Super Powereds: Year 2

by Drew Hayes

  “It is a sad truth that not every member of every family gets along. Perhaps Professor Hill and Alice’s father are not on amiable enough terms for him to see his niece.”

  “Maybe. But it seems sort of funny that two people who served on a team together would be that distant from one another.”

  “That was decades ago. People and friendships can change tremendously in that amount of time.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Nick acquiesced. “Anyway, it’s none of my business; I got what you asked me for.”

  “That you did,” Professor Pendleton agreed. “As I said, you pass.”

  “Glad to hear it.” With that, Nick threw his backpack over his shoulder and sauntered out of the room, on to his next class and deception.

  As Nick exited a small grin grew across Professor Pendleton’s face. It bloomed into the kind of smile that was often described as a ‘cat that got the canary’ smirk. It had been a while since Professor Pendleton had seen a plan come together so well; he’d almost forgotten about the tingle that flowed through his fingers or the light euphoria that danced in his brain.

  “By the by,” Nick said, sticking his head back through the door. “I figured all that out in the first two days of break. By the fifth day I’d realized from the coincidences that you set me up to draw Professor Hill precisely so I would uncover all that information. They were all things you wanted me to know but couldn’t tell me. So I went back and did some more extensive research. It was so extensive, in fact, that I discovered the thing you were hoping I wouldn’t find. Just wanted to let you know. Toodles.”

  With that Nick was gone, leaving only a very flustered professor whose grin had vanished like a ninja in smoke.

  94.

  Vince stepped out of the men’s locker room to find that he was surrounded. Stella stood directly before him, a vantage point which he would later reflect had to offer some views of what transpired inside, Violet to his right and a somewhat uncomfortable looking Thomas was at his left. The girls had very serious looks of sternness on their faces, while Thomas more looked like he might have had a disagreeable meal that was only now making its presence known.

  “Um, hey, guys. What’s up?”

  “Not much,” Stella said in a tone that made it quite clear that much was indeed up. “How about you? Having a nice day? Any big plans for the weekend?”

  “It was good so far,” Vince replied hesitantly. “I’ll probably just do the usual this weekend. Train and study and maybe catch a movie.”

  “Mmmmmhmmmmm.” Violet made the sound somewhere in the middle of her throat, allowing it to sound both casual and disapproving. “I told you so, Stella.”

  “Now, Violet, we agreed to give him a chance,” Stella said, moving only her eyes. Those glaring orbs soon turned back to Vince, unfortunately. “So that’s all? Training, studying, and maybe a movie? You’re sure there’s not anything else on your schedule for this weekend? Nothing of significant importance that may have slipped your mind just now?”

  “Pretty sure.” Vince found his body sliding itself into a defensive stance, even though he wasn’t certain why.

  “Typical,” Violet sighed. “Even the nice ones are as considerate as rocks.”

  “I’m really confused,” Vince admitted.

  “One of your teammates has a birthday this weekend,” Stella explained. “We were hoping you’d taken the time to at least put something together.”

  “I don’t think so,” Vince disagreed. “Hershel and Nick both have theirs in summer, Mary’s is over Christmas break, and Alice’s isn’t for another few months.”

  “Typical,” Violet repeated.

  Stella jabbed a surprisingly bony finger into Vince’s sternum. “Camille. You know, the small one who could have been on a top tier team but instead decided to help you guys out? The sweet one who goes to every practice, ignoring the fact that she has her skills down pat, because she wants to show team spirit? The girl who encouraged all of us to support you people after your little revelation, and who evidently you don’t think of as a teammate just because she isn’t in the guinea pig club?”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh’ is fucking right,” Stella agreed.

  “But she never told any of us when her birthday was,” Vince defended lamely.

  “She never tells anyone,” Violet countered. “She doesn’t do anything to draw attention to herself. You’ve worked with her for a half a year and you didn’t notice that? We found out by invading her privacy and prying into her life, just like good friends should.”

  Vince glanced at Thomas, hoping for support. Thomas squirmed in place as a response. Had it been a villain or a monster of any caliber, Thomas would happily have stood at his friend’s side and faced the impossible odds in battle. Against these two... even bravery has its limits.

  Stella, meanwhile, was rearing for another assault. “And another thing-”

  “You’re right,” Vince interrupted, his eyes falling from Thomas to the floor.

  The proverbial wind seemed to slip a bit from Stella’s sails. “What was that?”

  “I said you’re right. Camille is always so supportive of everyone, and we just took her for granted. It didn’t even occur to me to figure out when her birthday was, but I should have. Just because she didn’t used to be Powered doesn’t mean she isn’t one of us. It was inconsiderate and selfish.”

  “Well, at least this one can admit when it’s wrong,” Violet said.

  Stella’s glare was still quite imposing, but she lowered her finger and Vince’s chest relaxed accordingly. “Make sure you don’t let it happen again. We love that girl, and we hate to see her go unappreciated.”

  “I won’t,” Vince promised. Stella saw something in his eyes at that moment, a piece of the greater whole that was Vince Reynolds. She was not one to take people at their word, but in that instant, she had a feeling that when Vince made a promise even the gods counted it as done.

  “Good,” Stella said. “Now, since this isn’t about shaming you as much as it is about making Camille feel good, we went ahead and put something together. You’re going to invite her to a birthday dinner at the Karaoke Barn on Saturday night. We’ll spread the word around to other students after you’ve told her.”

  “I don’t know if it is right for me to take credit for the plans you organized.”

  “What do you think would mean more to Camille, finding out we threw her another party or finding out the team she’s been working with thought so much of her that they beat us to it?” Violet asked. She couldn’t say the other part, the piece about how it really mattered that Vince was the one who invited her. Last year the small girl had tried every trick in the book to weasel out of her own event. If it was something put together for her especially by Vince, on the other hand, Violet had a feeling not even the apocalypse wouldn’t keep her away.

  “Then shouldn’t the captain be the one to invite her?” Vince asked.

  Stella and Violet glanced at each other. That was a good point, and one they hadn’t thought of. It was Thomas who came to their aid, accidently justifying their decision to drag him along.

  “The captain isn’t the one who organizes the fun; the captain is the one who leads the team. Goof-off events should really come from someone else, if only for the sake of appearances.”

  “I guess that makes sense; usually Nick is the one who recommends all the things we do to waste time,” Vince agreed.

  “Glad you’re on board,” Stella said, retaking control of the conversation. “Karaoke Barn, Saturday night at seven. I expect to get a panicked call from her by tonight or so help me our next visit won’t be so pleasant.” Stella turned on her heel and began walking away, Violet only a few steps behind.

  Thomas paused a moment before following. “They really do mean well.”

  “I’m sure they do. Still not positive why my heart is beating so fast,” Vince noted.

  “Just be glad they like you enough to take it easy. I’ve seen
them come down hard on people and it’s not a pretty sight.” Thomas jogged off to catch up with the girls, leaving a stunned Vince by himself to recover.

  95.

  “Mr. Murray, am I boring you?”

  Will swiveled his head toward the chemistry professor, who was glaring at him as snickers of his classmates filled the room. “No, sir.”

  “Then why have you not looked at your book once in last ten minutes?”

  It was true; Will confirmed it with a dart of his eyes to the clock. He’d let his mind wander to more essential tasks and his focus had gotten away from him. The truth was Will’s attendance to this class was purely out of courtesy in the first place. He was already well-acquainted with every concept that would be covered and could likely teach the professor a few lessons on the subject matter. That was the HCP side of Will, however; up here he had to pass for a normal student, he had to be like everyone else.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s your education, Mr. Murray. I can’t force you to take it seriously; but, if you don’t fix your attitude, I’m sure the results will be apparent by the end of this course.”

  “I’ll do better, sir.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The professor began to lecture again, and Will made a point of staring at his book as his concentration ebbed away. He couldn’t help it; this morning he’d seen Jill field a call from Glenn during a class. It wasn’t surprising that he called when he knew she couldn’t answer, or that she almost picked up the phone anyway. No, the worrying part was that when she’d glanced at the phone Will saw The Look on her face. It was a mixture of uncertainty, worry, and just a trace of fear. It meant that the Glenn situation had progressed to the point where Jill faced repercussions for something as simple as an unanswered call. It had been a long time since Will saw The Look on his sister’s face, and he’d hoped with all he had to never see it again.

  * * *

  Snow had fallen two days ago, but the streets downtown didn’t tolerate such pleasantries for long. Heat from passing cars had turned the white powder into a grey slush that ran in dark rivers down the drains positioned at key points along the corners. It was not a scene appropriate to any holiday, let alone Christmas, but people who moved here didn’t do it in search of picturesque nostalgia. One mound of dirty slush bore a small bootprint, made by a boy no more than ten years old. This was discernible not by an exceptional means of deduction, but rather by the fact that the boy in question stood only a few feet away from his inadvertent mark.

  He was a lean boy, bearing the figure of one who is either in the middle of or just completing a growth spurt. The store window he stood in front of was dark, but the light from the streetlamps reflected off of his thick glasses housed in quite unfashionable frames. His gaze was unwavering from the storefront set before him; even as the wind tugged at his too-thin jacket, the boy’s focus never slipped. Neither did the brick clutched tightly in his hand.

  Will Murray, never Billy or Bill or even the proper William, for those names lacked a very specific characteristic, took mental inventory of the poorly-lit hardware store from his stance on the street. Power saws, sanders, chainsaws, the place had an ample supply of base mechanical parts. It also held a section for computer hardware; the owners had felt that offering both types of product would widen their demographic and hopefully double their business. What they had learned instead was that the people who work on computers and the people who work with industrial tools are very rarely comfortable around one another. It was why they hadn’t gotten a store in a better part of town, it was why their alarm system had been cheap and taken no time to disengage, and it was why Will had chosen this store out of all the others he knew about.

  His arm was getting tired. Will was hesitating and he knew it. This was the last place where he could still walk away from everything. Hurling the brick would quite literally be the point of no return. He’d have to push forward, no matter what happened. Will was a very smart child; he knew that the odds dictated almost exclusively negative endings following this course of action. Even if he succeeded, this was a serious crime. With a criminal history on his resume it would be almost impossible to get into the Hero Certification Program one day, to say nothing of the time he’d spend in juvenile hall. It had been his dream for so long, and now that they were finally willing to call what he had a certifiable power, he was going to shatter that dream right along with this storefront window.

  Jill would call him stupid. Jill would say he should think about the future, not be so impulsive. Jill wasn’t here; their mother had won custody of her in the divorce. Jill would say she was fine, she would say they were only little bruises and their mother so rarely lost control to that point. Jill didn’t understand patterns of escalation. Jill couldn’t fathom the depths of their mother’s instability. Jill refused to acknowledge that her injuries were getting bigger and showing up more frequently. Will saw all of it; he saw what had come to pass and what lurked on the horizon. Will had seen The Look in his sister’s face when their mother picked her up today. Will understood it was only a matter of time before Jill became hurt in a way that could never be repaired.

  The glass made a tinkling sound as it rained to the ground. Will had expected something louder, more ear-catching. He supposed that was due to the exaggerations of cinema and their over-the-top sound effects. Will was surprised to realize he felt calmer than he had before the throw. Perhaps it was because there was no longer anything to fret over. The die, or in this case brick, had been cast. The ramifications were upon him regardless of how he proceeded from here. Knowing that, it was clear that the logical choice was to do his very best to save Jill before the repercussions caught up to him.

  The boy stepped carefully over the jagged shards of his dream and the storefront glass. It was a shame; he had genuinely wanted to be a Hero someday. The idea was pleasant, but ultimately irrelevant. No Hero was going to help Jill, no cape-wearing champion would steal her away from the house where she regularly cowered in fear. Only her brother, only Will, would be the one to save her. There was a soft click as Will turned on his flashlight, a dim beam of light slicing through the dark interior. The time for reflection was done; now was the time for action.

  Will Murray, the only moniker he accepted of all the nickname options because it appropriately rhymed with his sister’s, pulled off his mitten and began to work.

  96.

  “Most of you did quite well on your emotional recognition assignment,” Professor Pendleton said, handing back stacks of photos that each student had been tasked with assessing. Some of the faces were enthusiastic in their expression, while others were little more than deadpan. Each had to be plumbed for their contents; seeing what existed beneath the surface was a key aspect for anyone in the Subtlety field, especially in regards to reading people.

  “Of course, there were some students who showed significantly less competence.” Alice’s paper was dropped dramatically on her desk, just in case anyone had been wondering who the professor was referring to. She bit her lip to hold back the flush of shame that was trying to mar her normally perfect skin. This was a technique Nick had taught her; pain took higher precedence in the brain’s hierarchy than embarrassment so it reacted to the injury instead of humiliation.

  Alice hadn’t expected to ace the assignment: while she had practice reading people, her skill depended on things like tone and inflection more than just facial composition. She had at least hoped not to embarrass herself. At this point she just wanted to get through to the end of the year when Subtlety would undoubtedly be dropped from her schedule. Sadly, it looked as though she had a long way to go before she reached that finish line.

  “I thought this week we’d do something a little more active than our usual analysis work,” Professor Pendleton announced after dropping the last stack of papers with its owner. “You all are going to be learning the art of tailing.”

  The class looked at him with piqued interest. Most s
tudents would know the term, but likely wouldn’t be excited by the subject matter. Professor Pendleton’s class didn’t contain “most students.” These were the ones who adored the topics he covered and hungered for practice as they grew bloated with theory. Tailing would provide that; there was no way to master it without a fair bit of actual doing.

  “This will be a game called Watching and Spotting, the goal of which is to achieve five points by this time next week. The Watching part of your assignment will be to follow someone from this class for a span of three hours without being noticed. You must document their activities carefully, as this will be the proof that you succeeded. Completing this task will earn you one point.” Professor Pendleton stepped across the room, forcing their eyes to follow. He was keenly proud of this exercise and he wanted to make certain they paid full attention for the explanation of it.

  “Conversely, Spotting occurs if you should find yourself being followed. You may document the timeframe during which you see your pursuer and turn it in for one point. This will, of course, negate the Watcher’s point.”

  “Wait, so if we watch someone without getting spotted we get a point, but if they see us then they’re the one to actually get a point?” Alice asked.

  “Correct,” Professor Pendleton confirmed. “A timeframe and activity log must be presented along with the notice of a Spot. It will be compared to the notes the Watcher submits, and if the Spot does not match at least one hour out of the three of pursuit, then the Spot will not be counted.”

  This time it was Julia who interrupted the professor. “You’re saying when we watch someone, we don’t know if they spot us or not. That comes out when everyone turns their stuff in. So if we don’t know if we were caught then how do we know if we have enough points to pass?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Oh.” Julia looked visibly disturbed.