yes, yes it is.”

“We’re clowns. And we’re going to the circus.”

“Sure.”

Then he looked me right in the eye and said, “You feel the same way.”

And he was right.

He was so right.

Over the next few weeks, I saw way more of Mr. Thinning Hair than I wanted to. He took a bunch of measurements, then he took a bunch more. He dyed my hair – a much more professional job of it than I ever did. He even tried to approach me with makeup. I just stared at him until he gave up on his eyeliner idea.

I did fit into my old pants. I was glad to see them. They were black leather with bright blue piping up the sides. And they did have my jacket. It matched the pants. And my boots. I’d missed my boots. Thick soled, rugged, with blue laces. My mom told me blue and black made my eyes look pretty a long time ago, and I’d made my villain outfit with that in mind. I was dumb then, but at least I didn’t have something ridiculous to wear. Some of the others shook their heads and asked themselves, ‘What was I thinking? Polka dots?’

We weren’t allowed to see each other all styled up until the day of the event, but you could still hear talk. “They have to totally remake my pants.” “I can’t believe I was ever skinny enough to wear spandex.” “How come nobody asked me?” That kind of thing. I avoided the gym. People who hadn’t glanced at the place since their trial were hogging the stupid treadmills. I liked the library much better.

Then it was the day of. Mr. Thinning Hair and a team of hand-picked, specially cleared specialists scooped us out of bed far too early and primped and dressed and arranged. I was almost eyelinered, but Mr. Thin Hair’s minion took one look at my icy glare and decided I didn’t need it after all.

They got me all dressed up, then the guards did me up in chains. Ankles, wrists, everything connected, the works. They marched me down to the yard with everyone else. They’d only chosen about forty of the eight hundred baddies in the prison for the museum shindig. I guess the rest said no or weren’t given the option. It would be really stupid to let some of my fellow inmates within spitting distance of freedom. Really, really stupid. We were the harmless ones.

And it was nuts to see who they considered harmless. They let the Flea out. He was 556. That explained why he looked so gangly and had a power collar. The man could leap over buildings and toss city buses around if you let him. Not to mention his skill at mad science, which is how he got those powers in the first place. Though without his science, without his superpowers, he was just a short, gangly, talkative guy in black spandex with antennae on his head. He was like a kid on a field trip.

It was so strange to see who was who at last. Withered, shrunken old 119 was the Fearsome Hunter, shivering in his leopard loincloth and missing his terrifying fangs. I would have given him my coat if I could have taken it off, he looked so cold. My odd cell neighbor, 217, wore the silvery jumpsuit and shiny cape of Ill Wind. He kept tripping over his cape and staring at it like he couldn’t remember what it was for. I should have guessed his identity before now, what with his wispy frame and his hair that looked like wind was always blowing it. They both went into the first van to load up. I hoped it was warmer in the van.

I was in the second van with a couple of Brutes, the Flea, and 778. She had on an ornate tiara, purple knee high platform boots, and an orange bodysuit with a plunging neckline – Lady Brainwave.

“You’re Lady Brainwave?” said the Flea. “Oh, man, I thought you were still at large! That sucks!”

“Nobody’s still at large,” she snapped.

He didn’t shut up. “I always had the biggest crush on you. I mean, that caper with the diamonds and the space program, and that one time with the lasers… You were brilliant!”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him.

The Flea did not realize he was being ignored. He kept gushing about Lady Brainwave’s heists until one of the guards told him to shut up. Then he shut up, but only until the door of the van shut and we started rolling.

We couldn’t see what was going on around us, because the van had no windows. I could feel us going over the ruts and bumps that marked the gates and security checkpoints, all the gazillion layers of security. Then we stopped stopping. I was Out for the first time in twenty years.

With every bump and turn, though, Lady Brainwave’s boobs threatened to jostle out of her body suit. She tried to hold them in place, but was only partially successful. I saw a nipple. Yes, there was jeering. It wasn’t from me. No one could actually act on their bawdy threats, though, on account of all their chains and the long string of profanity Lady Brainwave threatened them with.

We drove long enough that I had to pee by the time I heard the cheering.

“They’re cheering!” cried the Flea. “They’re glad to see us!”

They’d been happy to see us put away, too. I’m pretty sure a crowd will cheer for anything.

The van stopped. A policeman opened the door. The crowd was huge. Metal barricades and armed police lined our path to the museum, and the crowd pressed in on all sides, cheering, wearing homemade costumes, waving signs. Some were happy signs, saying things like, “We Love You Lady Brainwave.” Some were not happy signs, saying things like “The Flea Belongs In Hell.” I saw myself hung in effigy. It was weird.

“All right, get out of there,” demanded the policeman who’d opened the door. They unloaded us roughly, putting on a show for the crowd. I kind of went with it, glaring at the guard who escorted me, snarling at the crowd. It seemed like they wanted monsters.

The museum was a grand black building with wide steps flanked by statues of the Schemer and Galaxy Crusher. I knew they’d never in a million years let the Schemer out, even for a field trip. Incidentally, his sentence was probably for about a million years. And I knew Galaxy Crusher was dead. Thunderbird and his buddies had done that. Probably a good thing for planet Earth.

They led us up the stairs. Each of us had our own guard, and there were many more all along the route. I even saw a couple of superheroes, real ones, among the guards. Mr. Thinning Hair and Mr. No Chin stood at the top of the stairs, along with the Warden, Dr. Flagg, and some people who I didn’t know, but who looked important. There were introductions, but I could barely hear the names over the roar of the crowd and I certainly didn’t bother to remember them.

Our guards guided us inside. One of the important people talked, explaining who funded which stones in the museum, what it was equipped with, where the emergency exits were, what to do in the event of a water landing… I stopped listening after a while. You learn more by looking.

The museum was empty except for us and the important people. I saw where there was a ticket counter and a directory. There were signs for exhibit halls – the Hall of Space Aliens, Hall of Diabolical Mechanisms, that kind of thing. To my right, there was a gift shop. It had a display of inflatable hatchets. I thought that was funny, and I smirked.

“What’s so funny?” my guard demanded.

I nodded to the toys. “Those’re hilarious.” He tried not to smile, but he did.

The important people led us through the Hall of Fame, where there were mannequins in glass cases displaying costumes or replicas of them. My guard was nice enough to let me stop and read the plaque about the Hatchet Kid. I was impressed. About half the information on the card was true, and they managed not to make me look like a total idiot in the newspaper clippings they had reproduced with the replica of my outfit. The hatchets, I noticed, were plastic fakes.

There was a sign pointing up the stairs that had more halls listed – ‘Hall of Plots,’ ‘Hall of Movies,’ ‘Hall of Downfalls.’ They didn’t take us up the stairs. Probably because that’s where the ‘Hall of Weapons’ was, and they didn’t want to take any chances.

After a quick tour, they took us to a room with cake and punch and an opportunity to use the bathroom. The refreshments were forgettable in flavor, but great in that they were not served to me in prison. The cake was vanilla, a little dry, with a bit too much buttercream icing.

Then, it was back outside through a side door. The museum sat in the middle of a garden with well-manicured plants and sculptures depicting various acts of villainy complete with the names of the donors that sponsored them. A garden full of reporters, containing a tall stage with a podium. It was disorienting to be confronted by all the flashing lights and the humid press of people. That’s why 217 tried to hide his head in my armpit, I think.

Us villains ended up in a pen behind the stage. Two sides were walls of the museum and one side was the stage. The press wasn’t allowed near the pen, so Ill Wind came out of hiding and wandered away to play with a fallen leaf.

They led us one by one around to the other side of the stage, where the audience asked questions. I couldn’t hear much of the questions or the answers, because all the speakers pointed away from us, the mic distorted everything, and the drapery at the back of the stage muffled it all. We were in no order that I could tell besides boy-girl, boy-girl. It wasn’t alphabetical or related to our numbers or reverse alphabetical by alias or anything like that.

Pretty soon, it was my turn.

Up on the stage, it was bright and hot. They had extra lights up there, even though it was a beautiful sunny day. The guards planted me behind the podium. I looked out over a hushed crowd of reporters and dignitaries. Apparently, I was supposed to say something.

“Um. Hi.” Good start. “It’s nice to be here.”

Then the questions started. “What do you think of the display about you in the museum?” shouted someone.

I shrugged. “The parts that aren’t exaggerations are pretty good.”

“What have you been doing in prison?”

“Mostly reading.”

“No plotting? Haven’t you made any plans for escape or revenge?”

“No.”

“What about Kid Thunderbird? No plans to kill her like you killed her father?”

And there she was. Right in the front row. Feathered helmet and russet cape and everything. Kid Thunderbird. Kid didn’t apply to her any more than it applied to me. She was grown up and gorgeous, not a darling little sidekick any more. She looked up at me with big, watery brown eyes.

I leaned closer to the mic. I wanted the whole crowd to hear this. “Ok. Look. It was an unlucky shot. You people keep making this out to be something it isn’t. There was nothing personal. I was a bad guy, he was a good guy, he was doing his job, and he died. I’m sorry it was Thunderbird. I hear he was a great guy. I never meant to kill him. Get that straight.”

The reporters looked disappointed. ‘Prison Rehabilitates Hatchet Kid’ is not a headline anyone wants to run.

“What about your true nemesis? Lightning Maker?”

“I don’t like him.”

There he was, that smug bastard. Lightning Maker. Right beside Kid Thunderbird. You couldn’t miss him, not in those spangly tights, that ludicrous yellow hat.

“You’d rather have killed him?”

“Yes. I think he’s an asshole. But what can I do about that? There’s lots of assholes.”

And that was the end of that. My press conference was over. They led me back to the pen and brought up Lady Brainwave.

I discovered that I could see a sliver of the crowd if I stood in the right spot. Mostly I saw shrubbery, but there was a cameraman picking his nose. I thought that was pretty funny.

I thought I saw something moving under the bushes. I squinted. Something was slithering around under there.

I got down on my hands and knees to get a better look. From the size of it, I expected a pigeon, maybe a cat.

“What are you doing?” demanded my guard.

“I think there’s something under there.” I pointed to the bush.

The guard went over to one of the other guards standing around with us behind the stage. This guard had more shiny stuff on his hat, so he was probably the guy in charge. I ignored them.

The thing under the bush was dark and shiny, so definitely not a pigeon or a cat. It had a sort of wave to its movement, so my next thought was a garden snake or something. And then it started crawling out from under the bush toward me. And it had legs. Lots of legs.

I shouted out a curse word and jumped back, going from crouching next to a bush to standing a good five feet away from it in about a second.

Because it was a centipede. And it was the size of my arm. And bugs that huge only exist in tropical rainforests and faraway islands, not well-manicured gardens in temperate climates.

“Holy hell!” shouted the guard with the shiny stuff on his hat.

I backed way up. Everybody backed away from the unnaturally huge bug as soon as they saw it or heard its legs skittering on the flagstone.

Everybody except Ill Wind. He sat in the middle of our little area, staring up at the sky and muttering. “It’s a storm. I’m feeling a storm. But I can’t see it. It hurts and I can’t see it. A storm and I can’t see. Sea sells sea shells.”

“Move!” I said to him. He didn’t. The centipede ran right for him, another thing I’m pretty sure centipedes don’t normally do. Ill Wind kept right on muttering, of course.
I dashed over, well, shuffled really fast – nobody can dash in chains – and I yanked him out of the way. Ill Wind blinked up at me like he was waking up from a dream or something.
I tried to stomp on the centipede, since I figured my huge boots might be able to take it out. I missed its head, but I got one of the antennae. It snapped off and twitched on the ground under my foot.

The giant centipede changed direction, dashing away from me. It looked like it had gotten bigger, like it might still be growing. Everyone dodged out of the way, but Fearless Hunter tripped and fell. His skinny body shook with age or fear as he tried to claw his way back to his feet and away from the approaching monster. He made it, but not before it bit his leg.

The centipede changed directions again, heading for the line of guards between us and the crowd. They tried to stomp on it, but it was too big to squish now. It was a good two yards long at least, and as thick around as the shiny hat guard’s shiny hat. It reared up. Half its body came up off the ground and it started lunging at the guards. It had mandibles like garden shears. It pegged one guy in the butt, the jaw slicing through the tidy uniform, chomping into skin. The guy howled in pain, trying to beat the thing into submission with his nightstick. Didn’t work.

Meanwhile, Fearless Hunter was down on the ground again. It looked like he was having a seizure. Centipedes are venomous. I remembered that from a nature documentary I saw somewhere. Giant monster centipedes are apparently giant monster venomous.

Another carefully sculpted bush started to shake. Then another. We heard somebody in the crowd in front of the stage screaming. The centipede was not alone.

Beyond the line of guards, I could see people running. Reporters in nice suits flung down their handbags and their notepads. One of the guards drew his gun and started firing at the creatures. It didn’t help much. Even with a direct hit, they still kept coming.

We were trapped between the blank face of the building, the line of guards and the stampede of people, and a garden disgorging giant nightmare bugs. Bugs which plunged toward people with kamikaze abandon. I lost count of the centipedes at a dozen.

No one was watching us. No one was going to protect us. No one was going to release us from our chains so we weren’t helpless sacrifices trussed up for the centipedes.

My fellow villains came to the same conclusion and split. It was everyone for himself or herself, just like it was with the crowd. Funny, with all those heroes in the audience, it didn’t seem like anybody was doing anything heroic.

Some villains tried to escape through the line of guards. I think some made it out that way, but the guards turned most of them back, striking out with nightsticks and guns, even. It got ugly.
Some took their chances in the garden. That didn’t go so well. A hobbled Brute is not faster than a centipede.

435 tried climbing the sheer wall of the museum. Since his power collar had never been able to stop his slime, he stuck well enough to get pretty far up despite his manacles and shackles. A centipede lunged at him, but fell short. It turned away and went after someone else.

I clawed at the drapery behind the stage. It covered plywood. No one was watching me. I kicked. It was flimsy. I pried off one of the boards, made a space just big enough for me to escape underneath. A quick peek revealed a field of supports and scaffolding bits, but no centipedes. And plenty of room to crawl.

Ill Wind was still right beside me. I grabbed him and dragged him under the stage with me.

Now I could think about a plan. If only I could get a weapon into my hands, preferably an axe or hatchet of some kind, then we might live. The first thing that came to mind was the Hall of Weapons inside the museum.

“Hide and seek,” whispered Ill Wind. He grinned.

“You got it,” I told him.

I tried to figure out the shortest way into the museum. Past the stage and around the corner should put us at the bottom of the staircase. I started crawling. Ill Wind was right behind me. The plywood platform of the stage above us shook. Blood dripped between the cracks at one point. I hoped it wasn’t Lady Brainwave’s blood and kept crawling.

We reached the edge of the stage. I lifted the drape to peek out. People fled in all directions. The chairs tipped and tangled in the emptying courtyard, strewn with the seizing bodies of the not-fast-enough.

Ill Wind started to head out into the chaos.

I grabbed him by the cape.

“Wait.”

A centipede thundered past, so close we could hear the clicking of its pearly brown exoskeleton.

“Ok, now,” I said. “Stay low, go fast, head for the stairs.”

“We want to get out of the storm?”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

He nodded. “Stay fast, go low, stairs.” Close enough.

We slipped out from under the stage and hugged the edge of the courtyard, hunched over to give our leg chains the most slack.

Chaos. Total chaos. Some people were fighting the centipedes. Most fled. No one noticed us. I caught a glimpse of Lightning Maker’s spangly yellow costume booking it away from the garden. Some hero.

We made it to the stairs before a centipede noticed us. It halted and reared up, antennae the size of yardsticks twitching like mad. It raced toward us.

I stumbled up the marble steps in a blind panic. Nothing to defend myself with. Clicking mandibles at my heels. Pushing Ill Wind ahead of me.

There was someone’s purse on the stairs under my feet. I kicked it down. It only distracted the centipede for a moment, but it was better than nothing.

We slammed into the glass doors. They didn’t move. I pounded and pounded. The museum was empty and locked. It looked like we were doomed. The centipede slithered up behind us.

Then I realized the doors said “Pull.” I wrenched one open and dove through, pulling Ill Wind with me. I yanked the door shut just as the centipede reached the top of the steps. It slammed into the door just as we had done. It backed up, shook its head, and lunged again. It squealed, the most awful thing I’ve ever heard, like a cross between cutting glass and a car crash.

Ill Wind burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. I laughed too. We were alive.

Then the glass in the door started to crack and I stopped laughing. Ill Wind kept giggling. I pulled us toward the stairs to the second floor. I thought for sure the Hall of Weapons would have something we could use. Never use an elevator in an emergency, right?

Then, there it was on the landing – salvation. An axe and a hose and “In Case Of Emergency Break Glass.”

“Give me your cape,” I said. I didn’t wait for an answer. I unhooked the shimmery fabric from his shoulders and wrapped it around my fist. It was an emergency. I broke the glass.

I dropped the cape and grabbed the axe. I shifted it between my hands, tested the balance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damn good compared to nothing.

Ill Wind picked up his cape and tried to put it back on.

“Don’t do that. It has glass in it.” I took it away and shook it to get the glass out. He clutched at the cape, so I gave it back. He balled it up and cuddled it like a teddy bear.

Below us, glass shattered. The centipede was through the door. I grabbed Ill Wind and raced up the stairs, making way too much noise. Our chains were going to get us killed. We had to get rid of them.

I spotted bathrooms at the top of the stairs. I figured that would be as good a place as any to shed the chains. I burst into the nearest one, Ill Wind hot on my heels. It looked wrong. There were no urinals. It was the women’s restroom. Not that it mattered – there were no women that I could see. Plus, that meant the marble counters were huge.

“Ok,” I told Ill Wind. “Spread your arms out like this –“ I demonstrated, spreading my chain along the marble counter. Ill Wind followed my lead. “And stay very still.” I hefted the fire axe, hoping I could get enough power in my swing to snap the chain.

“You know,” said a mellow voice behind me, “It would be a lot safer to pick the locks.”

I looked at the speaker. Lady Brainwave leaned on one of the bathroom stalls. She had no manacles and her power collar was gone.

“I’m glad to see you aren’t dead,” I said to her. “Do you have something to pick these locks with?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” She plucked a bobby pin from her ornate updo. I held out my manacled wrists. She was good. Within two minutes, my wrists weren’t manacled anymore. Within five, I was totally free.

My fire ax and I watched the door in case any lady centipedes needed to pee. Lady Brainwave freed Ill Wind from his chains. No giant bugs barged through the door. She started on his power collar.

And then he started screaming. I jumped.

Lady Brainwave flinched away, hands over her ears. “What the hell?” she demanded. “Did he get bit or something?”

I recognized that scream. “No, this is what he does when it rains.”

Lady Brainwave pointed to the window at the other end of the bathroom. It was blue skies outside. “Does it look like it’s raining to you?”

A fly splattered in to the glass. A fly the size of a sparrow. We stared at it. Ill Wind stopped screaming. Another fly careened into the window, slightly bigger. The window cracked.

“Hey, what do I do with this?” asked Ill Wind. He held his power collar in his hands. “Did I break it? Am I in trouble?”

“Leave it on the counter,” I told him.

“I’m not in trouble?” he asked.

“No, you’re fine,” I reassured him.

Another fly smacked into the window. Another crack appeared.

“Ok, we need to leave,” said Lady Brainwave.

I pushed open the door slowly, searching the hallway outside for centipedes. Nothing.

“We’re good,” I said. “Now what?”

“They’ve got flying machines on the roof. We could see if the Brainwave-copter is up there,” said Lady Brainwave.

“You know what IS up there?” I asked. “Flies. Giant flies.”

“You know what’s going to be in here in a minute? Also flies,” she countered.

“Hey, guys?” said Ill Wind. “I can think. I can think and it doesn’t hurt.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I guess we’re going to the roof.”

“I wonder if I can fly?” said Ill Wind.

The marble hallway outside the bathroom was still clear. I took point, because I had a weapon. Weapons. Good idea. The others were unarmed, unless you counted Lady Brainwave’s bobby pins. I glanced up at the signs and discovered that the Hall of Weapons was the first ornate doorway on the right.

I was about to charge in for some armaments when somebody screamed from inside. We pressed flat against the wall beside the open doorway. I peeked.

A centipede the size of a very long lion had a lady in a suit and Kid Thunderbird pressed up against the back of the room. Kid Thunderbird was fending it off with the remains of a folding chair.

“I’m going in,” I said.

“Are you crazy? There’s a giant centipede in there,” hissed Lady Brainwave.

“So, I take it down.” I shrugged.

“Oh, my God,” said Lady Brainwave. “This is about Thunderbird.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Why does nobody believe me?”

“Now you want to rescue his daughter and atone for your sins. That’s what this is about.”

“This is about weapons. If they have my good hatchets, they’re in there. Along with alien doom rays and demon glaives and anything else we can use to live through this.”

She didn’t look convinced, but we didn’t have time for that to matter. I charged in.

The centipede’s attention was on its cornered victims. It did not see me coming up from behind. It reared up, ready to slam down and envenomate Kid Thunderbird. I saw a gap between its head and its segments. I was pretty sure that centipedes are like most animals - they think with their head and need that intact to keep being alive. That’s where I aimed. That’s where I hit. I was right.

The centipede crashed to the floor. Kid Thunderbird blinked at me.

“Hatchet Kid?” she said.

“Thomas,” I corrected. “I don’t think I qualify as a Kid anymore. You guys get bit?”

“No,” said the lady, who’d fallen on the floor. She was one of the important people I’d been introduced to that had something to do with the museum. I had no idea what her name was.
I retrieved the fire ax from the centipede. Kid Thunderbird let me, but she glared at me suspiciously. Since I was close, I helped the suit lady up.

I gestured to the weapons in the display cases all around us. “Are these real or fake?” I asked.

“They are mostly the originals, but some are replicas,” answered the museum lady.

My eyes fell on the Exploder’s favorite shotgun. I pointed. “I don’t suppose you have ammo for that thing?”

“Certainly not,” said the museum lady.

“You are not having a gun,” said Kid Thunderbird.

Glass shattered. I spun around, fire axe at the ready.

Lady Brainwave had busted a display case containing some wicked-looking polearms.

“I do have the keys for these cases, you know,” snapped the museum lady. She strode over to Lady Brainwave. “I would recommend the Spear of the Drongdoons. Good range, and the blade is made of an extremely sturdy alien alloy.”

Lady Brainwave nodded and freed the spear from its display. The museum lady selected Hogwife’s Halberd of Dismemberment for herself.

Kid Thunderbird looked shocked at an ordinary citizen performing a blatant act of theft.

“I suggest we all arm ourselves,” said the museum lady. “Just in case.”

Meanwhile, I scanned the room for my hatchets. I was in luck. All four were there, they didn’t look fake, and the bandolier I used to wear them on was with them. “Hey, could I get the keys to this one?” I asked the museum lady. She obliged.

I strapped on the bandolier over my jacket and I tested my hatchets. They were still perfectly balanced. They felt right in my hands. It was like riding a bicycle.

“Ok,” I said. “Let’s squish some bugs.”

Ill Wind giggled. “One liner,” he said, pointing at me. “Good one.”

“Grab a weapon or something,” I told him.

He looked at his hands as if he were seeing them for the first time. “No. I don’t think I need one.” He snapped his fingers and three display cases shattered. My ears popped with the air pressure change in the room. “I am one.”

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIS POWER COLLAR?” cried Kid Thunderbird.

“I took it off him,” said Lady Brainwave. “We were trying not to die.”

Ill Wind shot me a dirty look. “You said I wasn’t in trouble.”

“Hey, um, museum lady,” I said.

“Georgia Gregson,” she said. “Managing curator.”

“Right. Sorry. Ms. Gregson – the flying machines on the roof. Are they operational? Do they have fuel and stuff?”

“Some of them do. Yes. We were planning on offering flights for VIP patrons.” She smiled broadly. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“It was her idea.” I pointed to Lady Brainwave.

“I am not letting you guys out of my sight,” said Kid Thunderbird. “I am coming with you every single step of the way, and you are going RIGHT back to prison when we get through this, and I am having SERIOUS words with the warden. He thought ILL WIND was LOW RISK?!”

I tuned her out and started walking toward the end of the hallway where I guessed the stairs to the roof probably were. They came with me. After all, I had the most weapons and a proven record of killing centipedes.

Lady Brainwave grabbed my arm. “Oooh, pit stop,” she said, pointing to the Hall of Costumes.

“What for?” I asked. I followed her into the Hall of Costumes.

“Because my boobs are falling out, and my telekinesis is rusty. I don’t want to flash everyone while we’re trying not to die.” She strode up and down the hall, studying the displays.

“What are we doing in here?” asked Kid Thunderbird.

“Shopping,” answered Lady Brainwave.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so. You all need to stay in what you’re wearing now,” said Kid Thunderbird.

“Seriously?” said Lady Brainwave. “You never had to use your powers to stay in your costume.” Lady Brainwave gestured in a wide circle at her chest. I almost saw a nipple again. “This was the stupidest idea I ever had. How the hell is dressing up like Dr. Madness going to help me escape or whatever?”

“I am not going to let you steal from this museum,” said Kid Thunderbird.

“As museum curator, I give her permission to borrow whatever she thinks is going to help us live,” said Ms. Gregson.

“Thank you,” said Lady Brainwave. “I would like the lab coat of Dr. Madness, please. I know we’re the same size, and I’m not going to flash anybody.”

Ms. Gregson nodded and unlocked the correct display case for her. Lady Brainwave put on the blue lab coat. “This is so much more practical.”

“I hear you,” said Ms. Gregson. She swapped her skirt and high heels for the military fatigues and combat boots of Traumatic Stress Disorder, then retrieved the breastplate of War God. Supposedly, that armor could stop anything. Hopefully including centipedes. “Anyone else want anything?”

I shook my head. Kid Thunderbird rolled her eyes. Ill Wind wasn’t listening. He was staring at the ceiling and frowning.

The lights flickered.

“That feels wrong. Really wrong,” said Ill Wind. “Do you guys feel that?”

“Feel what?” asked Kid Thunderbird.

A flood of cockroaches raced out from under the display cases. Ms. Gregson and Lady Brainwave shrieked and jumped up on one of the benches set up so that tired people could sit. The roaches were the size of mice, then the size of rats. I started stomping and so did Kid Thunderbird. I noticed that she wasn’t one of those heroes that has ridiculous heels, but one of those that has good solid boots. Wind swept into the room as Ill Wind wobbled into the air.

“That is so WEIRD. It feels like it’s a storm, but it’s this instead. What is DOING it?” said Ill Wind, half to himself.

“Probably a supervillain,” said Kid Thunderbird.

“Well, it’s not me,” said Ill Wind. He waved a hand and an air current sent a dozen roaches spinning into display cases.

“Of course not,” said Kid Thunderbird. “This isn’t your power set at all.”

Which got me thinking. Whose power set was it? I couldn’t think of anybody who could command swarms of insects and cause this kind of bizarre growth. Maybe Verminmaster, but he’d been dead for years.

“Maybe it’s some kind of mad science?” I suggested.

“Plausible,” said Kid Thunderbird. “Not sure whose MO this is, though. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me, neither.”

“How are there this many cockroaches in a new building?” shouted Lady Brainwave. She stabbed down at the roaches with her spear.

“I don’t know, but the cleaning crew is FIRED,” Ms. Gregson shouted back, also stabbing roaches.

A cat-sized fly rocketed into the room. It landed on a display case and barfed up some acid. The glass started to sizzle. It smelled awful, and the fly was very, very ugly.

“Oh, gross,” said Lady Brainwave.

The fly turned around and looked at her. It launched into the air in that crazy zig zag that flies do, headed in her direction fast. Fortunately, it was big enough to make an excellent target. I threw a hatchet like I’d never been away from it. I hit the fly right in its chest with a crunch and it dropped like a stone, squashing three roaches.

Finally, most of the roaches were dead. The few that survived scuttled out the door, still growing. The floor was slippery with roach guts. Kid Thunderbird slipped. Ill Wind caught her.
“Thanks.”

He shrugged.

Getting to the door was like walking on ice, but we made it. I peeked out into the hallway. The coast seemed pretty clear.

“We can get to the roof from here, right?” Lady Brainwave asked Ms. Gregson.

“Yes. That way.”

We made our way cautiously down the hallway. A little farther along, there was a sign indicating that the stairs to The Flight Garden were at the end of the hall.

“Does this seem too easy to you guys?” asked Lady Brainwave.

I stared at her. “You think that was easy?”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“I hate to say it, but you’re right,” said Kid Thunderbird. “We need to be really careful.”

I heard a buzzing sound behind us like one of the giant flies. I spun around to see three of them careening towards us down the hall. I raised a hatchet, but Ill Wind was faster. He pointed a finger, and a swirling vortex of wind slammed the flies into the wall. Their hairy bodies burst with the impact.

“No wonder they put a power collar on you,” said Lady Brainwave. “How did Lightning Maker catch you? You’re a badass.”

Ill Wind frowned. “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

“Probably with lightning,” I said. “That’s how he got me. I still have scars.”

I reached the stairs to the roof first. I didn’t see any bugs. We hadn’t seen any in the empty galleries on either side of us, either. It made me wonder where they all were. I didn’t want them in the museum with us, of course, but the thought of them wandering around the city was worse. There were kids out there.

We climbed the stairs. I was still in the lead. The door at the top was ajar, about half open.

“Woah. That should be closed,” whispered Kid Thunderbird. “There’s someone on the roof.”

I figured there was about an 85% chance it was the bug mastermind, though it could have been somebody who’d climbed up the wall. I offered her the fire axe.

“Thanks,” she said. She held it like she knew what she was doing with it.

We listened at the door. I heard flies buzzing, and a man’s voice talking baby talk to something. You know, “Who’s my precious baby? Who’s a good girl?”

“Wait. I know this guy,” I said.

“Yeah. You probably do,” said Kid Thunderbird. “Because he’s a villain.”

“Just let me remember who… It’s 556.”

“Who?”

“The Flea,” I said.

“The Flea?” hissed Lady Brainwave. “Of course. That. Mother. Fucker.” She slammed open the door.

“No, wait, don’t!” said Kid Thunderbird. But it was too late. She did.

On the rooftop, we saw a path winding around various roped-off flying machines, from ordinary military helicopters to wild alien spacecraft, arrayed on gravel sections with colorful informational placards. We also saw four giant centipedes, a half-dozen flies perched on flying machines, and about twenty cockroaches which were now the size of terriers. And the Flea. He was holding one of the centipedes’ enormous head in his hands and making kissy noises at it.

The Flea looked up when he heard the door bang against the wall. “Oh, hi! I’m glad you’re not dead. My little babies have been so effective, yes they have.” He kissed the centipede on the head.

“You need to shrink the bugs back down,” I said. “They’re killing people.”

“I know! Aren’t they great?”

“They’re gross,” said Lady Brainwave.

“I’m sorry you don’t understand. You see, I’ve never thought bugs are gross. They’re incredible creatures! Maybe that makes me a bit weird, but I’ve come to terms with that. Anyway, it’s join me and my accomplice or I kill you, so what’s it going to be?”

“Accomplice?” said Kid Thunderbird.

“Of course! Someone had to assemble my Enorminator and Mind Control devices from the diagrams at my lab!” He tapped the weird crown of technology bits he wore on his head. “She’s good. Very good.”

“Who’s-“ I felt a cold blade against the back of my neck. It wasn’t the fire axe, and I could see that Lady Brainwave and her spear were nowhere near me.

Kid Thunderbird gasped. “Ms. Gregson?”

“Drop the hatchet. Hands up,” said Ms. Gregson.

I did what she said.

“I told you she was good! She had you all fooled, didn’t she?” The Flea laughed. The cockroaches laughed, too. At least, they made a rhythmic screaming noise.

“Why?” asked Kid Thunderbird. “What is there to gain?”

Ms. Gregson scoffed. “Why did I convince the city to gather every alien weapon and evil supernatural artifact they could get their hands on in to one place? To rob it. Obviously.”

“Diamond Diva?” asked Lady Brainwave. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“I thought you were dead,” said Kid Thunderbird.

“Faked it.”

“Nice long con,” said Lady Brainwave. “I’m really impressed.”

Ms. Gregson, or rather, Diamond Diva, made a little mock curtsey and turned her skin into diamonds.

“So, what’s it going to be, Hatchet Kid?” asked the Flea. “Join us, or no?”

“If I say yes, will you shrink the centipedes?”

“Of course not! This is how we’re going to rule the world.”

“Then, no.”

Before the Flea and Diamond Diva could react, I grabbed the shaft of the halberd and spun, wrenching it out of Diamond Diva’s hands and knocking her to her knees.

“Shame. I liked you. Lady Brainwave? Ill Wind?”

“I work alone, buddy,” said Lady Brainwave. Ill Wind didn’t say anything.

“Kill them all, then,” said the Flea.

His cockroach minions scuttled forward. Diamond Diva grabbed at the halberd to try and get it back. I lifted it out of her way and stabbed it into the first cockroach to get within six feet of me. It squealed as it died.

Kid Thunderbird swung the fire axe again and again, chopping into cockroaches. Yellowish roach guts splattered her arms and legs.

Wind whipped my hair into my face as Ill Wind rose off the roof to battle the flies, which were also charging. He knocked them off course with gusts of wind, slamming one into the paved path with a crunch and another into the garish yellow side of a flying car. Innards and acid splashed everywhere.

Lady Brainwave stabbed down into a cockroach. When she raised her spear back up for another stab, the stricken roach came with it, legs flailing around the spear tip. She glared at it, and scooted it off the end of the spear using her telekinesis.

The roaches did not avoid Diamond Diva, I noticed. Three of them ran right up to her and tried to gnaw on her ankles. They only shredded her pants, because her ankles were made out of diamonds.

“What the hell, Flea?” Diamond Diva cried.

“Wow, betrayal. Who could have seen that coming?” Lady Brainwave said sarcastically. I handed Diamond Diva back her halberd, because it looked like she was going to need it.

I picked up the hatchet I’d dropped. I chucked it at the nearest roach. It sank deep into its carapace. It scuttled a few more steps toward me before it stopped moving. I pulled out my hatchet and did it again. And again.

Ill Wind cried out and dropped about a yard to the roof on his hands and knees. One of the flies had gotten close enough to spit acid onto his shoulder. A ring of wind rushed out around him knocking the last fly spinning away from the roof. I didn’t see what happened to it.

I helped Ill Wind to his feet. “You ok?”

“My hands hurt.” I looked. His palms were scraped up by the gravel.

“You’ll be ok.”

He pointed and a gust of wind pushed a roach I hadn’t seen coming up behind me to the edge of the roof. “Thanks,” I said.

A roach emerged from under an alien spacecraft behind him, running up fast. I stepped to the side and hurled a hatchet that split its head. “Thanks,” said Ill Wind. He wobbled upwards again, heading toward the roaches surrounding Kid Thunderbird.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” shouted Lady Brainwave. I heard the clash of metal on metal. I spun around to see Diamond Diva had attacked her with her halberd. My hatchets would do nothing against Diamond Diva’s skin. I freed the one I’d just thrown from the roach and prepared another shot anyway. Maybe it would distract her.

A blast of air shoved the combatants apart, sending the spear and the halberd flying. Lady Brainwave dashed after the spear. Diamond Diva was rooted to the spot in a whirlwind of gravel and dust.

“You lied,” said Ill Wind. “I don’t like lies.”

His whirlwind lifted Diamond Diva a few inches off the ground and dragged her slowly towards the edge of the roof. She tried to wrench free, but it was no use.

“217, stop!” I shouted.

“Don’t hurt her! Hold her there, and I’ll cuff her!” shouted Kid Thunderbird. The fire axe squished into another roach. I noticed she was ringed by at least a dozen dead bugs. “We’ll put her in jail, ok? With a power collar and everything.”

Ill Wind smiled a cruel smile. “I would like that. She’s bad.” The whirlwind stopped moving towards the handrails around the roof.

The Flea’s face was red with anger. “I don’t have time for this! Die already!”

I could hear the shrieking sirens of emergency vehicles speeding toward the scene. He was right. He didn’t have time for this.

I stalled for time, taunting him. “What’s the matter? Things not going according to plan? You didn’t account for your bugs being easy to squash?”

“I’ll show you easy to squash!”

The four centipedes thundered forward.

“Well, that backfired,” Lady Brainwave said to me, bracing her spear against the ground, facing the charging centipedes. They were almost the size of cars now.

I grabbed another hatchet out of my bandolier so that I held one in each hand.

One centipede charged right onto Lady Brainwave’s spear. It stabbed through the first two segments or so. It was fatally wounded, but now Lady Brainwave was disarmed. She shoved the dying, flailing creature away from her with telekinesis.

The second centipede charged at Ill Wind. He couldn’t do anything about it, because he was still holding Diamond Diva captive with the whirlwind. I hurled the hatchet in my right hand. It severed one of the centipede’s stabby face things, which I have since learned are called “forcipules.” It shrieked and reared up, breaking off its attack.

The third centipede went for Kid Thunderbird, and the fourth aimed itself towards me. I dodged out of the way and struck out with my hatchets. They connected – one, two. Whitish ooze poured out of the wounds. The centipede writhed and squealed. One of its flailings sent me flying. I hit the side of a parked helicopter and fell into the gravel. I managed to keep ahold of both hatchets, but got the wind knocked out of me. I struggled to my feet, wheezing.

Suddenly, a black spike as thick as a pool cue erupted through my chest. Blinding pain.

I realized: I’d lost track of the centipedes.

The monster bug lifted me off my feet. I felt chiton grinding against my lowest ribs. I tried slashing at it, striking behind me, but my hands were empty. Someone or something was screaming. Maybe me? I heard helicopter blades approaching from a distance, or maybe just my heart pounding as the centipede moved its head around with me attached.

I still had two hatchets in my bandolier. I fumbled with them, both hands clumsy. I finally got one into my left hand when two knives slammed into my thigh from either side. No, not knives: another centipede. My thigh burned. It hurt much worse than the impalement. It was pumping my left leg full of venom.

My vision cleared enough for me to see the second centipede clearly, chewing away on my leg. I hacked down at it, then hacked again. I’m ambidextrous - my left arm is as powerful as my right. Good thing, too. The centipede released me and fell backwards, my hatchet stuck right between its glittering black eyes.

I fumbled out my last hatchet and tried to chop it into the centipede that still had me on its mouth part. I wasn’t very effective.

The centipede jerked, then flailed violently. I went sailing off the end of the forcipule, slammed into a small Zongdrogian assault vessel a good twenty feet away, and landed face down in the gravel. A second later, a human-shaped thing landed on top of me.

I definitely blacked out for a little bit, because the next thing I remember is Kid Thunderbird crouched beside me, saying, “I said, are you ok?” I was face up, slumped against the iridescent spacecraft with no idea how I’d gotten into a half-sitting position.

“Sure,” I slurred. My face felt weird and numb. I tasted blood. Everything was numb and cold, except for my chest and my whole leg. Those felt like they were on fire.

“Great. Give me your belt.” Kid Thunderbird started unbuckling my belt.

“Why…”

“Tourniquet.”

“Oh… that makes sense….”

She wrapped my belt around my left thigh and pulled it tight in a way that would have been extremely painful if that part wasn’t already about as painful as pain could get.

“Guess I’m bleeding, huh?”

“Yeah. You’re bleeding. A lot.” She opened my jacket to look at my chest wound. “Well, fuck.”

Over her shoulder, I could see that Lady Brainwave had found the orange and purple Brainwave-copter and climbed inside it, near the edge of the roof where Ill Wind still had Diamond Diva trapped. Lady Brainwave went through a quick pre-flight checklist, flipping switches and pressing buttons. It must have been one of the flying machines they kept operational and fueled up, because it whined to life.

“Ill Wind, come with me!” Lady Brainwave held out a hand from the Brainwave-copter.

“I- I- I-“ He looked back at me bleeding all over Kid Thunderbird, then down at the cape still cuddled under his arm. “I can’t. I can help.” He ran away from her, dragging Diamond Diva’s whirlwind with him.

“Your funeral,” Lady Brainwave said, and took off.

Ill Wind skidded to a stop beside me and held out his cape to Kid Thunderbird. “I have this. Will it help?”

“Yes. Put it under him here, see? We’re trying to stop the bleeding.”

My vision went gray with pain as they shifted me around.

“Oh. There’s air here,” I heard Ill Wind say. “I can press things closed. I should do that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. You need to stop Liar Lady, though.”

It felt like someone inserted a balloon through my chest and inflated it. I cried out in pain, but apparently the bleeding slowed down.

My vision cleared. I saw Kid Thunderbird handcuffing Diamond Diva to a spindly tangle of metal parts across the path that I recognized as Quantum Mystic’s Levitator.

Ill Wind sat beside me, his hand on my chest, a look of intense concentration on his face. He started to smile, then looked horrified. “He’s doing it again! He’s making more bugs!” he cried to Kid Thunderbird.

I heard maniacal laughter. I lolled my head to the right to look. The Flea stood about forty feet away, one hand to his technology crown. He walked towards a small, one man craft. “Enjoy my namesake, losers!” he cried between peals of evil laughter.

I looked down. The gravel around me was disturbingly red and wet. I saw a hatchet just beyond my right hand. It felt like I was moving through Jello as I reached for it. Kid Thunderbird was running towards the Flea, but she wouldn’t be able to reach him before he boarded the craft. Lights around the edge of it blinked on and started to spin.

Then the hatchet was in my hand, and I did what I do best.

The hatchet split the crown. Sparks flew everywhere as it dropped off the Flea’s head. Unfortunately, the hatchet also sunk into his temple. The Flea crumpled to the ground, mid-cackle.

“Whoops,” I said.

Then there was a helicopter right overhead, and a SWAT team leaping down, their feet crunching into the gravel on the roof. My least favorite person in the entire world was with them: Lightning Maker.

Beside me, Ill Wind started to shake and make a whining noise in the back of his throat, but he didn’t run and he didn’t lose his control over the air in my chest cavity.

“Finally!” said Kid Thunderbird. “Take Diamond Diva into custody and get me a medic.”

“All the EMTs are helping victims,” said Lightning Maker. “They’ll get to the perpetrators later.”

“The man over there? Bleeding to death? He saved the day, because you ran like a little baby.”

“The Hatchet Kid? Are you serious?”

“Yes, David. He saved my life, like, three times and he’s the reason we’re not fighting a bunch of giant fleas right now.” She turned away from Lightning Maker – whose name was apparently David – and grabbed the most senior SWAT person. “You. Get me an immediate medical evac to the nearest hospital. Now.”

“Surely there’s more important –“ Lightning Maker started to say.

My body decided I’d had enough of their bullshit and I passed out.

I woke up in a strange bed to a beeping sound. Beeping sounds mean hospitals. So do sharp, antiseptic smells. My leg throbbed, but it was much less painful than it should have been. I was drugged up as fuck. Breathing hurt.

I tried to move. Moaned. Opened my eyes. Yep. Hospital.

I did not expect to see Kid Thunderbird, but she was in the room. Clean. No bug guts. Different clothes. She was wearing a suit instead of her superhero costume, but it was definitely her. It must have been a long while after the roof.

“Hey. How do you feel?” Kid Thunderbird asked.

“Not dead…so, good?” I croaked. My mouth felt dry and sticky.

“Great. We were worried.”

I’d never in my entire life had a “we” worried about my wellbeing. “Who’s ‘we?’” I asked.

“Me. Ill Wind. The media.”

“Why do they care?”

“You’re basically the hero of the hour. Or, the hero of four days ago.”

“Four days?” I tried to sit up.

“Nope. Nope. Don’t move. Here.” She put a remote in my hand and pushed a button. Bed controls. The top half of the bed rose a bit so I was closer to sitting up.

I looked at the control in my hand. Something was missing. “Hey. No cuffs. Where am I?”

“City Central Medical Center.”

“But… No cuffs.” I moved my other hand, just to be sure. No handcuffs on that wrist, either.

“They’re not necessary. There’s no way you’re getting up and walking out of here right now. And there are guards on the door and outside the ICU, just in case you somehow are able to try.”

“So, what happened? Is the Flea dead?”

“No. Fleas are hard to kill. He’s in a coma, though. Three floors above us, I think.”

“Ill Wind?”

“Two floors down. He had some acid burns on his shoulder, but nothing too serious.” There was something odd in her voice.

“He’s not in the burn unit, is he.” She shook her head. “Psych ward?”

She nodded. “How long has he been so….”

“Long as I’ve known him. He’s not the same guy I used to see on the news.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t belong in prison. Neither do you.”

I laughed. It hurt. “Talk to the judge, because I’m not even half way through my sentence yet.”

“I’ve got a legal team working on it. You’ll be out soon.”

“Is somebody going to give me a job chopping wood? Because that’s my only legal marketable skill.”

She smiled. “I think something can be arranged.”

She tossed a small piece of cloth onto the bed. It was electric blue and silky. I picked it up. It was a mask. A superhero mask.