Henry Fusion dug into his drum kit for the big transition back from the bridge to the main tune, never missing a beat. In these heady moments in the middle of a song, he always had the time of his life. He and his friends called their band Nuclear Synthesis, and playing this kind of jazz-rock fusion music with them was the best decision he'd ever made.
It almost made him overlook how lousy the turnout was at this venue. This was the grand opening of Chef Chian's new upscale Asian fusion restaurant, right here in the heart of New York City! And right now, in the fall of 1986, Chef Chian was at the peak of his fame. His TV cooking show drew in more viewers than Julia Childs. A celebrity chef like him should've packed the house, but instead, more than half the tables lay empty. Sure, the clientele that was there were dressed pretty upscale, though Henry suspected that their upscale-ness had been acquired by . . . questionably-legitimate means. Hmph. He could've been "upscale" like that, too, if he'd taken his father up on his offer.
But if he had, he wouldn't be up here on stage pounding out sick beats with his friends.
A quiet passage in the music came up. It would only last a few seconds, but in that brief time Henry only needed to use the drum brush on one of his suspended cymbals. That left his other hand free to sip his drink. Scotch and soda, compliments of the house. Never, ever pass up a free Scotch and soda.
Then the faster, louder verse resumed, and Henry dove into the finale. Maybe this gig wouldn't be so bad.
Or maybe, it would be a hell of a lot worse.
Both front doors crashed open, and a small swarm of men in business suits stormed in, each of them brandishing a pistol. Mobsters. Henry, and the rest of the band, stopped playing instantly. The big gangster at the front of the intruders called out, "No funny business and nobody gets hurt!"
Then, to the surprise of both the band and the new intruders, one of the clientele at the tables stood up and shouted, "You! Get 'em!"
Half of the rest of the clientele started pulling out guns of their own. Oh gods, Henry thought, a rival gang! A shot rang out — a loud one. Henry couldn't tell who fired. It didn't matter, because nearly every gun in the room erupted. Their concert venue was now a free-fire zone. It was impossible to hear anything other than the deafening pops and bangs of pistols and revolvers. Henry instinctively dropped his drumsticks and ran for cover behind the bar — but not before picking up his drink again. Gunfight or no, he was not going to let a good highball go to waste.
One of Henry's bandmates — the bassist — managed to make it behind the bar with him. The other two were out on the floor, cowering behind a table. More shots kept ringing out. Then came a lull in the gunfire. Was the shooting over? Henry cautiously peeked over the bar — and another gunshot parted his hair. Yikes! He yanked his head down between his knees and instinctively covered it with his arms.
More gunfire. He'd have to wait it out, and hope the only people these gangs wanted to kill was each other. This was worse than that gig in the Bronx last February. One of the gangsters, with a thick New Jersey accent, tried to yell something over the din of the guns. What did he say? "Time to try the experiment"? That couldn't be right. There was no way Henry could hear anything clearly, with his ears still ringing from the gunfire. Then more gunshots, and more yelling.
Between the roar of the guns, and the commotion, and his fear for his life, there was no chance for Henry to notice the tiny capsule that arced over the bar and landed right in his Scotch and soda. It dissolved quickly, leaving no hint of its presence. Henry was focused on the front of the bar, the only barrier between himself and the gunfire traversing the room . . . and then, a stray shot from a .357 magnum punched right through the wood covering the front of the bar, and zinged dangerously close to Henry and his companion.
They weren't even remotely safe here. Henry turned to the bassist and whispered, "Let's crawl to the back exit." The bassist nodded, and pulled himself forward on all fours. Henry downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp, ignoring the burning sensation of the alcohol, and followed.
Ooh. That didn't feel right. Henry's head was swimming and his stomach felt like he'd swallowed a whole bag of Pop Rocks. The soda in his drink hadn't been that fizzy. Come on, Henry, you can hold your alcohol better than this! He chalked it up to his nerves, what with all the lethal gunplay still going on, and kept crawling.
"Where's the kaboom?" he heard the gangster with the Jersey accent say, punctuated by gunshots. "There was supposed to be an Earth-shattering kaboom!"
Oh great. Did that mean the gangs brought explosives too?! Keep crawling. Keep crawling!
Thankfully, the rear exit was just around a couple of corners, close enough to get to quickly but still behind enough twists and turns to shield it from sight from the main dining area. Henry and the bassist stumbled awkwardly to their feet and scampered out into a back alleyway. They could still hear guns going off behind them, but muffled by walls and distance. Then, two people came running around the corner toward them. Henry gasped and nearly started running the other way, when he noticed that the oncomers were his other two bandmates!
"Oh thank God you made it out!" Henry said as the two arrived. "How'd you escape without a long bar to hide behind?"
The guitarist scratched the top of his head. "The table we were hiding behind was circular, so . . . we tried a little trick we saw in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. We rolled the table toward the door and kept it between ourselves and the gangsters. I think one or two shots hit the table, but we didn't get hit outselves."
"We were damn lucky!" the keyboardist breathed.
The sound of gunshots continued. "We're still not safe here," Henry said. "We gotta get —"
And as Henry raised his hands to gesture, he saw that they were . . . glowing.
Not just glowing. Sparkling. With a little hissing sound coming from them, too. The effect went all the way down his sides, down his legs, and out the bottoms of his feet in little yellow-white jets. And those jets were . . . lifting him up a foot off the ground!
"Dude!" the bassist said.
"Whoa," Henry said.
At that moment, one of the gangsters tromped out through the rear exit, noticed them, yelped, and levelled his gun at them.
"Yikes!" Henry screeched. He pushed his hands, his glowing hands, out in front of himself as if to say "No no no, don't shoot!" But when he did, a thundering beam of sparkling bright light bolted forth from each palm and slammed into the gangster, knocking him back inside through the rear exit door. He crashed into the far interior wall; the impact almost certainly gave him a concussion, and in any event the man was in no shape to get up or harass anyone.
"Damn!" the keyboardist said.
"Wow!" the guitarist said, "I didn't know you could do that, Henry! You should've been lighting yourself up like that in our act!"
"I've never done this before!" Henry insisted. "It just started happening, just now!"
"You know what you look like?" the keyboardist said. "Those old pictures of Magnetic Bottle, when he opened up his aperatures and let his nuclear fusion out!"
Hm, Henry thought. Fusion.
Henry looked down at his sparkling form again. "I wish I could turn it off, though." And as if on cue, the jets keeping him in the air shrank and winked out, and the sparkling glow left him. Henry blinked. "Apparently, I can!"
"Uh, guys?" the bassist said. "They're still shooting the place up in there."
"Oh!" Henry said. "Right! Let's get out of here." All of them started running away down the alley. "Hopefully there's enough left of our instruments to get 'em back. Tomorrow. When it's safe to go back there." The sound of distant police sirens pierced the night and slowly grew, getting closer. The NYPD would probably want eyewitness statements about tonight's events.
Eyewitness . . .
"Guys?" Henry said, still running. "I'd . . . I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody about my new . . . you know, the new glowy-sparkly stuff I can do. It might make things . . . complicated for me. More than they already are, I mean."
"Ooh!" the guitarist perked. "You gonna have a secret identity?"
Henry snorted. "Oh, come on. Right. I can see it now. 'No more will I be just mild-mannered Henry Fusion! Now, I am' . . . uh . . ."
The keyboardist grinned. "Mister Fusion!".
All three of the others glared at him.
"What?" the keyboardist said. "It's from Back to the Future!"
"It's also what everybody calls my dad," Henry said.
"Well," the guitarist said, "You always did say your dad had power. And now, in a way, so do you! If I were a crook, I'd think twice before pushing you around. I might get a face full of energy blasts!"
Henry shook his head, vigorously, as he slowed down to a jog. "I still don't want anybody to know I can do that. You gotta promise me you won't tell anyone."
"Sure," the keyboardist grinned. "I can keep a secret."
"Same here," the bassist said.
"It's such a shame not to use it in our act," the guitarist said. "But you're still a good drummer and we still need ya."
"And we get free drinks," Henry reminded him. He took a couple of breaths, slowing down to a brisk walk. "No, if I want to use my new-found powers of . . . um . . . 'Mister Fusion,' I'm gonna need a super-hero outfit." He paused. "One that obscures my face."
The main character in this story is based on a Champions™ character that
Michael Gersten created in the wake of Back to the Future in 1985.
Here is this character's character
sheet.