Super Powereds: Year 2

by Drew Hayes

“Don’t go counting me out until it’s over.”

  She was beaten in two more moves. Mr. Numbers cleared the board while Mary went to attend to the undesirable task of dragging Alice out of bed. She wasn’t surprised, not really. She never came close to beating Mr. Numbers. It was as impossible as beating Roy in an arm wrestling contest. Mary wisely understood that losing could still teach a person quite a bit, so she persisted in her weekly habit of being clobbered despite any sense of progress. Mr. Numbers occasionally opined that such persistence was one of the habits that made her a good leader and might one day make her a good Hero. If he being truly honest with himself, he might have admitted that these thoughts were actually less opinion than they were hope; however, Mr. Numbers was seldom that honest with anyone, especially himself.

  * * *

  Alice lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was trying to sleep; however, her body had expelled her from dreamland some hours earlier and was having none of her attempts to gain re-entry. She wanted to fall back into blissful slumber because she knew that once her feet left the covers, her day had to begin. She would need to talk to the professors about the crashing lights, because while she was skeptical she had the ability to do something like that, it seemed far too big of a coincidence to ignore. She’d probably have to find Rich and apologize at some point; Mary and Alex had confirmed that whatever had gone on in her mind probably wasn’t created by him. Alice had heard the words at the time, but they couldn’t register until after she’d calmed down. She might owe Nick a new shirt: she was fairly certain the makeup she’d had on would stain most materials when combined with tears.

  All of these were reasons she was still on her back despite the slowly rising sun, but they weren’t the main one. In her heart of hearts, the reason Alice didn’t want to get up is that once she accepted this new day, her mother would be dead again. She’d had a brief taste of hope and it had soured the whole of reality for her. It wasn’t surprising that her psyche would dream up something as twisted as a mysterious stranger telling her that her mother was actually alive. Not surprising, but exasperating. Yet here she was, still clinging on to that little piece of her that wanted to believe that somehow it was true. That part would evaporate when she got up. There was no room for such childish delusions in the cold wastelands of the real world.

  There was a soft knock on her door. “Alice, are you up yet?” It was Mary. Of course it was Mary. She was coming by to check on her, to help make things right. That was what Mary did. Alice said nothing, just kept staring at the ceiling.

  “We’ve got an appointment with Dean Blaine in an hour. I’ll come back in fifteen minutes, but if you’re still asleep, I’ll have to wake you up.” There was a sound of footsteps walking away, barely discernible through the thick door.

  Alice wondered how she’d make good on that threat. Could she levitate the bed without seeing it? Maybe she’d have Mr. Transport teleport her in here. She’d find a way; Alice had no doubt of that. The alarm clock was blinking ten o’clock. That meant they needed to be in the office at eleven. She could keep wasting time here and throw herself together at the last minute, or she could get up and put on her armor. Mascara, blush, eye shadow, heels, straightened hair, an hour of effort to appear as if she were effortlessly beautiful. Alice didn’t need all of that; she was naturally gorgeous. She did it because it made her feel stronger, like she had some control over the world around her. She needed to feel stronger today. She needed it very badly.

  Alice swung her feet over the edge of her bed and plopped onto the floor. She winced, ever so slightly, and then set about getting ready for the day ahead.

  66.

  Roy was in the gym. He’d planned on taking some time off from training, but after Friday’s little burst of craziness, he wasn’t able to resist. He lifted the weights, ultra dense circles designed specifically designed for people like Roy. They made it possible to really push oneself without having to go to a train yard or other such place.

  Roy finished his set of bicep curls and grabbed a pair of weights one increment heavier. Roy took a deep breath, focused with all his will, and began to lift. The weights made it halfway up before his arms gave out. There was a thunderous crunching sound as they shattered the concrete beneath his feet.

  “Damn it!” Roy resisted the urge to drive his fist into the wall, but only because of the throbbing pain already coming from his biceps. This was bullshit. He’d hit this wall over a month ago and he’d been trying to break through it since. It made no sense; he’d tripled the number of reps he could do just one weight unit lower but he still couldn’t get even one lift at the higher level. It was like his body had reached a limit and no matter what he did, it wasn’t willing to budge. Roy was growing concerned that this was as far as his power could go. It was a fear that had become stronger with each failed attempt.

  Seeing Alice’s spectacle had both inspired and terrified him. It gave him hope that maybe he had some ability that had yet to be discovered, but it also made him wonder if he was getting passed up by the others. Alice had some new skill, Vince had grown by leaps and bounds, Mary had always been stronger than he was, and it turned out Nick had been concealing a rapier intellect. All Roy could do was punch hard. He’d been okay with that, too; it was a skill that was always in demand. If he couldn’t get stronger than this, however, then it was only a matter of time until he started to become useless. He hadn’t been able to hurt George, and he doubted that had changed despite his progress. There were others out there, people even stronger than his former kidnapping coach. A Hero with Roy’s power needed to be able to play on their level, a level that Roy seemed banned from.

  He let his arms heal for a moment, then moved on to the bench press. There was another wall here, and on the shoulders, the legs, everything really. Roy was spinning his wheels, and he couldn’t think of any way to get traction again. He pressed on regardless, if only because of an unspoken hope that soon he’d push just hard enough to break through.

  That hope was getting dimmer by the day.

  * * *

  “You’ll find their complete recollections of the incident in the packets, along with some footage I confiscated from a few cell phones,” Dean Blaine said, sliding the manila envelope across his desk. Professor Hill picked it up and scanned through it quickly; there were only a few documents along with a USB drive taped to the inner back of the envelope.

  “Confiscated, huh? Told them they’d accidently caught something classified, I assume.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How kind of you, especially considering that what happened could almost be looked at as a violation of the secret identity rule,” Professor Hill pointed out.

  Dean Blaine raised an eyebrow. “You have an objection?”

  “Not at all, you know that. I’m just bringing up a point that someone else will raise eventually.”

  “If they did, I would simply remind them that the rule is designed to keep our students in line when dealing with regular humans, not punish them for having the misfortune to make a discovery about their abilities while in public. Ms. Adair’s ferocious beating of Mr. Weaver aside, she didn’t intend for the gravity spasm to occur. She’s never experienced anything like it before and couldn’t have intentionally summoned it if she tried.”

  “Gravity manipulation,” Professor Hill said, turning his eyes back to the file. “Given her genetics I always suspected that’s where her flight came from.”

  “Hope is not the same thing as suspicion,” Dean Blaine corrected. “Besides, nothing is confirmed yet. It could be an aspect of Mr. Weaver’s abilities that manifested in distress.”

  Professor Hill snorted. “Yeah, right. We both know that’s unlikely. He did have good reason to be distressed, I’ll say that. I’m surprised by how much damage she did. Maybe you need to pull her from Subtlety and stick her in Close Combat.”

  “Mmm, I’m sure you’d like to see me redistribute the bulk of Professor Pendleton’s studen
ts in such a fashion.”

  “You and I both know that specialty is all trouble. The last person you had teaching it was an undercover kidnapper, and the most qualified person to replace her is a convict. I think that says it all.”

  “Subtlety walks a dangerous line, I won’t disagree with you on that. Not all of the Heroes who turn to crime have their concentration in it, however. Raze and George were both specialized in Close Combat, and Globe got his HCP major in Control, just like you.”

  “Three examples. The mass of them still come from Subtlety.”

  “Subtlety is an established part of the HCP agenda. I have neither the power nor the inclination to remove it. As for Professor Pendleton, I heard your objections when I offered him the job. They were weighed and considered before I made my decision. Now I’d suggest you worry less about his class and more about how you’ll assist your own student.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss. I’ll start by helping her figure out how to access that part of her ability. What did Rich do to piss her off so much, anyway?”

  Dean Blaine hesitated. He needed to approach this carefully, given Professor Hill’s sensitivities. “He sealed her, along with Mr. Campbell and Ms. Smith, in their minds to prove a point. Ms. Adair experienced a rather upsetting vision while so incapacitated and thought Mr. Weaver had inflicted it on her purposely. All current investigations point to that not being the case, so at the end of the day it was a simple misunderstanding that got out of hand.”

  “What was her vision?”

  “I believe it was something about her mother. A false hope her brain cobbled together. Completely understandable given her past.” Dean Blaine watched Professor Hill carefully, eyes searching for any signs of repressed anger. He saw an initial flare-up, which simmered down as reason stepped in.

  “I see. And we’re sure it wasn’t Rich?”

  “Multiple telepaths confirmed he was surprised by the revelation,” Dean Blaine replied.

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll use that route for training, but it’s good to know at least.” Professor Hill rose from his seat. “She’s expecting to stay after class on Monday, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Good. Thanks for the heads up and everything,” Professor Hill said, clutching the file tightly in his hand.

  “Thank you for coming in to meet on a weekend,” Dean Blaine replied. Professor Hill gave a curt nod and exited, leaving the dean alone to wonder just what those Melbrook students would throw at him next.

  67.

  Monday brought, along with an extra class for Alice, a pre-class gathering for all the sophomores. They clustered together in the gym, milling about while the teachers took their damned sweet time in making whatever announcement was pending. Most already suspected that they knew the subject matter: given that they’d just crested the hill into November, the only pertinent thing looming was midterms. After last year’s labyrinth, the room was rife with rumor on what waited for them before the winter break. Some believed it would be a team match pitting them against a professor. Others speculated it would be a solo endeavor featuring grueling mental and physical punishment. Most assumed it would at least suck, and the ones who didn’t were among the few who hadn’t yet been significantly challenged by any of the tests the HCP had presented. The one thing none of them were expecting was what turned out to be the truth.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Dean Blaine said, stepping forward with the six professors at his rear. “I just had a quick announcement to make. I’m sure most of you are wondering when your midterms will be. Well, as far as the HCP goes, there will not be any.”

  He was met with untrusting stares, too certain of deception to even bother with murmuring. It was understandable; the HCP wasn’t exactly known for its easygoing policies.

  “I can see you’re all skeptical. While that’s a good thing, in this case it’s unwarranted. You see we don’t do midterms for sophomores for a few reasons. First off, the midterms for students in the other years are very time-consuming to set up - so much so that adding a fourth to our schedule would likely be impossible. Secondly, all the team events that sophomores participate in give us ample data for evaluation; adding a test in the middle of the year wouldn’t make much difference either way. It would be a poor use of time and resources, so enjoy the free pass. It will be the only year you receive it, and I expect your grades in other classes to pick up proportionately. That will be all.”

  The chorus of whispers Dean Blaine had been expecting finally materialized when he turned his back. They still wouldn’t accept it for a while, and a few would spend the next month and a half waiting for a surprise test that would never come. Hopefully they’d put this free time to good use; heaven knows they wouldn’t get many more opportunities like this in the coming years. Free time dissolved after year two, the rest of college whipping by in a blur until there were only a few weeks until the final hurdle to graduation. Year two was the last time they’d really get to stop and catch their breath, and when they did, they’d find their chests had grown tight with fear, paralyzed with a crippling terror of what would happen if they failed – one that would only grow stronger the nearer they drew to their goal.

  * * *

  Blaine stood out on the balcony, wishing he could smoke. He’d burned a few in high school, but that habit had gotten squashed out of him after his first week in the HCP. The workouts were hard enough without a diminished lung capacity. His fingers still itched for a cigarette, especially when he was stressed or had the taste of bourbon in his mouth. He wondered if the cravings would ever completely go away. They said it happened eventually, but “they” said a lot of things that turned out to be bullshit.

  Blaine heard the door open behind him and felt the cool air waft out from the apartment. Clarissa’s place had an amazing view, but the price was standing in the unseasonable heat. It was still early summer, yet Blaine was certain he’d sweated through his shirt and that only his suit jacket was concealing the shame. He wondered if that’s why a jacket was part of such fancy ensembles in the first place.

  “Man, you’ve got the right idea. I need a little fresh air; that place is too loud and stuffy.” Blaine knew the voice instantly, as he knew every voice in attendance that night. All of them belonged to his classmates in the HCP, all save for one. It was the unique voice that he knew best of all, and that voice was part of why he stood on the balcony suppressing a craving instead of socializing with everyone else.

  Fortunately, his new companion was not the owner of that voice. This one belonged to Joshua, who came to the railing and looked over the city with him.

  “Hard to believe in a few weeks we’ll all be going in different directions,” Joshua remarked.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Any idea who you’ll be apprenticing under?”

  “There aren’t any official offers made until after graduation,” Blaine pointed out.

  “Come on, man, you and I both know you’ll be one of the ten. You can’t tell me you haven’t gotten a few feelers already.”

  “There may have been some inquiries. Genogong and Grey Earl have been particularly persistent,” Blaine admitted.

  “Wow, those two are pretty impressive,” Joshua complimented. “All I’ve gotten so far is a vague interest from Shade Slime.”

  “More will come after the test,” Blaine assured him.

  “Maybe. I’m not exactly the most impressive of our lot, power-wise.” Joshua said this with an easygoing smile that never seemed to leave his lips. It was the truth, but only because of the tremendous crop of talent their class had yielded. Besides, what Joshua might lack in showmanship, he made up for in reliability and charm. He had knack for turning everyone into a friend, and given the competiveness of their environment, that was almost more useful than his actual power.

  “I’m positive you’ll get a solid offer,” Blaine said. “I can’t imagine anyone underestimating you once they see what you can do.”

  “I’ll hope for the
best, that’s all any of us can do.” Joshua pulled a flask from his own jacket pocket. He carefully unscrewed the top and offered the container to Blaine. “Care for a nip? I know you prefer bourbon to the wine Clarissa stocked.”

  Blaine didn’t bother asking why he would have a flask of that brand on hand; the answer was evident. It was to appease the woman Joshua had come with, the one who Blaine had introduced to this beverage in the first place. He accepted the flask and took a short draw.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Joshua said, taking his own sip. He swished it around as he debated how to broach the subject on his mind. Eventually he decided the straightforward route was the best option. “Look, not to make this uncomfortable or anything, but I just wanted to make sure you and I are cool.”

  Blaine bit back a scathing retort and soothed his temper. He didn’t have any right to act that way, not when Joshua had been so honest and forthright with him from the beginning. “Of course we are. Miriam and I broke up over three years ago. I’m glad the two of you have found happiness with one another.”

  “I appreciate that,” Joshua replied. “I really like dating her; I think we might have a future together. Let me know if it gets awkward, okay? I don’t have to bring her to all our events if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “I will make certain to tell you if that becomes an issue.” Blaine would cut out his own tongue before he’d actually let it speak those words.

  “Cool,” Joshua said, taking another sip from the flask. “Cool.”

  “Did Gerard have any trouble scrubbing the stain from the tea out?” Blaine was unabashedly changing the subject. He’d had a small incident during Clarissa’s serving ceremony which resulted in him spilling tea on Gerard’s pants. He’d said it was because of the heat of the cup, but the truth was he’d seen Miriam grab Joshua’s thigh. In that instant his coordination had simply deserted him.

  “He got most of it; I think a good dry-cleaner can fix the rest,” Joshua told him. “Once you do graduate maybe your Hero name should be Butterfingers.”