Superluminary (Powered Destinies Book 1)

by Olivia Rising

  Sarina couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s how I feel about it, too. But…” She lowered her voice. “Are you sure we’re safe here?”

  The humor drained out of him. “I think you’re better off here than anywhere else, Dancing Queen.” He leaned back against a tree trunk as though he needed the additional support. “I honestly believe you’re in danger. But if it ever seems that you’re in danger here, I’ll pack my bag, too.”

  Something about the way he said that, so serious and sure, made Sarina feel better about her situation.

  “But you don’t even know me. Maybe I’m terrible company,” she pointed out.

  He grinned. “Likewise. If you believe Sunny, I snore like a lumberjack. And whenever I zone out to music, I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”

  This made her laugh again, but she wasn’t done asking questions. “They said you volunteered. How could you have been so sure about it all?”

  “Honestly? I have a feeling they’re okay. I have a decent people sense, I guess, and I don’t think Ace’s group means any harm. I’m not so sure about some of the others in there, but we didn’t agree to join them.”

  Sarina mulled it over for a moment, trying to figure out how she felt about the group and her part in it. She had a feeling that if she had been able to speak to her Mom just then, her Mom would have told her it was too early to tell if the eggs were going bad. “I guess we could just listen to see why they want our help,” she finally suggested. “Play along if it makes sense, or bail if it doesn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Jasper agreed, grabbing a falling apple tree blossom out of the air. “That’s what I’ve been thinking, too. In the meantime, you’ll have a safe place to stay.”

  They fell silent, and Sarina let her gaze roam. It landed on Snow, who’d been in plain sight all along.

  Snow didn’t give any indication that she’d spotted the pair of observers. Her white-dressed form wandered between some overgrown bushes, leaving a flutter of white blossoms in her wake. Her lips moved as if she was singing to herself, but the wind carried the sound away before anyone could hear it. She looked strangely happy. Childlike, without a care in the world. Sarina couldn’t remember a time when she had ever felt that way herself. It was a saddening thought.

  “I don’t know what to think of Snow,” she confided, not tearing her gaze away from the girl.

  “Me, neither,” said Jasper. “I think she’s trapped in her own little world, but what kind of world is it?” he shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “I wonder why the Princess doesn’t like her.”

  Suddenly a third voice broke into their conversation. “Even though Odette’s a Visionary, she doesn’t understand Snow. Snow probably doesn’t even understand herself.”

  Sarina and Jasper turned at the same time. There was Sunny, standing right behind them. The boy smirked, his hands nonchalantly tucked in his pockets as though he’d been standing there for a while.

  “And yeah, I overheard. Everything. But don’t worry. I’m not gonna tell.”

  Sarina wanted to kick herself. Why didn't she consider the possibility that someone might overhear them? Especially when she knew the boy had super hearing.

  I’m such a dumbass.

  It was only as Sunny wedged himself between Sarina and Jasper that she realized how close they’d been standing. Their shoulders had been nearly touching. Now it was Sunny who was glued to her side. She shuffled sideways to find some space that wasn’t occupied by someone else’s limbs.

  “Were you two gonna kiss?” Sunny prodded. “That’s gross.” He was frowning, but Sarina sensed a touch of envy in his voice.

  Jasper scratched the back of his neck, but said nothing. Sarina might have found his reaction amusing if she didn’t have actual concerns to worry about.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone what we said, are you?” she asked Sunny.

  “Of course not. Besides,” the boy continued in his most grown-up tone, “I’ve got your back. You don’t need to worry about those other guys in there. I won’t let them hurt you.”

  Sarina looked over the boy’s head at Jasper and winked. “You won’t, huh? Well, I appreciate that.”

  “By the way, that dance was badass.” Sunny’s eyes were gleaming with adoration.

  “Thanks, but it didn’t do anything. I don’t think I’m going to be much help to anyone.”

  Sunny shook his head. “What do you mean, it didn’t do anything?” His gaze dropped to her feet. When she followed suit, she felt silly for not noticing sooner.

  Her shoes. White sneakers imported from Japan, with Velcro strips of various lengths sticking out from the sides like wings.

  “Pretty sure you weren’t wearing those when you came downstairs,” the boy pointed out, full of self-satisfaction.

  Sunny’s attentiveness surprised her, and she was grateful for his keen senses, but the sight of the shoes puzzled her too much to respond. How had that happened? As far as she could remember, she hadn’t done anything.

  The breeze carried sounds from more distant areas, drawing their attention back to the chaos in the city streets. Shouts and protest chants blended into the shrill whine of police sirens, whistles, and the sound of something breaking. A dull shudder came from the north, indicating a distant explosion.

  What can I possibly do about any of this when I don’t even understand my own powers? She wondered, her brain following the same roundabout path where it had gone hundreds of times over the past five days. She hung her head, and closed her eyes. The erupting conflict made her realize she wanted nothing more than to be the shining, perfect heroine who had embarked on a mission to change wrongs to rights. But since she had a power that did whatever the heck it wanted, she didn’t even know where to start.

  “Hey,” Sunny’s voice pulled her from her brooding. She opened her eyes to his young face, all wrinkled up with concern. “Don’t be like that. You’re with us now, and we always make things work. Watch and see.”

  She decided to believe him. She had no other choice. “I just wish…” she trailed off. There was so much she wished for right now. Too much to voice.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Jasper assured her, giving her arm a squeeze behind Sunny’s back. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Sarina sent him the most genuine smile she was able to muster at the moment, grateful to have him on her side.

  “And here’s a little something, just in case you ever need a reminder.” Jasper held out a balled-up fist. “Here. Take it.”

  Not sure what he was hiding, Sarina held out her hand. Jasper opened his fist and dropped a small figurine into her outstretched palm.

  A miniature King Kong.

  “Dancer and DJ saving the world,” she said.

  “Better believe it,” he replied with a grin.

  2.7 Interlude (Mrs. Clarence)

  San Francisco, USA

  Tuesday, the 5th of June, 2012

  10:30 a.m.

  “Come in!” Carol Clarence called out in response to the knock at the door. She quickly skimmed through the notes she’d taken during previous counseling sessions with her client, the keywords highlighted with pink highlighter.

  Among all of the challenges she’d been tasked with to date, Christina Chung was in the top three. It didn’t help that Mrs. Clarence was crunched for time. Instead of the usual six months to a year, Mr. Turner wanted the girl fit for service within a few weeks. How could she, the Wardens therapist, say no to the Secretary of Evolved Affairs?

  As usual, the client took her time when opening the door and stepping through. Granted, she didn’t hesitate nearly as long as she had for the first couple of sessions, but the speed at which she presented herself at her therapy sessions was still glacial.

  Oppositional defiant disorder, maybe. Or perhaps insecurity? Mrs. Clarence thought. Uncomfortable with her role as a future Warden, but always careful not to be overtly insolent. Most likely insecurity.

  The girl stepped through
the doorway wearing the same hooded sweatshirt as always. She changed her sweat pants frequently enough, but the sweater held some kind of significance which Mrs. Clarence hadn’t been able to identify. The introductory session had revealed an emotional connection to a young student named Ryan. However, any attempts at getting to the bottom of it resulted in sullen silence.

  “Good morning, Christina,” Mrs. Clarence offered, hoping to inspire a positive mood. As always, she strived to sound cheerful regardless of how she actually felt.

  “Morning,” the girl replied, curt as usual.

  Christina took her time, taking in the small office, looking around to detect any suspicious changes that might have been made since their last session. Her almond-shaped eyes flickered over the hardwood floor, the African landscape photographs, and the two opposing white armchairs, one of which was occupied by the therapist. The client’s eyes briefly settled on the small table with the tissue box between the chairs. The tissues were standard equipment. Some clients appreciated having them at hand when the questions started to touch on more personal issues. But Christina Chung had yet to reach that point.

  It was unfortunate. Mrs. Clarence suspected that the therapy would progress smoother if the girl would let go of her built-up emotional baggage. She had detached herself from it, though—a common coping mechanism with the risk of harmful long-term effects. In Christina’s case, the emotional barrier was extensive enough to suspect an influence by her powers.

  It isn’t all that surprising that a withdrawn teenager acquired some sort of shielding power, Mrs. Clarence determined.

  The government therapist maintained her smile, waiting for her client to take the initiative to sit down in the opposite armchair. Responds poorly to explicit advice or encouragement, she’d noted on her writing pad a few days ago.

  After a few seconds of hesitation, the girl sat in the chair opposite Mrs. Clarence, next to the window, crossing her arms over her chest and giving her counselor a sullen look. “Here we go again,“she said.

  “How are you today, Christina?”

  The girl shrugged, her head turned with her eyes glued to the window that was to the left of her seat.

  “Did anything come to mind since our last chat? Anything you feel is important?”

  “Not really.” Christina was still avoiding eye contact.

  Mrs. Clarence poised her pen to scribble a note. Lack of self-reflection, or prefers not to share it. When she looked up, she noticed her client was watching the ballpoint’s movement across the paper with a skeptical frown.

  Mrs. Clarence resisted the urge to ask about it. She’d already learned that the girl responded just as poorly to obvious attempts at ‘psychoanalyzing,’ as she called it, as she did to direct encouragement. The train of thought sparked an idea, however.

  “Let’s try something different today,” Mrs. Clarence suggested, setting the pen down on the armrest. “You ask the questions, and I’ll answer them. Ask anything that comes to mind. There are some questions I’d prefer not to answer, but I don’t have many secrets.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, and the frown disappeared from her face. Mrs. Clarence was pleased by the reaction. It showed real emotion for once.

  Perhaps we’ll make better progress by breaking the usual pattern.

  “Go ahead. Shoot.”

  “Um…” Christina droned. This was followed by a stretch of silence which lasted a good half minute. She brought the fingers of one hand up to her face, eyes never leaving her counselor as she rubbed her cheek.

  Her usual gesture of self-protection, the therapist noted in her head. Perhaps this was the girl’s holdover when cigarettes were out of her reach.

  Christina finally found her voice. “What exactly are you hoping to achieve with this reverse questioning thing?” she asked, unfurling her arms and lowering them from her chest.

  Mrs. Clarence interpreted the shift in the girl’s body language as a crack in her defenses. She might find a way through today. “I want you to be comfortable, and I’d like to get a conversation going,” she said.

  “Okay, sure. Do you have a family?” the fact that the girl brought up family before any other subject was quite telling.

  “Two cats, a former husband with whom I’m still on good terms, and a lovely mother who’s fit enough to be hiking in the Grand Canyon right now,” Mrs. Clarence said. “No children. Two brothers, both of whom are married to European women.”

  “Is your dad dead?” The girl’s voice didn’t reflect much in the way of emotion, but for once she didn’t hesitate.

  Shows an interest in other people, despite a few symptoms hinting at autism, the therapist mentally noted. Mrs. Clarence would have to have a follow-up chat with the girl’s mother after the session. If this is a recent change, it may have been triggered by her power classification. Varying personality changes had been confirmed in multiple post-transition cases even though they were often associated with extreme classification variants.

  “Yes, my father passed away,” she said, answering Christina’s question.

  The girl touched her face again. “Oh. Sorry for bringing it up.”

  “That’s all right. Death is a part of life. My father suffered a stroke while hiking a few years ago in a fairly isolated area. The emergency crew wasn’t able to revive him.”

  “How did you cope with that? The loss, I mean.”

  Searching for ways to deal with her feelings, though any help needs to be accepted on her own terms.

  “Not very well. At least, not right away,” Mrs. Clarence said. “I had a close relationship with my father. He always encouraged me to stand my ground and face any hardship head on. He taught me it was okay to get an average result as long as I was comfortable with it.” She saw an opening, and went for it. “Sometimes it’s okay not to cope, Christina. To break down and let it all out, and then recover later.”

  “It sucks when family dies,” Christina said, turning her face to look out the window. There was a distant look to her dark brown eyes, but both hands remained at her sides.

  Progress.

  “It does,” Mrs. Clarence agreed. She let the conversation hang in the air, hoping for the girl to pick it back up. When the client didn’t do her the favor, she decided to seize the moment to drive the advantage. “Do you feel ready to talk about your little brother? Dylan?”

  The girl’s features hardened, and her fingers twitched on the armchair. Still, she didn’t shut down. Not completely.

  Struggling to maintain autonomy in the presence of authority. Needs to feel like she’s in control.

  After a minute of silence, with Mrs. Clarence waiting for her, Christina looked up and met her therapist’s gaze. “You don’t pry much, for a psychiatrist. Most people don’t let me have my space. They all try to push me one way or another.”

  The therapist was gratified by the obvious step forward. Capable of true self-reflection and assessment of personal needs.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, Christina,” Mrs. Clarence said, her voice even. “I don’t have a degree in medicine, and I don’t prescribe medication. My mother wanted me to earn a medical degree, but I learned I was more comfortable in the role of a psychological counselor.”

  The girl gave a nod before straightening in her seat. “Could you, um, call me Chris? The people who call me Christina are usually always trying to control things. People like … your mom, I guess, or my dad.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Clarence agreed with an authentic cheerful note. The offered token of trust was a huge step forward. She kept the smile on her face as she waited for the girl to pick up the conversation again.

  “Dylan was still a baby,” Chris said finally, turning her face away from the patch of sunlight streaming in through the window. “Helen wasn’t home, and my parents had gone out. They were finally trusting me.” She paused there, as if picking out each memory carefully.

  Mrs. Clarence resisted the urge to reach for her pen. Watching the girl open up was like wa
tching a creature in the wild. She didn’t want to do anything to spook her.

  “I was watching a movie downstairs, and the baby alarm told me Dylan was awake. I wanted to have him with me for a little while. I liked holding him. He was the most … cuddly member of our family. He was always grabbing my fingers or pulling at my shirt. It was nice.”

  Lack of affection from other family members? Real or perceived? Mrs. Clarence added another topic to her mental list of things to bring up on the phone with Mrs. Chung, though she’d have to tread carefully around this one.

  The girl’s usual monotonous tone softened as she went on. “I went and picked him up from his crib and held him on my lap while I watched the movie. There were some peanuts on the table, and he grabbed one of them. And I … I did notice, I just … I guess I just didn’t think much about it.”

  Mrs. Clarence simply nodded. She’d sequestered a copy of the baby’s death certificate for her client’s file.

  “Mom had asked me to let him sleep, so I put him back in his crib. He was still holding that peanut. He was squeezing it in his little fist. And I didn’t … I didn’t take it away. Stupid, I guess. Then I … I went back downstairs.”

  Chris was clenching her hands into fists now. She had broken eye contact and was staring intently at the floor. The lines on her face were twisted in a multitude of creases unusual for someone so young.

  Pathological guilt. Possible post-traumatic stress disorder. Mrs. Clarence had to struggle to maintain a passive observer’s role.

  “I didn’t hear anything over the baby alarm. Maybe … I don’t know. Maybe the movie was too loud or something. When my parents got back, they went right upstairs to check on him. And then Mom … she screamed … it was so loud ….”

  The girl sucked in a deep breath to remain in control of her breathing. Mrs. Clarence just waited, not wanting to break the air of trust.

  Chris had shrunk back in her seat, struggling to hold back the tears. The minutes slowly passed before she was ready to pick up the story again.

  “I never saw him. I was too scared to look. But they said he … they said his little face was all blue. He had swallowed that dumb peanut. I swear I didn’t hear anything. If I had, then I … I would have gone to look.” Her voice broke on the last few words, making them barely intelligible.