Текст книги "The Villain Virus"

Автор книги: Michael Buckley

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BY MICHAEL BUCKLEY

The Sisters Grimm

Book One: The Fairy-Tale Detectives

Book Two: The Unusual Suspects

Book Three: The Problem Child

Book Four: Once Upon a Crime

Book Five: Magic and Other Misdemeanors

Book Six: Tales from the Hood

Book Seven: The Everafter War

Book Eight: The Inside Story

Book Nine: The Council of Mirrors

A Very Grimm Guide

NERDS

Book One: National Espionage, Rescue, and Defense Society

Book Two: M Is for Mama’s Boy

Book Three: The Cheerleaders of Doom

Book Four: The Villain Virus

Book Five: Attack of the BULLIES

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained

from the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-1-4197-0415-4

Text copyright © 2012 Michael Buckley

Illustrations copyright © 2012 Ethen Beavers

Book design by Chad W. Beckerman

Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

115 West 18th Street

New York, NY 10011

www.abramsbooks.com

For Sharon Handler,

defender of nerds

and readers

In this great big world, there are plenty of lousy jobs, and if you aren’t careful, you might grow up to have one. Without the right encouragement and education you could get stuck being:

1. An alligator massage therapist

2. A cat food taste-tester

3. A toilet bowl shiner

4. A roadkill collector

5. A screenwriter

6. The guy who scrapes boogers off the bottoms of movie theater seats

Which one of these jobs is the worst is open to debate, but all of them are soul-crushing nightmares. Still, none of them are as bad as Sherman Stoop’s job. Sherman guarded a humongous head.

To be clear, it wasn’t just a humongous head. It had arms and legs, but they were teeny-tiny and useless. The head had feet and hands, too, but they were even smaller and less useful. But if you were pressed to describe the bizarre creature to a friend, it would be safe to call it a head—a gigantic, RV-size, tiny-limbed head.

Sherman’s bosses told him that this head was evil and could destroy the world, so it was put into a drug-induced sleep. Sherman was also told that if the head were to ever wake up … well, it would be very, very bad—so Sherman had to watch it very, very carefully. It snored, mumbled in its sleep, drooled, and frequently passed gas.

Worst. Job. Ever.

Or was it? It seemed to Sherman that there had been a time when he loved his job. In fact, it seemed like just yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday. He couldn’t be sure. Things were foggy lately, but somewhere in the hazy reaches of his memory there were hints of a time when he thought his job was cool. Didn’t he use to think it was epic to be working around spies in a secret headquarters built beneath a school? Hadn’t it been thrilling to help a secret organization save the world on a daily basis? Wasn’t it awe-inspiring to wear a uniform that was covered in fancy body armor that made him look extremely tough? And what about his oversize laser gun that could burn through metal? None of his friends from high school had a laser gun! And the dental insurance! The dental insurance ruled!

Or did it? He couldn’t be sure. He was so angry now and much of his frustration had to do with his job. What was once exciting and new about working for the NERDS was now tedious and stupid. What used to make him feel important now made him feel disrespected. And the spies and scientists he once admired now seemed like a pack of mouth-breathing apes.

He couldn’t be sure when his change in attitude had occurred, but it all seemed to begin with the flu. It hit him all at once—dizziness, sore throat, and a fever so hot he felt like a marshmallow roasting over a campfire. He tossed and turned in bed, too sick to even call a doctor, and then suddenly the fever, nausea, and aches were gone, replaced by a newfound clarity about the world and his place in it. His job guarding an evil, gigantic, RV-size head was not a matter of national security but a task for a monkey, and his employers knew it! They were jealous and fearful of his brilliance. They wanted to squash his potential and steal the glory that was rightfully his, so they stuck him with a thankless chore. Well, he wouldn’t stand for it. Sherman Stoop was destined for greatness, and it was about time the whole world knew it!

“Sherman, you don’t look well,” Andrea said. She was a coworker on the security staff, and lately the two of them had been eating lunch together. They had a lot of interests in common—kung fu movies, Hungarian goulash festivals, and kitten calendars. Sherman had been building up the courage to ask her out on a date for months, and finally he had the perfect romantic evening—the annual goulash cook-off was a week away. What could be more romantic than taste-testing a hundred different goulashes? He was sure to sweep her off her feet! But now … well, what had happened to all those good feelings? Instead of being smitten by a beautiful woman who shared his love of heavy Eastern European cuisine, he saw a manipulative, cruel jerk who laughed at him behind his back.

“I’m fine,” he seethed. “Not that you care.”

“Sherman, what does that mean?”

“Be gone, woman! Can’t you see I’m thinking?” he replied, enraged.

Andrea’s face fell. As if he had hurt her feelings! What an actress. She should have been in Hollywood, making movies. She probably didn’t even like goulash! He turned and walked toward the door.

“Sherman! You can’t leave your station—”

“Watch me!” Sherman took off his helmet and tossed it to the floor. It bounced around. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The noise caused everyone in the lab to gasp, and all eyes turned to the slumbering head. Its horrible, stretched face grimaced, and it snorted. Was it waking up? What were they supposed to do if it woke up?

But then it licked its lips and went back to its incessant snoring, and the staff breathed again.

Sherman wasn’t going to wait around for the scientists to scold him like a child. He stormed through the exit doors and nearly ran straight into his boss, Dave Hobin. Dave was a short, dumpy man with a full mustache.

Several nights a month, he and Sherman got together to play a card game called euchre.

“Sherman, why are you leaving the holding cell? Are you not feeling well?” Sherman’s answer came in the form of a punch to Dave’s nose.

“You wouldn’t listen to my ideas, and you laughed at me! All of you laughed at me!”

“What ideas?” Dave cried as he held his sore snout. “Is this about wanting Cheese Curls in the employee snack machine? I told you I’d look into it.”

For a moment the anger faded and Sherman realized what he had done to his friend. He was horrified and wanted to apologize. But before he could, Andrea rushed into the hall and helped Dave to his feet. Sherman could see the hurt and confusion in their eyes.

“Sherman, explain yourself!” Andrea cried.

Sherman’s tongue felt as if it were in the grip of a boa constrictor. He couldn’t form an explanation, and even if he could, his actions were just as baffling to him as they were to Andrea and Dave. Why was he so angry at his friends? Why was he so angry at his life?

And then the fever returned and his regret turned to scorn. These two simpletons should have been apologizing to him for masquerading as his friends. They were no different than the others—just trying to keep him down.

“You are all going to pay!” he shouted as he stomped away. “I’ve already begun work on a plan that will show the world my brilliance, and everyone will beg for mercy when I take my rightful place as their ruler.”

“Did you eat at the Goulash Hut again?” Dave shouted after him. “I told you that place has about a thousand health code violations. You probably have food poisoning. Come on, I’ll take you to the infirmary.”

Sherman turned one last time. “My name is not Sherman! From this day forth, those who are lucky enough to live will call me Captain Kapow!”

“Captain who?” Andrea asked.

But Sherman did not reply. He stormed away, his brain hard at work on complex math equations and chemical formulas. His ideas had never been so clear, so crisp, so brilliantly dangerous! All he needed were the materials to construct his inventions and the money to buy the parts. But that wouldn’t be a problem. He knew exactly where to turn for the cash. All he had to do was find the man in the skull mask. Sherman’s dreams the night before had been filled with the mysterious stranger. Whoever he was, Sherman was certain the masked man would help him take over the world.

But first he was going to stop by the Goulash Hut. He was starving.

NO WAY! YOU’RE BACK! GEEZ! I CAN’T GET RID OF YOU. EITHER YOU REALLY WANT TO BE A SECRET AGENT OR YOU’RE JUST A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT. YOU ARE AWARE THAT THIS LINE OF WORK HAS A HIGH DEATH RATE, CORRECT? YOU COULD BE KILLED IN A NUMBER OF TERRIBLE WAYS! PLUS, YOU HAVE TO BUY YOUR OWN TUXEDO!

FINE! THERE’S NO TALKING YOU OUT OF IT. I GUESS THAT’S HOW IT SHOULD BE. MEMBERS OF NERDS ARE MENTALLY TOUGH AND AREN’T SWAYED BY A LITTLE THING LIKE EXCRUCIATING DEATH. STILL, DON’T COME CRYING TO ME IF YOU GET YOURSELF KILLED, ’CAUSE ALL YOU’LL GET FROM ME IS AN “I TOLD YOU SO.”

OK, PAL! LET’S GET STARTED. FIRST, TELL ME YOUR CODE NAME.

HA! THAT CODE NAME IS DOWNRIGHT GOOFY. YOU SHOULD HAVE A SUPERCOOL CODE NAME LIKE MINE: BEANPOLE. THAT’S THE KIND OF NAME THAT STRIKES FEAR IN A VILLAIN’S HEART. YEAH, BEANPOLE! WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

GRRR. ENOUGH WITH THE GIGGLING! I HEARD YOU WERE BELLYACHING BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T BEEN SENT ON ANY MISSIONS YET. WELL, THERE’S A PERFECTLY GOOD REASON FOR THAT. YOU HAVEN’T SIGNED THE WAIVER. WHAT’S A WAIVER? IT’S A LEGAL DOCUMENT THAT FREES OUR ORGANIZATION OF ANY RESPONSIBILITY IF YOU HAPPEN TO SUFFER A LOSS OF LIMB OR DIE. YOU NEED TO SIGN IT BEFORE WE CAN GET STARTED.

THE “I KNOW I COULD DIE” WAIVER

I, __________________________________,

AM PERFECTLY AWARE THAT THE LIFE OF A SPY IS ONE WHERE I COULD BE KILLED IN A NUMBER OF VIOLENT AND TOTALLY GROSS WAYS, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO:

A BEAR ATTACK; A KILLER BEE ATTACK; FALLING OUT OF A PLANE; BEING PUSHED OUT OF A PLANE; FALLING THROUGH THE GLASS ROOF OF A SWORD FACTORY; A RACE CAR ACCIDENT; A MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT; A GOLF CART ACCIDENT; AN ATTACK BY MUTATED OR HYBRID CREATURES; BEING BEATEN TO DEATH BY GOONS, THUGS, TOADIES, MINIONS, OR OTHER LARGE-MUSCLED CHARACTERS; A SPEED BOAT CRASH; DROWNING; BEING FED TO: SHARKS, PIRANHAS, ELECTRIC EELS, ANY OF THE GREAT CATS, OR ANY OF THE LESSER CATS; BEING LOCKED IN A SAFE AND TOSSED INTO THE OCEAN; A LASER BLAST TO THE FACE; BEING TIED TO A ROCKET AND LAUNCHED INTO SPACE; BEING VAPORIZED; BEING DISINTEGRATED; BEING RUN OVER BY A TANK; BEING RUN OVER BY A BUS; BEING RUN OVER BY ANYTHING; HAVING MY HEAD CHOPPED OFF; BEING BLOWN UP; AND PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING ELSE I CAN IMAGINE AND QUITE A NUMBER OF THINGS I CAN’T.

I AM ALSO AWARE THAT I COULD BE TERRIBLY INJURED IN A HOST OF TROUBLING SCENARIOS THAT WOULD CAUSE MY OWN FAMILY TO AVERT THEIR EYES FROM MY HORRIBLY DISFIGURED FACE AND BODY, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, BEING: BURNED, PUSHED INTO A TUB OF ACID, DRAGGED BY A SPEEDBOAT ACROSS A CORAL REEF, USED AS A GUINEA PIG BY AN EVIL SCIENTIST, USED AS A GUINEA PIG BY A GOOD SCIENTIST WHO IS FORCED BY SOMEONE ELSE TO PERFORM EVIL SCIENCE, MELTED, PUSHED INTO A WOOD CHIPPER, STRAPPED TO AN OUTRAGEOUSLY LARGE PENDULUM FEATURING AN ALMOST RIDICULOUSLY GIGANTIC RAZOR AND THEN SLICED IN HALF, ATTACKED BY VARMINTS, DUNKED IN HONEY AND BURIED NEAR A FIRE-ANT COLONY, PLUS SUBJECTED TO A WHOLE HOST OF REALLY GROSS THINGS I WOULDN’T EVEN FIND IN A HORROR MOVIE.

I AM ALSO AWARE THAT IN THE LINE OF DUTY I COULD BE SO BADLY MAIMED THAT I WOULD STRIKE FEAR INTO BABIES AND PETS OR I COULD SUFFER MALADIES, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: FACE-THIEVERY, HAVING MY ARM EATEN BY AN INSANE BEAVER-CHAINSAW HYBRID, PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING EATING A PART OF MY BODY, AND HAVING MY NOSE CUT OFF IN A SWORD FIGHT. (I THINK YOU GET THE IDEA—AND I DIDN’T EVEN INCLUDE ALL THE NORMAL WAYS A PERSON CAN DIE.)

BEING FULLY INFORMED OF ANY POSSIBLE DAMAGES TO LIFE AND LIMB, BOTH REALISTIC OR SOMETHING THAT I COULD NEVER IMAGINE WOULD BE POSSIBLE BUT THEN ONE DAY I GO TO WORK AND—BAM!—IT’S VERY MUCH POSSIBLE, I RELIEVE THE NATIONAL ESPIONAGE, RESCUE, AND DEFENSE SOCIETY OF ANY RESPONSIBILITY AND CLAIMS TO DAMAGES. ’CAUSE, LIKE … THIS IS A DANGEROUS JOB NOT MEANT FOR CRYBABIES.

SO SWEARETH YE,

__________________________________

NOW THAT THE LEGAL STUFF IS TAKEN CARE OF, LET’S GET STARTED. THE BOOK YOU HAVE IN YOUR HANDS IS A NERDS CASE FILE. READ IT CAREFULLY AND DON’T SKIP OVER ANYTHING. AT ANY MOMENT, A QUIZ COULD HAPPEN, AND THEN YOU’LL WISH AN INSANE BEAVER-CHAINSAW WAS ATTACKING YOU.

Secret Agent Alexander Brand was a man of danger, action, and intrigue. He once subdued a raging elephant with nothing but a dress shoe and an apple pie. He incapacitated a dozen trained jujitsu fighters while simultaneously deactivating a bomb. He hang-glided into a raging forest fire to recover the plans for a deadly laser cannon. All this and more had earned him the title of America’s Greatest Secret Agent.

But now, as he looked up at the imposing building before him, with its chained doors and barred windows, he felt nervous about his latest mission.

Ms. Holiday, his partner and fellow spy, stood next to him. The two had worked together for nearly a year. They’d been at the center of saving the world more than once, and they had become close. Lately, she had been urging him to express his feelings. But it didn’t feel natural to talk about such things. Luckily, she seemed to be able to read his mind even when his lips were closed tight.

“It’s going to be OK, Alexander,” she said, patting him on his arm and smiling. “We’ve had tougher assignments than this one. Remember Syria? Remember when we infiltrated that street gang in Mexico? Or the time we were tied to a rocket and shot into space?”

Brand nodded. Perhaps she was right. The current mission was no more dangerous than any of the others. Mustering his courage, he hobbled up the steps, using his cane for support. Once at the top, he cupped his ear to the building’s massive door. Inside there was a tremendous racket. It sounded like a battle zone or a full-scale riot—obviously, a bigger job than two secret agents could handle.

“We’re going to need backup. Call SWAT, the FBI, CIA, Special Forces, the Green Berets—whoever can get here the fastest. Tell them to bring tear gas and riot gear. We’re probably going to need some air support, too.”

Ms. Holiday joined him at the top of the steps and pushed the double doors open. “Alexander, calm down. It’s just middle school.”

The duo stepped inside and were immediately surrounded by chaos. Spit wads flew through the air, children ran in all directions, trash spilled across the floor, and slamming locker doors assaulted the ears. Near the front door was a portrait of Thomas Knowlton, one of the United States of America’s first secret agents. Knowlton was a striking man with a thick head of hair and a courageous face. Unfortunately, someone had drawn a curly mustache on him and blacked out a few of his teeth. Brand wondered what kind of juvenile delinquent would be so disrespectful to a national hero, and then he realized any one of the kids in the hall could be a suspect. They darted about like maniacal jackrabbits, while the teachers staggered down the halls, shell-shocked and disillusioned.

“Alex, I know you don’t like change, but we couldn’t keep the kids at Nathan Hale Elementary any longer. It was time to move on. It’s part of what happens with the NERDS,” Ms. Holiday said.

“But I had just gotten my office the way I like it,” Brand said. “Now we’ve got a new school, new teachers, a new Playground—”

“Everything is online and fully operational,” Ms. Holiday said. “The new Playground is even better than the one before. Don’t worry, you’re going to think of this place as home in no time.”

A soccer ball whizzed through the air and, instinctively, Brand tapped his cane on the floor, releasing the dagger-sharp tip. Right before the ball smashed him in the face, he impaled it on the end of the cane. A tubby kid with an upturned nose rushed toward him. “Hey, that’s my ball!”

Brand pulled the now-flat ball off his cane and stuffed it into the kid’s hand. “Try to be more careful with this in the future.”

The kid looked down at his ball and frowned. Then he walked away, just as deflated.

“Oh, our new friends are here!” a voice cried from down the hall.

Brand squinted into the sea of children and spotted a little woman barreling toward them. She was short and stumpy, like a smushed Twinkie, with long hair the color of straw and the wide-eyed expression of a porcelain doll. She gave Brand a hug he did not expect and could not escape from.

“Welcome to our nest, new friends!” the woman cried.

“Our nest?” Brand asked Ms. Holiday, still trying to squirm out of the woman’s iron embrace.

The woman turned to Holiday. “You must be our new librarian. No one told me we were getting a peacock. What a beauty. I have no idea how our boys are going to concentrate with you checking out their books! Well, we’ve got a lot of reluctant readers flying around these halls, so you have your work cut out for you! We’ll have to do lunch and you can tell me all about your favorite reads! How is Wednesday?”

“Well, I just—”

“Wednesday it is!” the woman cried, clapping her hands like a happy baby. She turned back to Brand. “And you must be our plover.”

“Plover?”

“It’s a bird that cleans the teeth of alligators,” Ms. Holiday told him.

“Our Ms. Holiday is beautiful and bright!” the woman cried. “You are correct. A plover cleans up messes, swooping in to snatch the debris and take it off to who-knows-where. Just like you! I like this place to be spic-and-span, Mr. Plover.”

“It’s actually Mr. Brand.”

The woman waved a hand in the air as if his contradiction was a swarm of pesky gnats. “You’ll have to get started right away. One of the bad birdies has played a little prank and clogged all the toilets on the first floor. A couple were so backed up, they exploded, and now there’s water everywhere. Naughty, naughty birdies! You’re going to have to have lunch with me and we can talk about ideas to keep things clean. I’ll pencil you in for Thursday.”

“Um, and you are?” Brand asked.

The lady clapped her hands and giggled. “Oh, I’m a silly bird. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Principal Dove. Get it? Dove! Like the bird!”

The spies stared at the woman for a long time until they realized she expected an answer. “Yes, we get it,” Ms. Holiday said.

If Ms. Dove’s smile could have gotten bigger it would have required surgery. She gestured to the students. “And all these children are my little birdies.”

Brand glanced around the hallway. A girl was shoving a smaller boy’s face into the drinking fountain, soaking his hair and shirt, while other kids cheered and laughed. Two boys were tossing balloons filled with shaving cream at each other. A young girl was wiping dog poo off her shoes and onto the wall.

“I think some of these birdies need to be in a cage.”

“Oh, you scamp!” Principal Dove said. “They only act like this because they are so eager to fly, and it’s our jobs to get them up into the sky and let them soar! So, can I count on you to help me teach them to fly? Peacock? Plover? Are you ready to join our flock? You know, we should all have lunch together, too—the three of us! I’ll pencil it in for Friday. No, let’s commit. It’s going down in ink.”

Just then a bell rang.

“Well, I’d better get my chicks to their coops,” Ms. Dove said. “We can’t stand around chirping all day. The two of you need to get to work. We’re so excited to have you here!”

Dove walked down the hallway, flapping her arms like an excited hen. “Let’s fly off to class, now, birdies,” she called out to the students. “Your teachers are going to lay some eggs of learning and you want to be there when they hatch!”

When the hallway was clear, the two spies stood, stunned.

“Can’t we just flunk the team and send them back to the fifth grade?” Brand asked.

“Let’s take a look at the Playground,” Ms. Holiday said. She removed a small, metallic orb covered in blinking blue lights from her handbag. It floated into the air, spinning and clicking with the sounds of internal electronics. Then it spoke in a dignified, old-fashioned accent. Its creators had programmed it with the personality of one of America’s most famous spies, Founding Father Benjamin Franklin.

“Good afternoon, team,” it chirped as it hovered in front of them. “Welcome to Thomas Knowlton Middle School, named after the father of military intelligence. I suppose the two of you are excited to get started. If you’ll step into Locker 41, I can take you to the new HQ.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Agent Brand said. “We have to take the same entrance as the kids?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve taken the liberty of filing a requisition form for a new entrance, but until it is approved, there is only one way in and out,” Benjamin said. “Locker 41.”

Ms. Holiday opened the locker door and peered inside. “This won’t be so bad.” She squeezed into the tiny compartment and closed the door. When Brand opened it a moment later, she was gone.

Now it was his turn. But he was larger than Holiday and had an injured leg. He cursed quietly during the entire humiliating experience, praying some child would not walk out of a classroom and see the new janitor struggling to fit into a box half his size. When he was completely inside, Benjamin darted in with him, filling the tiny amount of space left over. Brand closed the door, plunging them into darkness.

“Cozy,” Benjamin chirped.

Brand grumbled. “File another request, Benjamin. Pronto.”

“Will do, boss.”

The locker was suddenly illuminated in green light, and a computerized voice said, “Identity scan. One moment, please. Identity confirmed. Director Alexander Brand. Prepare for delivery to the Playground.”

The floor beneath Brand vanished, and he tumbled down a narrow tube like some kind of secret agent Alice in Wonderland. He was right side up, then sideways, then diagonal, then upside down. There were blasts of bright light and frosty air, but they were brief and he was in the dark more often than not. He braced himself for an ugly crash, but then gusts of air as powerful as those of jet engines roared from below. Now he was no longer falling to his death but floating gently down, as delicately as a flower petal. He fluttered through a hole at the top of a huge glass dome and marveled at what he saw.

The dome’s walls acted as one enormous television screen, airing thousands of images from all over the world. Desks and tables, each covered with strange inventions and space-age weaponry, filled the floor of the dome. An army of lab coat–wearing scientists hovered over their projects like worker bees. Ms. Holiday watched as Brand floated down to join her. She was no longer wearing the pretty pink cardigan and gray skirt of a librarian but rather a formfitting black bodysuit with boots and a belt. It was then that Brand realized his own janitor’s uniform was gone, replaced with a sleek black tuxedo complete with a bow tie and cuff links.

When his feet touched ground, the wind stopped. “Well, that was different.”

“Welcome to the new Playground, agents,” Benjamin said, appearing from above. “Maintenance crews have kept the place quite tidy as we waited for our team to arrive in middle school, and our scientists have outfitted it with all the latest technology. My recent diagnostics have shown every system is fully operational and online, ready to be put to use saving the world.”

“And the head?” Brand didn’t care about gizmos and gadgets. He had one worry and it was a gigantic head—Heathcliff Hodges.

Benjamin twittered. “Heathcliff’s transfer to this facility went as planned two weeks ago. He is heavily sedated and safely secured in holding cell 4A. He is under constant medical and security surveillance to keep him from waking up and will remain that way until his condition can be reversed.”

Benjamin’s assurances did little to ease Brand’s mind. Heathcliff was dangerous and had been since the day Brand met the boy, who back then was known as Agent Choppers because of his enormous front teeth. He had the unique ability to draw attention to his teeth, and with the help of some hallucinogenic toothpaste, could bring any person or animal under his complete control.

But being a hero in secret was hard for the boy. Like most nerds, he was picked on and humiliated, and one day he decided he wanted revenge. He spiraled into a power-hungry maniac, with an endless stream of plans to take over the world, and soon he turned his back on the team and started a new life as a supervillain. Choppers became Simon, then Screwball, then Brainstorm—his identity changed with each new plan to conquer the world, which were all foiled by his former teammates. During a violent confrontation with the NERDS, his teeth were knocked out of his mouth, and he became obsessed with getting them back. What he got instead was a million times more dangerous—a brain with unlimited potential and a skull to match. His new mental strength had proved to be nearly impossible to stop, and it was only by luck that he had been captured and sedated. Heaven help the world if he woke up again.

“Keep me posted on his status at all times, Benjamin. He’s too dangerous and too clever to underestimate—even if he is asleep.”

“Will do, sir,” Benjamin clicked.

“Now, where is my team?” Brand asked. “I thought the kids would be down here first thing, exploring the place.”

“The children are on a mission,” Benjamin twittered.

“A mission?” Brand cried. “By whose authorization?”

“I have General Savage with an incoming message,” Benjamin said. “May I transfer it to the dome screen?”

Brand nodded, and in a flash the giant, meaty head of General Savage looked down on the spies. There were stories about the General’s toughness that would have made a professional wrestler wet his pants. Savage was even more intimidating as a hologram with a noggin over thirty feet tall.

“Hello, sir,” Brand said.

“Brand, Holiday. I trust you are settling in at your new headquarters.”

Just then, there was a huge explosion, and a team of security guards raced across the massive room with fire extinguishers. Smoke was drifting from flames that engulfed a workstation. One of the scientists was dancing around in a panic.

“It’s just like home, sir,” Brand said.

Savage had one eyebrow that spanned his forehead, and his eyes were sunk deep into his face. It often made him look as if he had no eyes at all, especially when he was concerned about something, as he was now. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work out the kinks later, agents. We have a situation under way in Paris.”

Savage’s head was replaced by the image of a man dressed in a black trench coat. Attached to his coat were probably fifty ticking alarm clocks, and he had a smile that you didn’t need a psychiatric degree to call crazy.

“This joker is calling himself Captain Kapow.”

Brand rolled his eyes. It always seemed as if the bad guys they encountered had goofy names: the Savage Scooter, Monkey in the Middle, the Ant Queen, Mrs. Jeopardy, Oilslick, Commander Canine, Heat Miser. And who could forget Dr. Wind and his toxic fart-making machine? (Detroit would never be the same.) These fools spent so much time on their costumes and weird names that they neglected their master plans—which made stopping them a lot easier.

“But his plan is not so funny. He’s about to blow up half of Paris,” Savage growled. “I went there on my honeymoon. That would really ruin the photo album. So I scrambled your team, and the lunch lady has already delivered them to the scene. There was no time to wait.”

“The children are in Paris? Right now?” Ms. Holiday said.

Agent Brand was stunned. “General Savage, with all due respect, I direct this team. I know their strengths and weaknesses. The children need to be prepped and equipped with—”

“I didn’t intend to step on your toes, Brand, but this was an emergency. Our intel says that if the bombs aren’t deactivated in the next half hour, half of Paris will be in ruins.”

“Understood, sir. Who’s leading this mission?” Brand asked.

“The hyper one. What’s his name? The one who can lift a car over his head.”

“Flinch is on point?” Brand cried. He had never put Flinch in charge of anything. The boy was so high-strung and jumpy. Most of the time Brand couldn’t understand a word the kid said. Young Julio Escala had as much leadership experience as a roomful of excited puppies.

“Yes—Flinch. He and the team have located the bombs and are working on dismantling them as we speak,” the General said. “I’m turning the mission over to you now. I have the fullest confidence in your team.”

The dome went black, leaving Brand and Holiday alone, and stunned again.

“He put the hyper one in charge,” Brand said. “Heaven help Paris.”