by Drew Hayes
Mr. Transport stepped inside happily, goofy grin still firmly plastered in place.
130.
The interior of the building had an industrial feel to it. The tables were metal, the stools seemed cobbled together from lead pipes and wood. Tin sheeting adorned the walls, hunks of it cut away to make room for doorways and bars. Amidst the rough décor there were only still hints as to this establishment’s true purpose. Colorful lights ran along nearly every surface, unlit but still noticeable to the keen eye. An enormous slab of wood elevated an open area three inches up from the concrete floor, giant speakers near it almost, but not quite, concealed from view. The truly experienced partier would notice a few holes drilled in the upper part of the sheeting just above the wooden slab, a perfect size for a fog machine to spray its contents on the area below. It was a contrast of joy and efficiency, of work and play. It had definitely been constructed by Hershel and Roy’s father.
Hershel took all this in, comparing it to Roy’s memory from so many years ago and discovering more similarities than differences. Roy had made the mistake of coming at night; so much of the fine detail had escaped his attention. The place had been more distracting, and what he’d seen more distressing. This time he knew what he was walking into, and he could handle it. Seeing his father, however, Hershel was less confident in that regard. He really didn’t know what his first words would be to the man who had left them.
It didn’t take long to find out. As Hershel stood by the entrance, a large man stepped out from one of the doorways to the back. He was close to seven feet tall, his arms thicker than a bodybuilder’s legs, and his legs looked closer related to steel beams than human limbs. A dark beard was trimmed close so as to still show off his impressive jaw line and handsome face. In each hand he carried a silver keg, presumably full, although one wouldn’t have known that from the ease with which he slung them around.
Hershel found his breathing was no longer functional and his ability to keep his knees steady had all but vanished. It had been over a decade since he’d seen this man through anything but Roy’s memory, yet he was unmistakable. This giant could only be Titan, the unstoppable monster who left all but the most powerful criminals trembling at the mention of his name. Hershel cleared his throat accidently as he tried to suck in air and regain some semblance of mental balance.
The giant turned his head toward the sound and froze. A riotous clanking filled the air as the kegs clattered to the ground, gathering dents and ensuring that any beer inside would be undrinkable for days. It took less than five sizable strides for him to cross the room, stopping only a few inches from Hershel’s still somewhat shaky form. His father laid an enormous hand on each of Hershel’s shoulders and stared down at the boy, his face a tempest of emotions, each fighting for the right to be showcased. A single word escaped his mouth, deep and rich as a jazz singer and dripping with just as much emotion.
“Son.”
Hershel reared back and struck his father in the jaw with all the strength he had. It was a futile gesture: even most Heroes couldn’t put down this powerhouse. Still, sometime later, when Roy finally regained control of the body, he would look back on this memory and, despite all the other negative emotions that would be rolling through him at the time, feel a tremendous sense of brotherly pride.
* * *
It didn’t take long for the quiet tranquility of Alice’s beach house to be shattered by a slew of arrivals. Stella, Violet, Thomas, and Camille were the first ones to show up after the prep team. With the exception of Camille, everyone was at least partially intoxicated. It seemed Stella had wanted to pre-game and Violet had jumped on the idea, cajoling Thomas into at least partial participation. By the time they’d finally gotten the three girls set up in a room, Will, Jill, Julia, and Sasha had arrived. Sasha was uncharacteristically silent, avoiding conversation and even eye contact with anyone besides Julia. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d been talked into coming and was clearly regretting it. For her part, Camille went out of her way to greet the speedy girl and welcome her to the event. If anything, this only seemed to make Sasha retract further into her shell.
As the day wore on, more groups showed up at the door. Shane, Rich, Adam, Britney, and Amber all carpooled together. Selena and Tiffani were the last arrivals, appearing a few minutes after two. It was bedlam at first as people jockeyed to find open rooms with their friends, eventually culminating in the last folks hunkering down in the open bunk bed room that dominated most of the third floor. It was riotous but cheerful in spirit. Those intent on partying realized the odds of them making it to the appropriate bed were slim, and those intent on sobriety assumed they’d be more capable of getting back to their assigned space. By the time four in the afternoon appeared on the kitchen’s clock a variety of activities had begun.
There was a pool tournament at one of the billiards tables, complete with a tiered bracket system that would be impossible to maintain once a true zenith of intoxication was reached. Violet had organized a Power Hour in the living room, insistent that by week’s end they all be capable of completing a Bicentennial Club. Vince had started a beach volleyball game out in the sand; currently he and Thomas were two points up on the team of Shane and Will. Some of the girls were sitting on the deck, catcalling their male classmates and enjoying margaritas made from an actual drum-style machine rather than a blender and ice. Shockingly, it was Nick and Camille who were in the kitchen, preparing nachos, bacon sandwiches, and other assorted foods designed to satisfy munchies and offer at least some relief from the ravages of alcohol.
It was hectic, it was disorganized, it was highly irresponsible. It was exactly what everyone needed.
131.
“Drink this,” Hershel’s father said, placing a clear glass filled by a dull yellow liquid in front of him. “It will make your hand feel better.” He moved into the booth opposite his son and slid the concoction forward gently. Hershel reached for it with his right hand, winced, and switched to his left. It turned out that just because you couldn’t hurt someone with your punch didn’t mean their jaw couldn’t still injure the small bones in your hands. It would mend eventually; one trade with Roy and Hershel would be pain free. That would have to wait, unfortunately. Which reminded him...
“There’s no whiskey in this, is there?”
“Whiskey?”
“Yeah, whiskey.”
Hershel’s father shook his head. “Tequila, a few mixers, and a splash of vodka, but no whiskey.”
“Good.” Hershel took two oversized mouthfuls and gulped them down before lowering the glass. He found his father staring at him with an expression of curiosity.
“Whiskey makes you change now, right? After that weird procedure it doesn’t just happen unwanted; you set up a chemical trigger.”
“I see Mom has kept you up to speed.”
“Second year HCP, living as a Super, she even told me about your girlfriend. Of course, nothing she mentioned would explain why you felt the need to drive all the way out here and take a swing at me.”
“The punch wasn’t planned,” Hershel said, though he pointedly avoided anything that would make it sound like he was sorry. “I came out here for a different reason. Roy needs help.”
His father tilted his head and motioned for Hershel to continue, so he laid everything on the table. The wall he’d hit, the inability to break through, the growing frustration as well as the slowly-increasing gap between Roy and the others’ capabilities.
“So Roy is stuck at about, what, eight hundred pounds per arm you said?”
Hershel nodded, finishing off the remainder of his drink. His father had been right; it had indeed lessened the pain in his hand.
“Well, son, it seems to me-”
“Hershel.”
“What was that?”
“Hershel. That’s my name. Let’s stay away from familial terms, okay? You’re Owen, I’m Hershel, Roy is Roy.”
“Fine,” Owen Daniels said after a brief pause.
“I guess I deserve that. Anyway, Hershel, it seems to me you’ve got a pretty big problem. Curling just under a ton would get you through a lot of fights and manual labor jobs, but I’m afraid it won’t cut it if you want to be a Hero.”
“I know that.”
“No, you only suspected it. If you knew it then you would have drawn up a resignation in case I said I couldn’t help. Deep down you’re hoping that with enough skill maybe this wall won’t matter, that there will be another method that will keep Roy as a viable candidate. I’m crushing that delusion right now. Other Supers can get by without massive strength, but they have different talents to compensate. Not ones like us. We hit the living shit out of things, and if we can’t hit hard enough to knock them down then all we are is a liability to our teams. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Owen rose from the table and walked over to the bar with more grace than a man his size had any right to possess. He grabbed a full bottle and dumped a few pours of alcohol into a glass tumbler, then tossed in a trio of ice cubes. He came back and sat down, setting the brown drink carefully in front of him. He took a gentle sip to assess, and from the pleasure on his face, the alcohol seemed to meet his requirements.
“Good,” Owen repeated. “Because I didn’t just say all that to bum you out. I don’t want you thinking that all hope is lost, but I do feel that it’s important you keep your expectations realistic. That said, I can help you past this issue, and teach you how to deal with others of its kind that will eventually surface.”
“How? How can I do it?”
Owen held up a finger. “Not so fast. This isn’t going to be easy, and it isn’t going to be quick. I’m willing to help, but I want you to seriously commit to undertaking this training. I’ll take shit as your father, not as your teacher.”
“I’m sure Roy will-”
“We’ll deal with Roy later. I’m talking to Hershel right now. Roy isn’t some abstract entity, he’s a part of you. So if I’m going to do this, I want to hear you tell me you’ll do whatever it takes.”
Hershel slowly moved his head up and down. “If it will help Roy, I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Good.” Owen slid the glass of dark liquor across the table. Even from a distance, Hershel immediately recognized the familiar odor that wafted up from its depths. “Now drink that.”
“I can’t. That will turn me into Roy.”
“That’s the point,” Owen said, looking unflinchingly at his son.
“That’s not a good idea,” Hershel explained. “If I turn now, Roy will just storm out of here. We need to lay out a plan and outline how to help him before there’s a shot at him playing along.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You came to me, not vice versa. So I’m not proving myself to you. I know how to fix your problem. You obviously believe that, or you wouldn’t be here. Roy needs to believe that, too. This isn’t a case of fixing the issue and making him believe, it’s a case of him needing to believe in order to fix the issue.”
“I’m not sure he’ll listen,” Hershel said, his uncertainty written across his face.
“I promise, I won’t let Roy leave here. If nothing else, I’ll subdue him until you turn back,” Owen said.
Hershel had zero doubt that he could do it, too. There were many things that had been called into question regarding his father over the year, but the man’s awe-inspiring strength was not one of them. Still, the prospect of shifting right now seemed unwise. In the end, it didn’t feel like he really had a choice. He’d come here to find a solution, and now there was one sitting in front of him. The only thing standing in the way of helping Roy was... Roy. Hershel wanted to help, but this was as far as he could take things by himself. The rest was up to his brother.
In a single, practiced motion, Hershel grabbed the glass and emptied its contents down his throat. He set it back on the table and looked at his father one last time before his consciousness was gone.
“Good luck.”
132.
Nick, Vince, and Will sat on the house’s deck, watching the low moon reflect off the lapping ocean waters. Nick was nursing a beer while the other two sipped soda. Behind them the house gave off a dull roar of constant noise. The pre-gaming had led to its eventual outcome, a localized festival of intoxication. Thankfully, they’d been able to corral most people into eating dinner, even though it had been akin to herding mosquitoes as they darted from one target of interest to another. The three were not the only ones with some sobriety, the others of their ilk merely sought sanctuary in different locations.
“Good thing Alice doesn’t have neighbors,” Will pointed out as the music increased in volume. The farthest house from them was a good six-minute walk, visible but not so close that they could make out details. It seems that Charles Adair enjoyed his space when purchasing an abode.
“Much louder and I wouldn’t be shocked if the police are called anyway,” Vince said.
“Nah. Even if they were home, which they aren’t, it’s spring break. As long as nothing is on fire and no one is dying, a little noise is low on the cops’ priority list,” Nick countered. “Admittedly, we’ve got a good party going.”
“I’m surprised you’re out here with us,” Vince said. "You like this kind of thing."
“I do, but burning yourself out on day one is a rookie mistake. This is a marathon. If you go too hard too fast you’ll find yourself unable to function by day three. The trick is to ease your liver into it. Besides, it’s not even eight yet. I’ve got a lot of night left to burn.”
“The way they’re going, I’d be surprised if they made it past ten,” Will pointed out.
“Guess you didn’t see the pantry full of Red Bull then, did you?”
“No. No, I did not.”
“You know, I think this is really cool,” Vince said suddenly.
“Yes, Vince, an enormous beach house stocked with friends and alcohol definitely qualifies as at least pretty cool.”
“No, not that. I mean, that is great, but I was talking about how many of our classmates came to join us.”
“It was a hard offer to resist,” Will said.
“I know, but... I was just thinking about the beginning of the year. We were so worried about how everyone would react to us. We even got warned that some people would treat us like pariahs and hate us. Yet less than a year later, here we are. All drinking and vacationing together. No one really cares that we used to be Powereds. We’re all just students trying to get through this together. That’s what I think is great.”
Nick and Will exchanged glances. Despite specializing in different areas, they were easily the smartest members of their class, and as such they’d both seen what Vince couldn’t. Some of the camaraderie was based on genuine friendship: people like Will or Thomas or Violet had all gone out of their way to show they cared more about who the Melbrook residents were than what they had been. That was far from the case with everyone. Many of the others regarded them as a science fair experiment that had encroached into their everyday lives. The only thing that preserved civility was a simple lack of concern. Every HCP student had their own fears and challenges to deal with. Right now they were too preoccupied with their own advancement to start looking at each other as genuine competitors. As the slots grew fewer, that would change, and those undertones of hate would be sure to surface. They were living in an illusion of acceptance, and both boys knew it.
“It is pretty impressive,” Will agreed.
“True. Sort of gives you hope for the world,” Nick added.
Sooner or later people would show themselves for what they were. Still, if Vince was lucky enough to believe he was surrounded by friends, there was no need to shatter his delusion. For now, at least, he could be happy.
* * *
“So far, so good,” Mary said.
“No one is dead, we’ve hydrated them enough to avoid alcohol poisoning, and the tents are up without anything being lit o
n fire,” Chad recounted.
“So far,” Mary pointed out.
“So far,” Chad agreed.
The two were having a brief respite around one of the unattended fires that had earlier been used for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. The drunken teens had lost interest once their stomachs were full, choosing instead to chase the twin pleasures of booze and members of the opposite sex in swimsuits. Chad had nonchalantly hung a trash bag filled with condoms from a mirror on the bus and both chaperones were making a point of being nowhere near it. The point wasn’t to embarrass anyone, it was just to make sure no one had to drop out of HCP due to pregnancy.
“I was expecting worse,” Mary said after a few minutes of listening to the fire crackle.
“We were a little worse,” Chad said. “Roy and Stella had already had a scuffle by now. Not to mention Gilbert finding it exceedingly funny to teleport off with girls’ tops.”
“I am just so very glad I wasn’t here for that.”
Chad showed a rare smile, the firelight almost reflecting off the gleaming veneer of his teeth. “It didn’t last long. After he snagged Britney and Tiffani’s tops, Angela got involved. Gilbert was the model of behavior for the rest of the trip.”
“That girl is something else. I’ve never even seen her fight, but I still feel like she’d mop the floor with me,” Mary said.
“It wouldn’t be that bad, but you would lose. Angela is quite an exceptional warrior.”
“Sounds like you admire her,” Mary said carefully.
“Very much so. I’m lucky she’s taken an interest in me and helped me improve my own skills. I doubt I would have managed so much growth over this year if not for her.”
“She’s quite pretty, too,” Mary pointed out.
“That she is,” Chad agreed. His voice sounded almost... wistful? It was hard to tell with him, he was almost always so detached in his mannerisms. “Anyway, is spite of our antics, she ran a tight ship during our time here. Good thing, too; I’m truly amazed no one managed to hurt themselves.”