The OK Team (4 page)

I flick on the television, a recent addition to my room after much saving of pocket money, kindly matched dollar-for-dollar by my mum. I settle on a news bulletin where a big-jawed, boofy-haired newsreader is saying, ‘Later, we'll be taking a special look at the always unique artwork of Melbourne's very own William Weld.'

The screen changes to show a massive twisted frame of iron, somehow fused together so that it looks like a crashed satellite.

‘He's been creating this unique art for more than four decades, yet nobody in the art world has a clue how he does it.'

A breaking news story catches my interest. A streak of gold has been spotted, high over Brisbane, the capital of Queensland. Could it be Golden Boy? Nobody can say, and clearly the reporter doesn't believe it for a second. The truth is that for all the comic books, TV shows and websites devoted to Heroes, very few people can claim to have seen them in action, or to have solid evidence that they exist beyond the vivid imaginations of teenagers like me. In fact, as far as I know, nobody has any evidence.

The Southern Cross's medal for Hero of the southern hemisphere, in 2005? Voted for by Hero fans at Hero Expo 05 at the Sydney Exhibition Buildings, and handed to a muscle-bound guy in a costume who my dad took great delight in proclaiming, loudly and with authority, was a former actor from the soap opera
Here and There
.

I prefer to believe, evidence or not.

Even now, when a Government scientist confirms that the golden streak was almost certainly a lost weather balloon, I'm prepared to trust my faith. It was him.

The newsreader comes back onto the screen. ‘But first, an update on our headline story. Ashia?'

A blonde female reporter smiles at the camera, then assumes a serious face as the camera pans back to reveal another tangle of metal behind her. It might be a William Weld artwork, but in fact turns out to be a mangled white courier van.

‘A bank robbery appears to have come to a bizarre end in the gold-mining town of Kalgoorlie after the thieves were found unconscious in their van, along with the missing payload,' the reporter says.

The screen switches to vision from the crime scene.

‘Police are at a loss to explain a massive hole in the side of the van. It appears from tyre marks on the road that the van was stopped in its tracks while travelling at close to eighty kilometres per hour, and was then attacked from the side. The robbers are behind bars tonight, but are believed to be in shock, so police have been unable to interview them.'

The report has my full attention now.

‘Rock,' I whisper.

‘Yes, of course it's Rock,' says the large poster of the Southern Cross, next to the window.

I open my mouth to speak but my brain kind of lurches and I can only stare.

‘That's the problem with Rock,' says the poster. ‘He just doesn't get subtlety. Do you know what “subtlety” is, Hazy?'

‘Erk,' I finally manage.

‘It means doing something quietly and carefully so that nobody takes much notice, yet the effect is the same.'

By this stage, I can make out that it isn't actually the poster of the Southern Cross speaking, but a man who is blended entirely into the wall so as to be practically invisible.

‘Who . . .?'

‘Rock. Who else are we talking about? His idea of subtlety? To stand in front of a speeding van and then punch a hole in the side of it. Not exactly designed to slip under the media radar, that one.'

‘No. Who? You?'

‘Oh, sorry. I'm Leon, short for Chameleon. Call me Camel and you're in trouble, got it?'

The figure rises effortlessly and becomes bone-coloured, almost exactly matching the ceiling of my room. I don't miss the fact that the man, or creature or whatever it is, is flying.

Finally I manage a whole sentence. ‘Heroes ARE real!'

Leon chuckles and lands lightly on the end of my bed, crouched in a ball, balanced on his toes and staring intently at me. ‘Of course we're real, Hazy. You've known that all along. You just couldn't bring yourself to completely believe. It takes a while.'

‘Why are you here?'

‘Because you called for me. Unless I'm mistaken it was you, Hazy, who yelled earlier this evening, “I am a Hero”! Forgive me if I over-reacted, but we at the AFHT tend to take such a screech at face value, so I thought I'd come and say hello.'

‘The AHFT?'

‘No, the AFHT – the Australian Federation of Hero Types. It's the governing body for local Heroes, although it tends to play more of a management and administration role than actual governing. Most of the local Heroes know the rules and look after themselves. Except Rock, obviously.'

‘How did you get in here?'

‘Snuck through the front door alongside your mum and beat you up the stairs.'

‘But I didn't see you at all.'

Leon sighs and looks at me as though he is regarding an infant. ‘No,' he says very deliberately, ‘you didn't. Because one of my superpowers is to be a chameleon and blend into backgrounds so I am, to all intents, invisible. Example: when you came into your bedroom and so did I . . . Are you planning on catching up any time soon, kid, or should I come back tomorrow?'

‘I'm sorry, Leon, it's just a shock. So, you are here on behalf of the AFHT?'

‘Finally, his brain creaks into gear,' Leon says.

‘And you're here because I yelled out that I thought I was a Hero?'

‘Not think, Hazy. You are.'

Now I'm unable to speak again. Leon laughs. ‘It's OK, I understand you being speechless. I felt the same way when the Southern Cross told me the truth for the first time.' ‘The Southern Cross?' I look at the poster.

‘Yep. I was sixteen years old. Like you, I'd spent my entire life thinking I was a freak, although it took me a while to realise why people always seemed to look right through me. Then I realised what was happening to my physical body . . .' Leon waves a hand in front of my bedroom lamp, and watches the image of the lamp run across his skin. ‘Of course, I was freaked out. I went into a real funk until it occurred to me that I was superpowered. And, boom, the next thing I know, the Southern Cross shows up, shakes my hand, congratulates me on my power and flies off again. I'm only a Level C Hero but I've never looked back.'

‘I have so many questions, I don't even know where to start.'

‘Try them one at a time. In fact, I'll get you going . . . The first question is: “Am I really a Hero?” Right?'

I nod dumbly.

‘The answer is yes. Stop pining about what a weirdo you are and come at it from the other direction: how many other people do you know who can walk through walls? Nobody. So enjoy your amazing abilities and get confident, stupid.'

‘Get confident, stupid?'

‘Just a Hero joke, blur-boy. In fact, we've been watching you for a long time, and I can tell you right now that you're a Hero, Entry Level, Grade Two.'

‘But if you guys have been watching me for ages, how come you're only visiting now? Why didn't you tell me I was a Hero before this?'

Leon smiles. ‘Standard Hero procedure. Nobody is a Hero until they decide they are a Hero.'

‘So when I yelled out that I was a Hero –'

‘That's what we'd been waiting for. I was right there, in the room, blended into the ceiling, ready to follow you home and catch up for this little chat.'

‘How did you know it would be tonight?'

Leon smiles again. ‘See, you haven't got your head around it yet. Has it ever occurred to you that there are Heroes in this city who have the power to know things before they happen?'

I think about this. ‘Wow,' I say at last.

‘Yeah, you'll be saying “wow” a lot over the next few weeks. It's all good.' Leon suddenly produces a bag from behind his back, and I'm caught between wondering what is in it and wondering if the bag is a chameleon as well.

But Leon is busy, digging around and throwing objects onto my bed. ‘Rightio. On the assumption that you accept that you are a Hero, that you now officially realise and embrace this fact and are prepared to pledge yourself to that path –'

Leon raises an eyebrow in my direction and I nod my head furiously. ‘I do. I am.'

‘– then I have here your Hero Starter Kit. An official Hero Card, declaring that you are an Entry Level Hero, and that therefore villains can only attack you with certain moves and weapons while you find your feet, again assuming you plan to use your powers for good instead of evil.'

‘I do. I will,' I say again, nodding even more. With a rush of blood, I stand and put my hand over my heart, saying: ‘I, Hazy Retina, pledge solemnly . . .'

‘Kid, relax,' says Leon. ‘I was just checking. OK, I also have a registration form for when you come up with your Hero name.'

‘My Hero name?'

‘What? You think I was born Chameleon? That the Southern Cross hasn't got an alter ego? That Green Pantheress's mother put that on the birth certificate?'

‘Oh, right. When do I choose a name?'

‘You have ninety days. After that, you either forfeit your Hero rights or Gotham City chooses a name for you.'

‘Gotham City? You mean, as in . . .'

‘Yep, that Gotham. Where the big-wig Heroes hang out. Don't sweat it. No offence but, trust me, lower-level Heroes like you and me don't ever have much to do with that league.'

‘What else do I get?' I think about pinching myself to check this is all real but I'm so blurry with excitement that there's no way I could grab my skin, even if I wanted to.

‘You get a Hero Beginner's Guide handbook, with a very useful foreword by Mr Fabulous.'

‘Who?'

Leon looks up in surprise. ‘Mr Fabulous. Haven't you read your comics? He was one of the original Heroes, way back in the 1930s. He's an all-time Hall of Fame Hero Legend. One of the first Triple A Level Heroes. Getting old now though.' He digs through the bag. ‘You get an instruction manual for how best to keep a secret identity, common responses to tricky questions from everyday non-Heroes, and you receive a username and password for the Hero Central website – the URL is
www.herohints.com
. There's a lot of good information on there to get you going.'

Leon moves to the window, gently opening it. ‘I think we're done . . . Oh, one more thing.' He digs into the bag one more time and produces a golden remote control, tosses it to me and nods towards the TV. ‘I think you might find a new cable channel is now available on that box, activated by that remote control – which is already programmed with recognition software so it can only be activated by you. Channel 78737.' Leon takes in all the posters and Hero stuff littering my bedroom walls. ‘I think you're going to love it.'

Then he wanders over to the desk and picks up the self-help book Dad got for me. Leon chuckles, points at me and says: ‘I'm OK! You're OK! Cute.'

‘Channel 78737?' I say, frowning.

‘Try SMS . . . you'll work it out.' Leon winks and climbs onto the windowsill. ‘Hazy Retina, it's been a pleasure. Don't let all this melt your mind. Take a day or two to get your head around it, and then do some research before even trying to take Hero steps. You'll be fine. You've got strong potential, kid. I could see you getting to Level C, maybe even the lower Bs. Good luck.'

‘Leon, thank you so much. I don't know what to say.'

Leon smiles as he prepares to fly. Then he looks back at me and puts his right fist over his heart. ‘Say the Hero motto: “A Hero is a Hero.” '

‘A Hero is a Hero,' I say, exploring the sound of the words.

‘Yep. No matter what.'

And then Leon is gone.

I stare at the window. I stare at the TV. I stare at the poster of the Southern Cross, and wonder if I'm imagining a slightly different smile on the Hero's face, a knowing smile, a welcoming grin. I think I'm getting carried away. It's a poster. Is it possible I'm finally going mad? That my brain is as scrambled as the molecules of my out-of-focus body? Did I just imagine the whole thing?

A superhero called Leon?

There is a knock on my door.

Gotham?

Another knock.

‘Hazy, dear? Did I hear voices in your room?'

A Hero is a Hero. No matter what.

‘It was just the TV, Mum.'

‘It sounded like your voice though, and a man.'

I feel myself smiling as I realise this is a historic moment. My first-ever chance to tell a lie to protect my secret identity! I haven't even opened the Hero handbook, although I've read enough comics to know the right way to go about this sort of thing. But I can't help myself. I do the exact opposite.

‘Actually, Mum, it was me. I was talking to a superhero called Leon who is a chameleon. He walked through the front door when you did, but he had blended into the wall so you couldn't actually see him. We were just discussing my Hero status and talking about superhero matters.'