When he pulled his arm away, the skeleton reappeared, this time showing a heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, and stomach. After that, a layer of muscles and veins was added to the skeleton.
“Internal organs within normal range. No chemical imbalances detected. No allergies detected. Scanning continues,” the odd voice said.
Crunch! One of the door’s bolted hinges bent and the screws that held it fell to the floor.
Now the skeleton was covered in skin. Eyeballs appeared, followed by hair and fingernails. Now it was clear to Jackson that the hologram was a three-dimensional portrait of him from the inside out. He only wished the computer would add some clothing.
The strange voice returned. “Weakness detected. Subject has extensive dental devices. Upgrade will take place in three …”
“Wait! What’s an upgrade?”
“Two …”
Jackson started pushing buttons in a panic. “How do you stop this thing?”
“One. Upgrade commencing.”
Suddenly, a leather chair rose out of the floor. Jackson fell into it, and before he could scramble out, his hands and feet were strapped down. The chair tilted back, then stretched out into a cot. Two spiderlike machines emerged from the jungle of cables above and lowered to just inches above Jackson’s face. Each had eight arms, with different devices attached to the ends: knives, drills, and saw blades, all whirling and spinning wildly. Jackson opened his mouth to scream, only to have one of the arms use rubber hooks to pull back his lips from his teeth.
“Help!” he shouted, and though the pounding at the door continued, the scientists had yet to break through. Oh how Jackson wished he had been captured by them instead of the ruthless, faceless computer!
“Think pleasant thoughts,” the voice said.
And then, everything went black.
For a professional killer with ice in her veins, the Hyena was pretty cute. She had platinum blonde hair and bright green eyes, long eyelashes, and a nose like a button. When she was seven years old, her mother decided to capitalize on her daughter’s stunning good looks. She packed up their belongings, bought a used Winnebago, and plunged her daughter into the world of professional child beauty pageants. She dressed the Hyena in sparkly gowns, false eyelashes, and high-heeled shoes. Twice weekly she sent the little girl for spray-on tans that left her looking like a walking tangerine. She enrolled the Hyena in hip-hop, jazz, and modern dance classes. She sent her for voice, acting, and piano lessons twice a week. She hired coaches who taught the Hyena how to bat her eyes and flash a smile at the judges as she sang “Minnie the Moocher.”
Their hard work paid off. The Hyena won hundreds of trophies, received thousands of dollars in college scholarships, and had a collection of crowns to rival a princess’s. She was named the Georgia Beef Beauty, Little Miss Florida Citrus, California’s Canola Oil Charmer, Wisconsin Wheat Fairy, Dairy Princess of Lawrence, Kansas, and Idaho Spud Queen all in the same month. She was a bright, over-tanned representative of all six major food groups!
But it wasn’t her good looks and spunky personality that won her so many competitions. What put her over the top every time was the talent portion. While some girls played the violin or recited Hamlet, the Hyena gave an instructional lesson on how to fend off an attacker with flaming nunchakus. She slashed, jabbed, and dismembered a training dummy with a twinkle in her eye. The judges were impressed by her mercilessness. Or perhaps they voted for her out of fear. Regardless, the act was a smash.
Ever the show-woman, the Hyena’s mother eagerly expanded the act to include more weapons: sai, daggers, and swords; billy clubs, Tasers, and brass knuckles. Their Winnebago was a rolling arsenal. The Hyena’s mother also enrolled her daughter in whatever martial arts classes they could find as they journeyed across America. The Hyena learned judo in Juneau, aikido in Akron, jiujitsu in Jamestown, tae kwon do in Tallahassee, sambo in San Diego, kendo in Kansas City, Jogo do Pau in Jersey City, and kung fu in Kissimmee. As a backup, she learned tap dancing in Tulsa. Unfortunately, her mom’s enthusiasm backfired when the Hyena announced she wanted to do something else with her life—something more dignified than prancing around in a cocktail dress.
She wanted to become a professional assassin.
Sadly, as the Hyena had discovered, the life of a freelance professional contract killer was not all that it was cracked up to be. In fact, she hadn’t actually gotten to kill anyone yet. And because of her lack of experience, she was forced to accept less desirable jobs in the world of professional crime—namely, being a goon. Not a highly trained killer! Not even a minion or a henchman. A goon! If the other contract killers found out she was kidnapping people, she would be a laughingstock.
Now, the average person might not know the difference between an assassin and a minion, a henchman and a goon, but they are as different as apples and oranges. Assassins, naturally, assassinate people and are paid incredible sums of money to do it. They wear a lot of black and sometimes have really cool scars on their faces. And they have nicknames like the Scorpion, or Le Tigre, or Black Widow.
The next step down is a minion. In a nutshell, a minion’s job is to fulfill the often impossible demands of his evil boss. If the boss says he wants an army of man-eating gophers, a minion has to get on the phone and track down some of the furry little demons. If the boss says he wants a secret lair on the moon, the minion has to order the supplies of Tang and freeze-dried space ice cream that will be needed in the rocket. Other major responsibilities include praising the boss’s evil plots and feeding his psychotic pet (typically a venomous snake or a tarantula or a horribly mutated house cat). Basically, a minion is a personal assistant—only an evil personal assistant. It’s not as cool as being an assassin, but you get health and dental insurance, and the boss usually pays into your 401(k).
After minions, there’s henchmen. Henchmen are grunts who do all the hard labor. They build the secret fortress and massive doomsday devices. They usually guard the lair and, in a pinch, can be called in to help push the boss’s enemies into the shark tank. All in all, the work is fine. It’s the uniform that stinks. See, henchmen have to wear ridiculous costumes. If your boss is a lunatic obsessed with bears, you can be sure you’re wearing a big furry suit to work. If your boss dresses like the ringleader of a circus, you better buy yourself a pair of stilts or some clown shoes. It’s downright humiliating, and, unfortunately, workers in the crime industry do not have strong union representation.
Goons, however, are at the very bottom of the villain food chain. Most are no more than muscle for mad scientists, corrupt politicians, evil geniuses, and megalomaniacs. They kidnap people, break a lot of legs, and make a lot of threats (all while cracking their knuckles for dramatic effect). Most of them are misshapen, with huge jaws, arms like gorillas, and heads resembling damaged pumpkins. The Hyena did not want to be a goon. Sure, it beat competing in the Putnam County Pancake Pageant, but it would still look terrible on her résumé. It was very easy to get typecast in her business, and once you got pegged as a goon, it was hard to work your way up.
But a paycheck is a paycheck. The Hyena needed the money, so she was doing her best to put her concerns aside and follow a few simple rules: (1) Don’t date the other goons. (2) Get the money up front and in cash (it was tempting to work for free, especially when your boss promised to give you a small continent or chain of islands to rule when he was in charge of the world, but promises don’t pay the bills). And (3) Don’t criticize the boss.
Rule number three was giving the Hyena trouble. Dr. Jigsaw was perfectly pleasant to her. She rarely saw him (which was good because the bizarre perfection of his surgically designed face unnerved her), and he brought in donuts every Friday for the staff. But though he provided a happy work environment, he neglected important details. For instance, he had failed to tell her that some of the scientists on her kidnapping list were world-class athletes. Dr. Hammond was a semiprofessional boxer. Dr. Beldean had once been a Navy SEAL. Professor Church was incredi
bly fast with a slide rule. A little information could have spared the Hyena a lot of grief and quite a few bruises. When she asked Jigsaw if he was aware that Dr. Banyon had once been a pro wrestler, he nodded and offered her the last jelly donut.
So when the Hyena went after her next target—a Professor Joseph Lunich, who was the world’s preeminent expert on magnetism—she wondered what she didn’t know about him. Jigsaw was obsessed with Lunich’s latest invention—the miniature tractor beam—and not only wanted the Hyena to bag him, but his machine as well. Jigsaw claimed the device was revolutionary and essential to his plans. The Hyena couldn’t have cared less about some goofy machine. She was more concerned about whether Lunich had been an Ultimate Fighter or a defensive tackle before he invented it.
The professor’s lab was in an empty warehouse on the campus of Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York. The Hyena slinked inside and found a good hiding space to wait for the scientist. He arrived hours later and went right to work on his device. The Hyena quickly understood why Jigsaw found the miniature tractor beam so intriguing.
Lunich stuffed a tiny pointed device into a potted plant, pushed a button on the device’s side, and aimed the beam that shot out of it at a pickup truck parked inside the warehouse space. Then he climbed into the pickup truck, started the engine, and floored the gas. The truck’s powerful engine throbbed as its wheels spun in vain. The tractor beam bathed it in a green energy and held it fast. The truck couldn’t move an inch; it was held in place by a device no bigger than a pencil. Then, remarkably, the truck began to slide backward—it was being pulled across the room by the tiny device.
When the experiment was over, the Hyena stepped out of her hiding place. “I have to admit, I think your machine is pretty awesome,” she said to the startled scientist. “So does my boss. He’d like you to show him how it works. So, how about it? Want to give a kid a break and go quietly?”
Unfortunately, the only break Dr. Lunich gave was for the door. In a flash, he was gone, leaving the would-be assassin dumfounded. The Hyena would later learn that Dr. Jigsaw had neglected to tell her that the professor was not only a brilliant scientist, but also a record-breaking sprinter.
What happened next was an exercise in humiliation. Lunich raced across the campus as gracefully as a deer. He weaved through the maze of paths, shouting for help along the way. The Hyena was sure the campus police or some Good Samaritan would arrive at any moment. Worse, she realized, she was never going to be able to catch the doctor in her high-heeled boots. When she fell in the grass for the fifth time, she noticed she had broken a heel. Disgusted, she vowed to track down and kill the people who designed women’s shoes. In her frustration, she pulled the boot off and angrily tossed it in Lunich’s direction. To her utter amazement, it sailed across the lawn and smacked the doctor squarely in the back of the head. He crumpled to the ground and lay still.
It was a lucky break for shoe designers everywhere.
STILL HERE, HUH? WELL, GOOD
FOR YOU. I SUPPOSE YOU’RE
EAGER TO READ MORE OF THE
FILE. FINE, BUT TO CONTINUE,
YOU MUST HAVE LEVEL 4
CLEARANCE, AND TO GET LEVEL
4 CLEARANCE, I’M GOING TO
NEED A DNA SAMPLE. PLEASE
PLUCK A STRAND OF YOUR HAIR
AND PLACE IT ONTO THE
SENSOR FOR ANALYSIS.
UGH … CAN I GET A
STRAND NOT COVERED IN
DANDRUFF! TRY AGAIN.
LEVEL 4
ACCESS GRANTED
As Jackson hovered between consciousness and oblivion, he could make out several dark figures standing over him. They spoke angrily to one another.
“How did he find his way down here?”
“He’s been watching us.”
“Well, I guess we have to wipe his mind.”
“My pleasure.”
“We can’t wipe his mind. Benjamin gave him the upgrades. We can’t set him loose with all that technology. He’s got about ten billion dollars worth of nanobytes in his mouth. We should call for the director.”
“Since when do we listen to the director? I’m team leader and I say he needs a mind wipe.”
Jackson sat up groggily. He wished someone would turn on the light so he could see who was talking about him. “Where am I?”
“What did he say?”
“Who knows? He’s got so much metal in his mouth.”
“Who are you people?” Jackson said.
“He sounds like a baby. Do you want a bottle, baby?”
“Don’t tease him.”
“As if he deserves better. Hold his arms.”
“I got him,” another said as two very strong hands clamped down on Jackson’s shoulders.
Suddenly, a shaft of light illuminated two of the biggest front teeth Jackson had ever seen on a person. Jackson had seen donkeys with smaller teeth. Looking at them caused a strange sensation to come over Jackson. His head felt like it was full of soup and his thoughts seemed heavy. He wanted to leap from the chair but he’d lost the will to do so.
“Just stare into my teeth,” a voice said.
And then all the lights came on, and the owners of the voices were revealed. The hands holding Jackson belonged to tiny Flinch Escala and the giant teeth that threatened to steal his soul were attached to Heathcliff Hodges. Ruby Peet, Duncan Dewey, and Matilda Choi were standing nearby. Behind them was another figure, a tall, broad-shouldered man carrying a mop. He had just walked in and he was angry. It was the school janitor, Mr. Brand.
“What is going on in here?” he demanded.
“Look! You gotta help me,” Jackson said, “’cause these nerds are holding me against my will—”
Ruby interrupted him. “He’s seen the Playground. He’s gotten the upgrades. We have to wipe his mind.”
Mr. Brand hobbled forward, using his mop as support. He stood over Jackson and peered at him closely.
“There’s a very good chance that his brain can’t take it, Pufferfish,” Mr. Brand said. “I don’t want another Stevie Lazar on our hands.”
Jackson knew Stevie Lazar. Not long ago he had been a national spelling bee champion and on his way to NASA’s space camp for a week during fall break. Then, suddenly, he lost interest in school, friends, and bathing. Now he spent his days picking his nose, drooling, and singing nursery rhymes to a filthy sock puppet he carried with him everywhere he went. He had become a moron overnight. Were these kids responsible? Had they turned an honor roll student into a kid who stuffed his pockets with frozen fish sticks?
“How did this happen?” Brand continued.
“He found his way into the Playground and the science team chased him in here. Somehow he accessed the upgrade program,” Duncan said. “It must have been blind luck.”
“Or maybe he’s a spy,” Ruby said.
“I doubt very much that he’s a spy, Pufferfish,” Brand said. “Any suggestions other than erasing his brain?”
“Lock him up in a cell and throw away the key,” Matilda said.
Heathcliff agreed. “Remember how he treated us—spitwads, swirlies, atomic wedgies. He’s a menace. Lock him up, wipe his mind—either way, we’re doing the world a favor.”
Flinch shook his fist enthusiastically. With the lights on, Jackson could see the scrawny boy was wearing a strange harness that covered his arms and legs. A pulsing light flashed on a plate on his chest, right beneath a large knob. “Or you could let me throw him in the ocean. I’m strong like bull!”
Jackson was startled by the herd’s anger. He’d never heard anyone talk about him with such venom. Everyone liked him. Sure, he’d had a setback lately in the popularity department, but everyone knew he was a great guy.
“People, just calm down,” Brand said as he went to work unfastening the straps that tied Jackson to the bed. “There’s not going to be any mind wiping or throwing anyone in the ocean.”
“You’re not saying we’re going to kill him, are you?” Matild
a asked. She broke into excited gasps, then used her inhaler to calm herself.
Brand shook his head and helped Jackson to his feet. “Hardly. I’m letting him go.”
Ruby clenched her fists. “Mr. Brand, as team leader I believe that’s my decision, and I say we lock him up.”
“Pufferfish, let me make this clear one more time. I’m the boss and this kid is going home,” Mr. Brand said.
Brand pushed a button on the wall and a glass tube came down from above and encased Jackson. He was sucked upward, and a moment later he was tumbling out of the lockers and onto the cold floor.
Jackson wanted to tell his family what he had experienced but was afraid they would think he had lost his mind. Not that he would blame them. He couldn’t expect his father and brother to believe that his elementary school was the headquarters of a secret organization run by five nerds and a janitor with a bad leg. Who would believe that? He wasn’t sure he believed it.
Maybe he had imagined the whole thing. Maybe he was sick. The tater tots at lunch had smelled a little funky.
Still, he felt he should say something. He waited until dinnertime.
“Dad, something happened at school today,” he said.
His brother, Chaz, who was fully dressed for football practice, laughed. “Did someone steal your lunch money again?”
Jackson’s dad wasn’t listening. He was busy spoon-feeding his closest friend and constant companion in life, a pit bull named Butch. Butch was a fat, sour animal who was bitterly jealous of Jackson and Chaz. He growled and snapped whenever the boys were around, but their father was convinced the animal farted rainbows. Butch’s worst quality, however, was his ability to steal their father’s attention.