The Chronicles of the Spectaculars

Lost in the City

Chicago. Wonderful place, really. Wonderful, that is, unless you live there. Heck, it's known for its murders and riots! But yet, even the most murderous city since Rome can provide a home. After all, only a home filled with danger could prepare a hero.

Oscar Schism was such a hero. Streetwise, decisive, and....

Well.....

He didn't tell anyone about that.

But even now, the teasing touches of breezes danced across his skin and through his wood-brown hair as he walked down the streets of the Windy City, beckoning and begging to play with him. He chose to ignore them, instead hurrying along to the area of the city with the highest crime. A hero's stomping ground, if there ever was one. He tightened the sand-golden scarf around his neck, tugging it nervously. Sure, he was trying to be a hero; but that didn't mean he wanted to die the first day. He glanced both ways with an expectant air, not doubting at all that he would soon be able to prevent a murder, stop a robbery, or help someone's nana across the street. You know, hero stuff. Stuff that would get him put in the papers. Look, they would say, Look At This Kid! He Saved A Life Today! You Better Watch Out, Unnamed Killers And Undiscovered Criminals Because Here Comes.... Uh.... Actually He Isn't Even Sure Of His Name Yet, So We'll Get Back To You.

He would have to work on that one. Sure, plenty of plausible names came to mind. Tornado, Windmill, Tempest, Gust... But each had their faults. Tornado was too edgy, Windmill too Hollish? Hollandan?? Hollander???, Tempest inaccurate, and Gust! Never Gust! I mean, what if they called me Gus, or Gussy? No, that's never happening.

He was so preoccupied trying to think of some creative play on words to use as a name that he almost missed the alarms going off near the bank. His pulse quickened, and he almost leaped for joy. Yes! His first heroic act! He could see the headlines now! Best not screw this up, a hysterically sensible part of him cried, to the Wind Mobile!

Oscar dashed off into an alleyway, forgetting in his excitement that he did not have a Wind Mobile. He did, however, have with him in his satchel the hero costume he had put together on the fly. (Good pun, he thought to himself, use that later.) He tried to pull it on while scrambling through the narrow street towards the bank. Turns out, slipping on boots, securing a belt, and tying your scarf like a masking hood around your head while tripping over beer bottles and discarded spoons is not easy. Especially when you don't have an Alfred to do it for you.

Oscar finally lost the balance practiced from years of experience when a mangy feline darted in front of him to get an especially tasty piece of garbage. (Relative to the other pieces of garbage, of course.) A rancid bag of unwanteds broke his fall, and also thoroughly stained the white shirt he was wearing as part of his costume. Oscar groaned in an uncomfortable mix of disgust and disappointment, when suddenly a voice had spoken behind him. It had said: Figures. A brilliant bloke like yourself bested by a cat. Oscar sighed, standing and facing the intruder "Hey, Arthur."

The politely grinning ghost of a nineteenth century British gentleman had been standing there, death-black waistcoat and neatly polished shoes impeccable. It is for horses, as I have many times reminded you. Oscar let out a frustrated sigh that, even more infuriatingly, came out sounding like a nickering horse.

That was the thing about ghosts that had always irked him. Since they were dead, nothing they did was in the present. What they said and did had already happened, and the universe was just getting around to acknowledging it had happened. They didn't walk somewhere, they had walked there once. They didn't say something, they had said it. And worst of all, they didn't win an argument.

They had already won.

Trying out heroing? Arthur had asked, voice relegated back to polite Brit.

"Yeah, figured I ought to give it a swing, what with, ya know, being able to control wind and talk to the dead. Seemed fateful."

I notice you never considered villainy. Noble calling, villainy. After all, there can be no heroes with no villains, correct?

"Yeah, well. We don't need no more villains in this city, what with all the racists and rioters. Or so they say."

Arthur had frowned, disapproval spanning the millennia to hit Oscar in the face. The correct phraseology is 'We don't need any more villains in this city.' Honestly, I cannot see why America separated from Her Majesty's kingdom if all it was going to do was butcher the language and invent, here he had shuddered, McDonalds.

Oscar rolled his golden eyes. "Really, this again? McDonald's is not that bad."

You haven't seen the things I have seen. He had shuddered. The things they put into those Happy Meals...

"Yeah, yeah whatever." Oscar started off again. "I need to get to that fight."

I'll come too.

"No, you won't."

What is that phrase you always bandy around? Ah, yes. Try and stop me.

Oscar kept running, decidedly ignoring the ghost, who had fallen silent through the sheer force of being ignored. Turning a corner, he slammed smack-dab into a fleeing thief. They both fell backwards, and the bag of loot scattered its contents across the pavement. Oscar's gold eyes caught the thief's green ones, and they both scrambled to gather the money. Oscar swept the majority of it into the sack and pulled it shut. He smiled in satisfaction, a smile quickly moved from his face by a fist. The teen robber looked shocked at himself for punching the other, but grabbed and clutched the bag to his chest. He scrambled to his feet, and continued his flight. Oscar's head was ringing from the blow, but he quickly took off after the teen.

Literally.

The winds pushed him into the air and after the running boy. He was caught off guard and slammed into a few pigeons as the insistent air thrust him after his quarry. As sudden as it had started, the exhilarating flight ended as fast as it started, and Oscar fell headfirst toward the robber.

Sources claim that around 10:17 on that day, there was a high pitched screaming noise from a missile-like object falling from the sky near the Makesum Bank. A large crashing noise followed, but when authorities checked it out, all they found was an unconscious Hispanic boy wearing all black and clutching an empty bag in his hands.

After Oscar had all the cash from the now unconscious youth, he focused and shot into the air again. His flight was more controlled this time, but only by a little bit. He alighted on (read: slammed into) the roof of a building near the bank. Groaning and rubbing his bruised arm, he glanced down at the standoff below. Thirteen thieves, two police cars, five cops, and a glowing boy.

Wait.

A glowing boy?

(1196 words)