Free Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect by Michael Bailey Page A

I’m powered up, I
generate an aura that is solid enough protection against energy-based attacks,
but I have no clue whether it could stand up to buckshot. Rather than find out
the hard way, I zip around behind the mech, easily avoiding his shot. I blast
him in the back — nice, wide target that it is — and the mech stumbles,
throwing its hands out to catch itself. Some poor dope’s SUV cushions its fall.
    Aesthetically the thing
looks like a lumbering hulk, clumsy and slow. In reality, it’s clumsy and fast;
the mech whips around, hurling the SUV at me. I fire instinctively, expecting
to deflect the makeshift missile.
    Instead, I blow up the gas
tank. D’oh .
    It’s not a big, flamey
Hollywood explosion. It’s more like a giant camera flash going off, bright and
quick, but the fact remains: A gas tank exploded in my face. The fireball
cascades over me harmlessly (thank you, glowy aura), but the noise and the
shockwave rattle my teeth. I spiral out of the air and land hard on the roof of
a minivan.
    I roll onto my back to see a
blurry gray mass stomping my way. I’m too dizzy to properly take aim. My best
bet — my only bet is to fire wide and pray I nail him.
    “HEY!”
    Oh, God, no.
    The mech stops, turns. My
visions clears enough to make out a small object standing at the far edge of
the parking lot, bundled up like Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas
Story . I yell at Farley, tell him to run, to get away, but instead, he
charges the mech.
    When I first met the Quantum
Quintet, Meg and Kilroy introduced Farley to me as Final Boss. I never got the
connection between adorable little Farley and the nickname, which refers to the
biggest, ugliest, nastiest monster at the end of a video game.
    I get it now. Oh, boy, do I
get it.
    With each step, Farley
doubles in size. He rips out of his clothing as his skin turns into scaly
armor, like a crocodile’s hide. Claws like butcher knives spring from his
fingers, and horns, curled like a ram’s, sprout from a head that no longer
bears any resemblance to anything human. He roars, revealing a mouthful of
jagged fangs, and I swear I can hear Mr. Mech losing control of his every
bodily function. I can’t blame him.
    The transformation complete,
Final Boss plows into the mech with the force of an avalanche, lifting the
machine off its feet before body-slamming it into the asphalt, cratering the
thing. It’s not getting back up any time this decade.
    I stand up on the minivan as
Final Boss faces me, his blood-red eyes level with mine. I now understand why
the Quentins have a panic room in their house. I wish I were there.
    “Farley?” I squeak.
    He — it — he glances back
at the mech, then flashes a monstrous grin.
    “Smooshed him good,” Final
Boss says, his voice the deep rumble of an approaching thunderstorm.
    “Yeah, buddy,” I say, “you
smooshed him real good.”
     
    Real good; it took paramedics,
armed with hydraulic cutters and the Jaws of Life, an hour and a half to
extricate the man from his suit. He was a mess, but he’ll live to see his
arraignment, as well as the countless civil lawsuits that will no doubt be
filed against him.
    As it turns out, our
troublemaker is a local resident well-known to police — although it wouldn’t be
quite accurate to call him a criminal (well, until today). Marvin Belcher,
owner of Belcher’s Scrap Yard and Used Auto Parts, likes to spend his spare
time making experimental vehicles, everything from rocket-powered roller skates
to motorized barstools (I swear, I am not making that up) to personal
hovercrafts powered by lawnmower engines. Sturbridge police regularly catch him
testing his unlicensed creations on public roads, which typically result in the
confiscation of his latest toy and maybe a citation for some minor motor
vehicle violations.
    He won’t get off that easy
this time around, and not just because of the rampant destruction of public
property; during the extraction, the first responders discovered