I, Leaf: Chapter 3

One final chapter and the torture will be over.

3. A New Leaf

Besides gathering a frankly astonishing number of odd socks, not to mention a fair few identities, the villain who would now never be called Iddy, the criminal currently designated The IdMaster, the scoundrel formerly branded OddSox, the misanthrope previously known as NatMan, the schoolyard pest once nicknamed Natty and the problem child so long ago christened Nathan Elizabeth Sockman, had never really achieved terribly much. Prior to taking down every single hero who ever flew the friendly skies, paced the peaceful streets, or swam the sparkling seas of Orth, that is.

Evidently, Nathan had rather come up in the worlds. Right up until 15 minutes ago, sure, you could have called him a slacker, called him a nobody, called him a weirdo. Yet just 15 minutes on from 15 minutes ago, only the weirdo tag remained true. Suddenly there was something new to be said about N.M. Sockman Esquire. Something that elevated him in quite the most meteoric manner ever experienced by a person who had, just a quarter of an hour earlier, been nothing more, and arguably considerably less, than an obscure annoyance.

As each hero fell, The IdMaster’s status rose, from freak to menace to monster, rocketing into the stratosphere past super-villainous, even demonic, into the heady realms of Living Legend. From hapless zero to evil icon in 900 seconds. Not too shabby, that. Definitely worth an update on his MyFace page.

With no one left to challenge him, The IdMaster exhaled with sweet satisfaction, loosened his grip on his hard-working IdBlaster and set it down on the roof. Reaching into a concealed trouser pocket, Nathan Sockman fished out a dinky black-and-white mobile phone and, pleased as Punch, ventured online to update his status, boldly typing in bold, capped type:

JUST CURED CRIME-FIGHTING!

Like a man-sized, flu-strength antibiotic unleashed upon a bacterial onslaught of honest-to-goodness goodness and honesty, The IdMaster had, indeed, eradicated all known forms of heroism on Orth. The world was his, and there were others too, equally vulnerable, ripe for the plucking and next.

“Best day ever,” whispered The IdMaster to himself, though obviously he was alone in this estimation. For everyone else, from the citizens standing scattered and shell-shocked around the rubbled remains of Stuff the Animals, to the anxious Orthonions glued to the live news coverage that leapt out of their tellys into their popping eyes and flapping ears, it was, they rather felt, more a bad day. Really the worst day ever.

It was at this very moment, right after everything had changed, that everything changed again. Not back to the way it was before, mind, but in a brand new, third way.

A breeze blew through the city, clearing the air of smoke and defeat. A funny feeling swept through the crowd, a blend of instinct and hope. It wasn’t something you could put your finger on, but the IdMaster felt it too. A curious tingle of uncertainty warmed the back of his neck. He put his phone away. Bent down and picked up his weapon. A flush of anger now, from the bad guy. He’d earned his victory, hadn’t he? He deserved to enjoy it, didn’t he? What on Orth was going on?

Murray Fishwater was a regular guy. The kind of chap you’d see in the background of your life, if you ever bothered to look. He wasn’t particularly ugly or handsome, especially dumb or smart, conspicuously dull or fun, but always something in between. Something plain. Something average. Something utterly, unremarkably normal. Except, his mother had always maintained, because Gladys Fishwater was the Queen of Looking on the Bright Side, that Murray had excellent hearing.

Like, as a child, even if he was playing out in the garden and his mum was in the house, he’d always hear when she opened the biscuit tin. And when he’d watch TV in the living room, he’d have the sound on so low, you wouldn’t even know he was there. Then there was this one crazy time when he insisted he could hear a continual hissing sound, like a dying snake that just wouldn’t shut up. No one else could hear it, though, not even when they tried really hard.

Eventually, even Gladys’s famous patience ran out and she insisted he stop telling stories, yet Murray refused to drop the subject, and eventually, after driving everyone around the twist about it for more than a hour, he located this nasty little gas leak that, left unchecked, could have easily led to the incineration of the entire household. So, ordinary though he was, Murray could, nevertheless, hear a flea burp on the back of a shaggy dog across the road, two houses up, and then some.

“Did you hear that?” asked Murray. His wife, Mrs Hettie Lethershoo-Fishwater, who had insisted on keeping her maiden name even though it was patently ridiculous, shook her head. Threw out a curt, disinterested “no”. She was used to Murray hearing all sorts of freaky stuff, most of which she was convinced was solely in his head.

“It sound like…” continued Murray, oblivious to his other half’s indifference… “Whistling.”

Eagerly, Murray looked around, his head swivelling like a radar dish in search of alien signals, or free satellite TV. Where was that peculiar whistling coming from? Soon, every dog in the area began wincing and barking in a similar state of excitement. They heard it too! Eventually, even usual folk with unexceptional ears caught something carried on the wind, a distant melody, distorted and discordant, but definitely there, and getting louder by the second. It was a tune. No. Wait. It was more a tune in progress. Like some half-written theme absent-mindedly tooted from the lips of a composer on the verge of something catchy.

The IdMaster heard it too, and from his lofty vantage point, was the first to spot the source. A dark and twirling speck, a plastic bag maybe, dancing a madcap, windy jig, sweeping up then down, left then right, in then out, apparently random, but then again maybe, just maybe, with some wild purpose. A growing splotch on the horizon, curling and rolling and circling ever closer as if bound to some invisible, impossible rollercoaster track.

Not a bag, decided The IdMaster. Not a bird or a plane, either. A balloon maybe? A kite? But since when do kites whistle? Regardless of the blot’s identity, it was, inarguably now, approaching, undulating in a twisting, quasi-hypnotic manner towards the shattered rooftop of Stuff the Animals. Towards a man who’d just made history, a man wearing black and white socks, a man with a weapon now pointing at the… leaf? Was that a leaf?

It was visible from the ground now, too. A mystery, certainly, but also, a possibility. Something for the freshly-robbed and roundly-demoralised folk of Marvel City to hang a slender hope of deliverance upon. So they peered in the sky with fingers crossed, indulging daydreams of riches returned, and justice served.

The IdMaster squeezed off a shot, a narrow orange beam that charged towards the veering shape but missed it by a giant’s length. It’s movements were simply too haphazard to predict. It was close enough now to distinguish its shape: slender, flat and tapered at the ends. In profile, it resembled a small canoe, maybe a metre long, light brown with something shorter and darker flapping behind it. It looked like a cape. Definitely a cape.

Sockman fired again, a much wider blast this time, painting a large portion of the sky a luminous carroty colour. It engulfed the flitting figure. Yet, appeared to have no effect. Though Steven and the others had been halted, fried and conquered on contact, this newcomer to the scene seemed not only impervious, but also utterly oblivious to its powers.

Less than a hundred metres away from where The IdMaster stood, confounded and furious, the speck that had grown into a splotch and matured into a blot now came sharply into focus. It was a leaf. A leaf the length of twelve homemade hamburgers, stacked one on top of the other. A blend of greens with notes of brown. A cape and mask, both black as night. And arms like rope. No, not rope. Stems. Strong, knotty stems, with wooden balls for feet, and three pokey fingers sprouting defiantly from each hand. A man-shaped leaf, caught on the wind, curling, bending and flitting this way and that, but mostly, towards The IdMaster. Whistling as though it hadn't a care in the world. As though it hadn't been shot at. Twice.

“Third time's the charm,” mumbled The IdMaster to himself through gritted teeth, too stressed now for extended private banter. Setting the IdBlaster to Maximum Carnage, committing every last ounce of charge into one final, desperate splurge of orange, Sockman gripped the trigger, and held it tight, burning the sky with a blinding, sustained burst of Hellfire. Though he was safe at its core, the light was so dazzling, he couldn't see a thing and had no useful idea of what was happening. Even after his weapon had fully discharged its malicious cargo, and the sky slowly returned to a more commonplace blue, for thirty seconds or more his vision was a mess of shadows and flashes.

“No way it made it through that,” muttered the IdMaster in a bid to reassure himself, blindly waving around the IdBlaster, for he alone knew it was dead. The moment his vision was clear enough to be useful, he whirled around, looking everywhere the leaf-thing had been, his eyes hungry for evidence of its demise. Yet he saw nothing but empty space. Nervously now, he peered over the edge of the building, fingers and toes crossed for a vision of its crumpled body in the rubble. Yet again, he saw nothing.

Nothing, that is, except for about a thousand Orthonions staring directly at him, their mouths hung open like holes in a crazy golf course. Not with fear, though. More with wonder. And actually, they weren't quite looking at him. More... above him. With a knot in his stomach and a chestful of fear, The IdMaster's grimacing face turned slowly skywards. And there it was. Hovering maybe five metres directly above his head. It had stopped whistling and was looking at him. Glaring down at the villain with intense, deep blue eyes.

“What are you?” The IdMaster screamed at the thing in maddened, exasperated fury. In response, it opened its mouth, took a few deep, long gulps of air and instantaneously inflated. At once a thing of mass and weight, it dropped on the IdMaster's head like an infant duvet filled with bricks, or half a heroic donkey, immediately knocking him unconscious and shattering the IdBlaster into several pieces.

It got to its feet, dusted itself off, and with its hands on its hips, and an irresistibly sunny smile on its long, unusual face, stood beside unconscious Iddy and rested one foot up on his back, hunter-style.

“I'm Leafman,” said Leafman, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The crowd erupted, like a collosal volcano made not of rock, but of people, spewing cheers like lava and shaking the earth with jubilant clapping. Some Marvellites laughed, some Marvellites cried,  many jumped up and down, others dropped to their knees, grateful to the gods of Orth, Earth and that other crazy place. United by relief and joy they gazed up at Leafman with love in their eyes.

“Leafman! Leafman! Leafman!” They roared in unison. Murray and Hettie and everyone else there.

“Leafman! Leafman! Leafman!” Chanted the TV audience, their voices running together like raindrops in a stream, the power of their collected vocals swelling into a roaring waterfall of idol worship.

“Leafman! Leafman! Leafman!” It was the mantra heard round the world. Almost as if the planet itself was cheering his name.

The IdMaster lay, face down on the rooftop, oblivious to the celebrations. To better see the crowd, Leafman stepped fully on top of him, one foot on his bum, the other on the back of his head. It was a hugely crowd-pleasing move, met with a tsunami of laughter.

“Leafman! Leafman! Leafman!” They yelled with such enthusiasm, it was like they'd never stop. As though they'd never tire of mouthing this magical new name.

From his makeshift vantage point, Leafman surveyed the adoring crowd, feeling good about himself. Whipping out a miniature spy camera from a pouch in his cape, he snapped several pictures of their smiling, happy faces, quietly joining in on the fun.

“Leafman! Leafman! Leafman!” Whispered Leafman to himself, a broad grin on his  face.

Poking himself in the chest with a jaunty thumb, Leafman played the crowd like a veteran conductor, calling out to them with cheeky, mock modesty, “For me? Is all of this really for little old me?”

A sizeable portion of the crowd replied, as loud as their lungs and mouths could manage, “For you! For you! For you! You! You! You!” Of all the appreciative audiences through history, these guys were by far the best, bar none. So great at cheering and chanting, it was almost as if they'd rehearsed.

Leafman punched his hands in the air, holding them up in victorious fashion like a boxer who'd just been crowned Heavyweight Champion of the World. Sure enough, the crowd responded in kind, launching ten thousand fists happily skywards. It was like watching Queen at Live Aid.

Time to leave now, thought the man leaf. Time to make a swift, hero's exit. He addressed the crowd, one final time, offering a brief, triumphant, “Me!”

Bending to one knee, Marvel City's glorious new champion launched himself into the air, exhaled hard and flattened out, bent over backwards and quickly caught the wind.

Flitting.

Flying.

Gliding.

Gone!

I’m really so terribly sorry for the last three weeks.