Chapter 1
I was eleven years old the first time I walked into a classroom full of super-villains.
This wasn’t exactly an unexpected phenomenon. I was the newest enrollee at the Grandeur Rivyle Academy for the Potentially Infamous entering my first class, having been matriculated into the Seventh Grade, there. Therefore, my first period class, Mathematics 7, was filled with other youngsters with a background similar to mine. I was reasonably certain that I could have actually taught the class, but I my mother had insisted I hold back on showing my intellect when I was in classes with “normal” students. This left me in the unusual position of having all the standard classes when I could have been significantly advanced. I was aware that my seventh grade year would be scholastically boring; as boring as the prior seven years had been, at the very least.
Given the peer situation, of course, that was the least of my problems.
There was the issue of my reputation. It wasn’t that I was a trouble-maker at my other school, quite the opposite, in fact. I had done my best to keep my nose clean for as long as I had gone to educational institutions for “normal” people. I have to use quotes due to the fact that, in my experience, the world “normal” doesn’t apply to any human being, anywhere. There are those who strive to be “normal” and, in the very act of doing so, ultimately fail. There are those who hover in the neighborhood of “normal” through no fault of their own and one might better describe these individuals as “average.”
Personally, I would use the term “boring.”
Ultimately, however, my reputation revolved around that of my father, a man I had never met. He was known as a brilliant innovator, scientist, and industrialist prior to gaining infamy in other pursuits. When it came to the question of finances, my father was second to none, capable of performing feats of economic acrobatics that lesser men would have said were impossible. In the fields of technology, my father held more than one thousand patents to his name and it was rumored that the actual number of inventions he had developed was closer to one million. As a businessman, he managed to maintain a controlling share on every major industry at the same time.
Of course, all of this was forgotten the first time he tried to kill the world’s greatest superhero.
Hailing from another dimension, altogether, Mister Wonderful was capable of feats far, far beyond that of even the most extraordinary human being. He could fly at the speed of light and was strong enough to move the moon from its orbit and back again. He was almost completely invulnerable to all harm. He could control the vibration of atoms; decreasing or increasing the vibration in order to cool or heat objects. One would think that an individual with this level of power in a world of normal men might be a mighty ruler with servants at his beck and call.
Instead, Mister Wonderful took it upon himself to become the protector of the world. He wasn’t the world’s first superhero, but it wasn’t long before he was hailed as Earth’s greatest. He dealt with evil on every level; be it invading armies of aliens, megalomaniacal super-villains, basic street crimes, or corruption in the governments and corporations of the world. If it was wrong, Mister Wonderful felt that it was his responsibility to make it right.
This fact, I think, is what my father found most irksome of all. Here was an alien from a completely different reality who was making it his job to ensure that humans were decent to each other. Had Mister Wonderful taken the low road by being a conqueror and tyrant or even just left his duties at dealing with superhuman-level wrong-doing, many believe that my father would have simply ignored him and continued as the highly successful business mogul that he was.
I disagree.
Maxwell Maelstrom, my father, made it his duty in life, to rid the world of the Indestructible Icon, once and for all.
For years they did battle with one another. It didn’t take long for Max’s super-villainy to be revealed to the public, thus ending his career as a industrial tycoon for good. Still, with the wealth he had stashed away, my father did all he could to destroy Mister Wonderful. In the process, Max Maelstrom become a foe to costumed do-gooders the world over. He developed the means to defeat nearly every major superhero on the planet. He designed weapons of massive power and sold them to villains who wished to develop their own power base or simply destroy their arch-nemesis. He gathered together the most powerful, most dangerous, and most evil villains ever to cackle with malevolence, in order to put forth a threat disproportionate to what any hero had faced before.
In short, Max Maelstrom was the greatest villain the world had ever known.
However, after many years of facing the forces of good and eluding the law, my father was finally incarcerated for tax evasion. He had beaten the odds on every sort of criminal activity, but no one stiffs the tax collectors.
Embarrassed by the intense media coverage of my father’s apprehension and conviction, my mother divorced from the Maelstrom name and moved into a suburban home outside the city of Rochester, New York to raise her infant son, me. However, when it came time for me to go to school, she was offered the opportunity to send me to the Academy. Despite being aware that my very lineage would mean that I would never have a normal life, my mother made the attempt, regardless. Thus, the previously mentioned request to “hold back” and the fact she felt it necessary to change my surname.
Unfortunately for Mom, the apple, as it is said, does not fall far from the tree.
My obvious resemblance to my father and the fact that the name of Max Maelstrom’s “Heir to Terror” was well-known led some of my teachers to determine my actual background. It wasn’t long before everyone was aware and so, despite my lack of excellence and my mother’s attempts to stay under the radar, it became clear that a normal life was something I would never attain.
When Mom finally accepted an invitation to have me schooled at the Academy while I was in the waning months of sixth grade, I was overjoyed. At last I would be able to be among equals and there would be no need for me to hold back on my intellect. It took some time to get the transfer through. There had been other parents whose who had attempted to enroll their child in the Academy by my name and my true heritage had to be ascertained. As such, it was nearly a month into the school year before I was allowed to join. Still, I couldn’t wait to be amongst my equals, with whom I would clearly share a common bond.
As I stood at the front of the classroom and looked across the room of glowering, sneering, or scowling faces, I became acutely aware that I my initial thoughts were direly inaccurate.
Never being one to enter into a new situation wholly unprepared, I had taken the luxury of investigating the Academy’s roster by entering their network from home. (One might refer to this as “hacking,” but I have always been a fan of the term, “dis-authorized data access.”) I expected that having a working knowledge of my fellow classmates might not be the worst idea I would ever have.
Of course, my worst idea ever was coming, but I had no clue that was the case.
I had taken it upon myself to memorize the names and capabilities of the most dangerous of my classmates. I was certain that this awareness would prove of use.
“Class?” Mrs. d’Cobreaux said over the din of noise. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of each and every malevolent gaze and came to the full comprehension as to how bitterly unprepared I was, despite my attempts at preparation. “This is Miles Maelstrom, he’ll be joining us, from here on.”
She awaited some response from the other students, but none was forthcoming save for the continued, evil stares.
“Miles?” the Math teacher said, her voice dripping with disdain and false compassion, “The class. Sit wherever you would like.”
It was then that I came to realize my preparation had been in vain and mis-considered. Ultimately, I had conjectured that the other students might pose a problem for my well-being, but in studying them, I would be able to manipulate them or, at the very least, determine weaknesses and be able to control any potential confrontations. What had not occurred to me (and was running through my mind, presently) was that the faculty, themselves, might pose a potential issue. This was a factor for which I was wholly unprepared.
I steeled myself against the likely peril of having to deal with teachers and other staff members of the Academy that had grudges against my father and then set about determining the best seat in the class.
There were three open desks - one towards the front of class, another in the middle, towards the window, and a third in the far, rear corner. When I had entered class, I had considered taking the seat near the front; the idea being that a close proximity to the teacher would be beneficial to my continued well-being. However, having detected Mrs. d’Cobreaux’s hostility, whatever the cause, it became clear that such a tactic would not necessarily offer the best results.
This left the seat somewhat close to the window and the one in the far rear corner. The desk near the window was, in fact, in the second row from the window, meaning that I would be surrounded by other students in all six directions. I remembered some of them from my research. In front of that desk was William Besker, the son of the Smolderer. He had inherited his father’s powers to control heat and cause objects to combust. He was also thoroughly antisocial and possibly psychotic, also traits that may have come from his parentage. If it was necessary to sit near Besker, at all, behind him might be the best position. To the rear of the desk was Adesh Rakshasa, son of the dangerous mystical villainess known as Lady Bengal. Despite Adesh’s fearsome, tiger-like appearance, his file indicated that he was reasonably well-adjusted. However, to the left and right of the desk were three hombres with whom I was not looking forward to dealing.
Jeannette Kyrlankos was the the daughter of the villain called Chimera. A shape-shifter, Chimera was dangerous and unpredictable and Jeannie’s records indicated that she was little more than a bully and thug. Ahead of her was Alex Scrutini, son of the insane criminal known as the Examiner whose gimmick was to “test” police and superheroes in order to determine their “worth.” According to Alex’s file, he had manifested his father’s strange compunctions as a bona-fide megalomania; thoroughly convinced that, not only was he better than everyone else, but that it was his right to control everyone and everything around him. But the worst of the bunch sat just ahead and to the right of the empty desk.
Garrett Maw, son of the vicious criminal mercenary, Wolfbear.
Garret made the next most reprehensible and savage student in the school look positively charming. Callous, sadistic, and vicious, Garret was clearly on his way to walking in the shoes of his infamous father.
He watched me with a predatory stare, his small, black eyes shrinking beneath his furrowing brow. I could see his canine teeth as his lips curled into a cruel sneer. Of all the students I would be dealing with over the course of the next six years, Garrett was, at the same time, the most unpredictable and the most dangerous.
I thought it would be best to sit in the far corner.
Certainly it would be the most secluded seat in the classroom, possibly indicating to Mrs. d’Cobreaux that I had my own antisocial tendencies, but it would be far safer than either of the other free seats.
As I walked to the rear of the classroom and unslung my messenger bag, I took note of the three students that would be surrounding my desk. It was then that I realized they were all girls.
For reasons I have yet to comprehend, I had, in my pre-teen, awkward years, developed a clear sense of discomfort around the opposite sex. Perhaps this was what all boys felt when nearing adolescence but, to me, it seemed anything but logical. I, an unmitigated genius whose emotional state had long been nothing more than a tool to be manipulated at my convenience, found my self unable to control my feelings and would become embarrassingly incompetent in the presence of certain girls.
This aside, I still felt more comfortable in the presence of these young ladies than I would have in the presence of potential bullies or spotlit in front of a teacher already looking to take me down a peg. I sat in the chair and placed my knapsack on the desk, nodding to my three neighbors with an uncomfortable smile. None of them registered on the list of students whose files I had memorized due to the likelihood of having to deal with them, which was good, but I did have some awareness of two of the girls.
To the left of my seat was Joy Wassail, the daughter of the second generation, holiday-based villain duo of Just Clause and Mistletoe. I didn’t remember much about her as it seemed likely she would be, overall, harmless. She returned my nod and smile with a broad grin and a wink, both of which forced nervous knots to wind in my stomach.
In front of me sat Lucinda Cricket, the daughter of the sports-themed Brit, the Cricketer, whose villainous gimmick and activities revolved entirely around the game of cricket and its variations. Lucinda nodded tersely and went back to paying attention to Mrs. d’Cobreaux, assuaging my discomfort, somewhat.
The third girl, the one diagonal to my seat and in front of Joy, was a complete mystery. She wore a black sweater and frilled skirt with knee-high black socks and strapped combat boots. She had long black hair that hanged over her face, almost completely obscuring her features. She barely regarded my presence; her head in her hands turning only slightly allowing me to see one of her clear, blue eyes for the briefest moment before returning to her prior positioning: head in hands, slouched over her desk, with her legs tucked beneath her seat.
I had taken it upon myself to learn enough about every kid in my first class to determine whether or not I should learn more in order to assess potential threats. Despite this, the girl to my front and left was an unknown factor. This concerned me greatly. How could someone not be in the school files? Who was this girl?
I resigned myself to solving the mystery at another time and pulled a notebook, pencil, and the math text book out of my bag. Placing the bag on the floor, I looked to the teacher, who had begun writing the assignment on the chalkboard. The class had been working on basic equations; the same types of equations I would work on when I was three years old to keep from being bored. Nonetheless, I followed along as Mrs. d’Cobreaux taught, paying close attention for any sign of the contempt I had seen earlier. No such emotion showed as she cheerfully taught the class with playful taunts for wrong answers and praise for those students that got it right. Ultimately, she seemed no different than any other teacher I had encountered in my scholastic career.
In fact, the very banality of it irked me, somewhat. Chalk boards? Text books? Math equations? This was supposed to be a school for super-villains but it was, in my mind, no different than any other place of learning. The thought of this infuriated me as the class wore on.
As Mrs. d’Cobreaux began to wrap up her lesson towards the end of first period, I noticed Joy Wassail smirking in my direction.
“What?” I whispered, curtly to her.
“Nothin’,” she said with a low voice and a giggle, “Just thought you’d be meaner lookin’.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno,” she replied, her grin broadening, “‘The Son of Max Maelstrom.’ ‘The Heir to Terror.’ I thought you’d be taller with dark eyes, a cold, evil stare, and awesome hair.”
I suddenly became distinctly and accutely aware of the mundane nature of my hairstyle.
“Except for those weird eyebrows,” she continued with a hushed tone, “You’re just a regular kid.”
My self-consciousness now extended to my unique brow and overwhelmed me.
“What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” I asked Joy in a pleading tone.
It was at that moment that I became distinctly aware of each and every eye in the classroom resting upon me.
“Mr. Maelstrom?” questioned Mrs. d’Cobreaux, “Would you like to add that question to tonight’s homework?”
The room erupted in laughter. Taunts and jeers were passed from student to student so quickly that I lost track of who said what almost immediately. My mind reeled from the singular sense of mortification. I wanted to crawl away and die.
At that moment, remarkably, miraculously, a bell rang.
The laughter faded as the students filed out of the classroom and headed off to their next period class. A few shot barbs my way as they filed out, but I didn’t know who. My head (with its stupid, stupid eyebrows) was buried beneath my arms on my desk. It took all my willpower to force back the tears that threatened to erupt from my eyes, but I managed.
Finally, the din all but faded and I waited for the grim specter of “Death by Embarrassment” to claim me.
“I like your eyebrows.” a female voice with a British accent said from just in front of me.
My head darted up to look into the deep brown eyes of Lucinda Cricket. She had a sympathetic smile and, as her auburn hair fell in front of her face, she blew it out of the way from the side of her mouth.
“Come on,” she called to me, “We’re gonna be late for History.”