Gearing Up for Adventure

Chemistra had resolved to go to Rome that night, one way or the other. She used the excuse of sudden illness to get out of the lab early. When the Promethean insisted she toughen up, she resorted to the very convincing simulated vomiting trick she used to use on her mother when she didn’t want to go to school, and the old man relented. Back in her room, she slept soundly for the first time in weeks. Waking at 10:30 PM, she slipped into a pair of black yoga pants and a black turtleneck sweater, tied her black hair back into two tight braids, and snapped a black fanny pack around her waist.

She grinned at herself in the full-length mirror on her closet door.

“Pretty Commando Chemistra,” she said, blasting her reflection with quick-drawn finger guns and blowing invisible smoke from their tips.

She stuffed a flashlight, a box of matches, pocket knife, a couple carabiners, and a pack of Peachy Keen Freshmints into her bag and then snuck back to the lab to get the rest of the tools she needed.

There was no one there. Without a second thought, Mary Jo rifled through the laboratory cabinets, palming bottles of whatever she thought might come in handy. Sulfuric acid, diethyl ether, antimony oxychloride…

Then the second thought came.

“Every vessel and instrument in the laboratory is electronically tagged and will alert if removed from this room,” the Promethean had sternly told her on her first day. “The instant that alert is sounded, one of my men will shoot you. I am well aware of your talent and the danger it presents, so I advise you not to test me.”

She returned the bottles to their shelves with the utmost care, each in its proper place, with the labels facing forward.

“OK, MJ, I guess you’re going to have to do this without help. No sweat,” she told herself.

She didn’t believe that at all. Impromptu psycho-chemistry was all that separated her from the rabble. Sneaking into those catacombs without compounds that she could quickly turn into knockout gas, lock-eating solvents, or whatever else she might need would be like going in naked. She almost gagged at the thought.

Then again, if Mary Jo was good at anything, it was coming up with new solutions. A smile slowly spread across her lips, as much at her little pun as her big idea.

~*~

Ten minutes later, she was banging on Blake Davenport’s door with a wad of gold certificates in her fist.

“I told you I’ll do it LATER!” the twelve-year-old shouted from behind the door.

“Shhh!” Chemistra frantically fumbled with the knob and burst into the bedroom. “Keep quiet! It’s me! I don’t care about you cleaning your room or whatever else you were supposed to do!”

Blake arched his eyebrow suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I want to borrow something,” she said, gently shutting the door behind her.

Blake crossed his arms. “What?”

Mary Jo scanned the room, jolting when she spied the red plastic case of the Uncle Atom’s Junior Chemistry Set, half buried beneath a pile of dirty laundry and video game controllers at the foot of the bed. “That!”

“Are you gonna wash ’em?”

“Not your clothes! The chemistry set!” She began counting out bills. “Look, I’ll give you ten bucks for it. And I’ll bring it back when I’m done!”

“No way, Jose! That cost at least $20.”

“You don’t even use it! And I’ll bring it back when I’m done. Why am I arguing? Fine, twenty it is—”

“My pop warned me not to give anything or take anything from you,” Blake said. “He said you’re a scumbag.”

Mary Jo clucked her tongue in indignation. “What?! That’s a terrible thing to say! Hydroman doesn’t even know me!”

Blake snorted. “Everybody knows you. You’re the lady who turned all those people to stone.”

“I meant... know me personally.” The words came out of the side of her mouth.

“The Promethean knows you well enough, and he said the same thing.”

She rolled her eyes. “A scumbag? Really? The Promethean called me a scumbag?”

Blake flashed an insufferable smile. “I ain’t allowed to say what he actually said.”

Mary Jo narrowed her eyes. “You cocky little—! I ought to ring your neck!”

“Oh yeah? I ought to call my pop. Or maybe Bulwark. I’m sure he’d like to ring yours.”

“Knock it off, tough guy!” Mary Jo snapped. “Do you want the $20 or not?”

“Forty.”

“Forty? Forty!”

“Yep. Twenty for the kit, and twenty more for me to keep quiet about it.”

“You little extortionist! I didn’t bring that much money!”

Blake shrugged. “You can have it for $20, but I don’t think you’ll get very far without my cooperation.”

She handed over the wad of bills. “I’ll be back with the rest.” Mary Jo tried to dart him a vicious look, but it was too full of self-pity to be intimidating. “I was nice to you!”

~*~

Presently, she was $20 poorer and one child’s chemistry set richer. A catalog of the set’s contents revealed that Uncle Atom was not only a deadbeat, but distinctly distrusted the younger generation. Some of the most useful chemicals were missing, and the ones that weren’t were in short supply. Still, she could make aqua regia with it and that would be enough. She hoped.

Now, she needed just one more thing: rope. She had no map of the catacomb, but she figured she could figure it out using Theseus’ old trick. She needed something heavy enough not to snap or snag on itself, but light enough not to be a burden, and ideally also brightly colored. Unfortunately, no place she thought to check had any. How could ‘The World’s Greatest Adventurers’ not have any rope? Possibly it was all locked up in the armory, in which case she had no chance. Then she had an idea: they were always moving heavy stuff around in the machine shop; the place had to be full of tackle. Even better, no one had threatened to shoot her if she went in there.

“What are you doing here?”

Chemistra’s soul nearly fled her body. She jumped half a foot in the air and spun around on Atomic Ranger, her whole body quaking. “Christ Almighty! You scared the shit out of me!” It wasn’t right for a guy who glows in the dark and was half made up of pistons and hydraulics to be so sneaky.

“You've got quite a mouth,” he said. His face was frozen in the same look of permanent disapproval he always wore, but there was no anger or suspicion in his voice, only an eerie, inhuman detachment. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for rope,” she squeaked. She did that sometimes when she was under pressure: just started blurting the truth. She took a breath and tried to reel herself in.

Ranger’s eyebrow raised so slowly and mechanically that Mary Jo was sure it was an affectation, something he'd once seen normal humans do and thought he should give it a try. Finally, he spoke: “What do you need rope for?”

Moving her dresser? Drying laundry? What did innocent people use rope for? “I need new shoelaces,” she blurted. “For my boots. Mine are frayed. Those stupid aglets! Ugh!” She clucked her tongue.

“Aglets,” he grunted.

“You know, the little sheaths of pla–”

“I lace my boots with 550-pound parachute cord,” Atomic Ranger said. “It’s tougher than standard laces, and you can do a lot with it.”

“Perfect!” Chemistra smiled.

“But you’re not allowed to have shoelaces. Court order.”

“What?! That’s ridiculous!”

"I don't make the rules. I just follow them."

“Oh, come on! Why wouldn’t I be allowed to have shoelaces?”

“I asked that question while reviewing the stipulations for your work release,” said the Atomic Ranger. “The attorney explained that this is a standard provision for people accused of serious crimes to prevent suicide.”

Chemistra crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. So I can work with explosive chemicals and poisons all day, but I might hang myself with my shoelaces!”

“He said it was more for the city’s liability than your own wellbeing,” he replied. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you're short-sighted and irresponsible, not mentally unstable."

“Lots better,” Chemistra said between her teeth.

“Also,” Ranger said, looking down at her feet. “You’re not wearing boots.”

“Well, of course not!” Mary Jo yelled, her voice echoing as she shouldered past him back into the hallway. “How could I without shoelaces?!”

She would go without rope.

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