by Drew Hayes
“After today I can believe it. Weird that they don’t send a healer along on these trips,” Mary said.
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“To be honest, I thought it was intentional. A way to remind us that in the outside world things can’t automatically be mended, be they bodies or property. It forces them to live with the consequences of their choices, even if only for a week.”
“Or the school’s healers demanded they be allowed this week off,” Mary suggested.
Chad looked back at her with another thin smile. “I suppose that makes sense, too.”
133.
Three tables were overturned, two more were broken beyond repair, and a sizable dent was visible in one of the walls, but Roy had finally been subdued. Owen held his still weakly-struggling son in a headlock from behind, giving him enough air to stay conscious but not so much that he would get ideas of starting back up. While Owen was too resilient to be hurt by anything Roy could do, the bar was not. As it was, Roy’s first assault would cost a fair amount to fix.
“Got that out of your system?” Owen asked calmly.
“Let me go, fucker! I’m leaving!” Roy’s efforts redoubled, his muscular form clawing and swinging wildly at his captor. Not that it mattered; he might as well have been a cloud attacking a statue for all the good it did. Owen let him kick about for a few seconds before tightening his grip and cutting off Roy’s air. He loosened it again once he felt his son’s limbs begin to slacken.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” Owen replied once Roy’s grunting had grown quiet. “I promised Hershel I wouldn’t let you leave.”
“Fuck... Hershel,” Roy wheezed out in ragged gasps. “Fuck...ing... traitor.”
“He thought you might feel that way. To be honest I assumed he was overreacting. I suppose I should have known better.”
This time Roy had no response; he merely hung there sullenly.
“So you think Hershel betrayed you, even though he only did this because you were too proud to admit you were out of options. Even though I saw his car arrive over an hour before he worked up the nerve to come in here, and had to do I can only imagine what to find the gumption to drive out in the first place.”
“Stupid... ass...hole.”
“Yes, Roy, your brother who came out here on his spring break, risked his relationship with you, and confronted a man he hadn’t seen in over a decade all to help his brother is a stupid asshole.” Owen clicked his tongue against his teeth, and Roy’s mind swirled back to childhood, remembering hearing the sound whenever his father was scolding one of them. “You might be the one who got the enhanced muscles, but Hershel is undoubtedly the stronger of you two.”
“Kiss... my... ass.”
“Fine, smart guy, then tell me one thing. If Hershel is so wrong for coming to see me, if you really don’t need my help, then why are you hanging here helpless? I’m barely using any strength, and those punches you threw at me were worthless. I’m not saying you could take me on, even in the best of scenarios, but you’ve been in the HCP for almost two years now. You should be much stronger than this. So why aren’t you?”
Roy hung there quietly, neither words nor actions able to fully capture the amount of hatred he felt for his father at uttering that damned piece of truth.
“No answer to that one? My my, so it seems Hershel might have had some good reason for doing this after all. I can tell you why you’re weak, Roy. I can tell you why, and I can show you how to get back on the right path. Or, you can keep struggling like a child and wait until you turn back into Hershel, at which point I’ll tell him no luck. Son or not, I will not help a Super who can’t control his emotions get stronger. That just puts other people in danger down the line. So it’s your choice. Stow the violence and listen, or hang here until your best shot at being a Hero swirls down the crapper.”
There was a period of motionlessness from Roy then he slowly lifted his right arm. For an instant Owen thought his son would hurl a waste of a punch, but instead Roy brought it down in two swift taps on Owen’s elbow. It was their signal for giving up, a simple tap-out. Owen released his grip and Roy slid to the floor. He went to rub his throat, but stopped before his hand was halfway there. Instead he walked over to one of the non-damaged tables, sat down roughly, and looked over at his father. “Talk.”
It wasn’t great manners, but it was progress. “You want a beer before we get started?”
“Fuck, yes.”
Owen filled two mugs with dark ale and joined his son. His eyes flitted to the clock; he’d need to open up pretty soon and Roy wouldn’t want to be here when that happened. Best to get on with this.
“First, a couple of conditions. You two are going to spend the rest of your break here, with me. This will require training, and I have the tools and experience to make sure it’s done right. Hershel is already committed to doing whatever is needed, but can you handle that?”
Roy nodded stiffly and took a deep drink from his mug.
“Good. Second, you don’t have to like me or forgive me; however, you will obey me while here. You might consider me a shitty dad but it doesn’t change the fact that I was a very capable Hero. This is only a week; we don’t have time for arguments and backtalk.”
Roy nodded again.
“Third, you are going to stay at a hotel a few miles up the road, which I will be paying for. We’ll train during the day, the nights are yours, but you should stay away from here. This is a legitimate bar and we don’t allow underage kids in, even if they are the owner’s son.”
Roy snorted into his beer at the word “legitimate,” however he gave a final curt bob of his head to signify acceptance.
Owen took a swig of his own drink and checked the clock again. “Glad we got that out of the way. Have Hershel here at seven in the morning, sharp. Tell him to skip breakfast, too. He’ll be glad he did.”
“That’s it?” Roy said gruffly. “All that talk about answers and you’re just telling me to send Hershel back in the morning? How the hell does that help me?”
Owen stared back at the wild-eyed young man and tried to picture the feisty little boy he’d once been. It wasn’t hard; in many ways Roy had never really grown up. Owen supposed a fair part of that might be his fault. It was time to start remedying that.
“Condition number two, obey my orders,” Owen said. “If you don’t think I’ve lived up to my part by the end of tomorrow then you are free to leave. Until then, our bargain is still valid. Hershel. Here. Seven. Understand?”
“Understand.” Roy spat the word, killed off the rest of his beer, and stormed out the door.
Owen watched him go with a heavy heart. There was so much anger in his sons: one wore it on the outside and the other kept it hidden away, but it was there nonetheless. What’s worse, he was certain that he was the root cause of it for both of them. Some days he wished there was a Super with the power to travel through time, someone who could help him right just a few of the many things he’d done wrong. Sadly, that was still in the realm of the impossible. All he could do now was try his best to fix what had been broken. That process started tomorrow.
Seven in the morning. Sharp.
134.
To say that Hershel was coated in sweat would give the impression that his perspiration had settled across his skin like a coating, merely encompassing him then ceasing its advancement. This image would do a great disservice to the amount of moisture being churned out by his body. To say he was dripping, that his coating was continually being shed and replaced, that would be far more accurate.
Hershel dripped along a track in the bar’s backyard as the early sun moved upward through the sky. Track was a generous term; really it was more a semi-circular rut that had been worn in the soft dirt by countless traversals. A metal fence hid his shame, as well as a vast array of workout equipment, from the view of the world. The only witness to his exhausted stumbling was Owen Daniels, standing near the bar’s entrance with an unreadab
le expression on his face. Hershel had no idea why he was being made to run in laps; he’d shown up as instructed, been handed some exercise clothing, and been told to run until he was told to stop. By this point he was less “running” than he was “plodding” but he continued moving forward nonetheless.
After thirty minutes, Hershel was sure his legs would give out, yet it turned out he was able to conjure another five minutes of effort from his body before it fell to the ground and began to dry-heave. At least he understood why Owen had told him to skip breakfast.
“That’s enough running,” Owen instructed. “Take a ten minute break and we’ll move on to weights.”
“Why?” Hershel asked once his mouth was no longer occupied with responding to his stomach’s futile evacuation attempts. “Why am I training instead of Roy?”
In response, Owen plucked a water bottle from his side and brought it over to Hershel. Hershel took it in small sips; he knew enough about working out to know that guzzling it would just result in his body reactivating its attempts at purging.
“What do you think your power is?” Owen asked once Hershel had eventually managed to drain the bottle.
“I’m a shifter,” Hershel replied. “They classified me when I was five.”
“Oh? You know any other shifters whose personalities are totally altered when they change? I’m not talking an influx of animal instinct or an increase in aggression, but a total change in who they are and how they act. The way you and Roy are.”
Hershel thought back carefully. “Not that I can recall. Dean Blaine once told us that the classifications were just general terms, that every Super and Powered was their own entity with their own unique traits. Maybe the mental change is just part of mine.”
Owen nodded. “You’re not wrong, but you’re not right either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Clearly,” Owen said, his gaze unwavering as he looked at his son with some mixture of worry and determination. “Every Super is different, even if it’s in very small ways. That part was right.”
“So what was wrong?”
“You’re not a shifter.” Owen took the empty water bottle from his son’s hands. “That’s ten minutes. We’re moving on to weights.”
“But-”
“Weights.” Owen walked toward the cluster of reinforced benches without casting so much as a glance to see if his son was following. Hershel struggled to his feet and followed along. It seemed that whatever Owen knew, he would only tell when he was ready. Until that time came, all Hershel could do was keep his promise and do as he was told. He just hoped his body would hold out as long as his determination.
* * *
Vince came in from a morning run to find the house still largely silent, though Stella’s intermittent snores could be heard from the billiards room. She had found the floor exceptionally comfortable the night before and shifted to steel so no one could easily carry her back to bed. Like the rest of the house, she was still asleep. Even those who’d stayed sober were taking the opportunity to sleep in a bit, with the obvious exception of Vince. He’d been an early riser for as long as he could remember; it was an important aspect of being a homeless wanderer. The last thing you wanted was for someone to come upon you unconscious and defenseless. The need was so deeply ingrained that even in a place like this he couldn’t shake it.
A shower sounded good to Vince, but breakfast sounded better. He decided to whip up a quick meal of eggs before washing off. Surveying the fridge, he found them in no short supply, so he cracked six in a bowl, added seasoning, and tossed them in a pan. The smells might wake some of the others, and he wanted to have enough to share if they came down. If they didn’t then he would stick the leftovers in the fridge and the first risers could help themselves. Vince was so intent on scraping his culinary task around the pan that he didn’t notice the presence behind him until it spoke up.
“Morning.” It was a familiar voice, one Vince probably could have picked out of an audible lineup. The tone and inflection it was sporting, those were of a variety he hadn’t heard in a long while.
“Good morning, Sasha,” Vince said. He turned around briefly and flashed her a small smile. She seemed unusually awkward, standing there in PJ pants and t-shirt, trying not to show how uncomfortable she felt. “I’m making extra eggs if you want any.”
“No, thank you. I’m not really hungry.” Both of them fell silent as the sound of sizzling filled the room, punctuated occasionally by a noise contribution from Stella.
“I wanted to talk about what happened in the match,” Sasha blurted out.
“Shouldn’t that be something you talk to Camille about?” Vince worked hard to keep his voice controlled. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that it had been a fight, and sometimes people lost control in those types of situations. That was a lesson he’d acquired firsthand. She clearly felt bad; she didn’t need him to add more guilt.
“I will,” Sasha promised. “I wanted to talk to you first. Come on, you know I don’t normally get up this early.”
“That’s true. I usually had to rouse you with promises of food.” Later in the relationship he’d had other methods of waking her; however, that wasn’t a healthy thought to deal with at the moment.
“Exactly. I woke up early so I could tell you something while it was just us. The reason I lost it on Camille. It’s because I’m jealous of her.”
Vince turned from the eggs and gazed at his ex-girlfriend with a confused look. “Jealous?”
“Yeah, jealous,” Sasha replied. “It’s obvious you two have grown closer over the year, and even if it isn’t romantic in nature, every time I see you together I just... I’m jealous, okay? I wish I was the one getting to spend all the time with you, and all of that built up emotion just got out of control.”
“Sasha, you broke up with me,” Vince said slowly. “You made it clear you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Which is why I came down here to make it clear that I was wrong. I know how you are, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. I want to be together again. Boyfriend and girlfriend, all that stuff. This is probably a surprise to you, so I’m not asking for an answer right away. Take some time and think about it. I’ll be around whenever you figure out how you feel about the idea.”
Vince heard a slight gust of air and knew if he turned around Sasha would be gone. She’d no doubt dashed back to her room to hide after such a display of vulnerability. For his part, Vince wasn’t sure how to feel. He hadn’t been prepared for that, and had no idea what he should say back to her. There was no question he missed her; however, as time had worn on, he couldn’t help but wonder if their breakup might not have been for the best. Sasha was right, he needed to think about it.
The eggs went into a Tupperware container and were thrust into the fridge. Vince’s appetite had suddenly receded.
135.
“You’ve learned some new tricks,” Miriam Taylor commented, carefully slicing off another piece of chicken breast. She didn’t know how, but the chef had managed to impart a surprising amount of moisture and flavor without overwhelming the bird’s base taste. The asparagus side dish complimented things nicely, as did the squash puree.
“I have a bit of free time on weekends,” Dean Blaine said, beginning work on his own entrée. “It gives me time to experiment with new recipes I’ve read about.”
“Well, a few more meals like this and I just might forget about you sending off my son over break.”
“I shall endeavor to do my best.” Dean Blaine was visiting Miriam as a poor substitute for the son she’d expected. So far they’d taken in two plays and a museum, with plenty of time left for whatever other activities she could conceive of. She was clearly punishing him; however, it could have been worse, so at least Dean Blaine knew she understood. It would be hard for her not to, after all; despite being perfectly human, most of her social group in college had been members of the HCP.
“I’ll hold you to tha
t,” Miriam replied. “This is impressive. If I didn’t know better I’d swear you’ve been taking lessons from...” Her voice puttered off as her words caught up with what she’d intended to say.
“He was an amazing cook,” Dean Blaine agreed. They’d avoided the elephant in the room so far, but he saw no point in continuing to do so now that she’d tripped over its trunk. “Of course, with his power it’s hard to know how much was actual skill and how much was him fiddling around.”
“You said ‘was’ an amazing cook. So that means it’s not true, right? He didn’t raise that boy in Chad’s class. He isn’t... he hasn’t come back.” Miriam’s knife scraped loudly against the plate as her hand gave way to a slight tremor.
“All we have is a story of a homeless man with a watch,” Dean Blaine assured her. “It’s strange, but it’s hardly unexplainable. Besides, the boy he acted as a father to has no memory of him ever using an ability. We are as certain as we can be that Globe is still an unfortunate piece of the past and nothing more.”
“Thank God,” Miriam said, steadying herself with some effort. “I don’t know how Chad would handle it; he is already so preoccupied with his father. If Globe hadn’t died, I fear my son would have become obsessed with hunting him rather than emulating Joshua.”
“I have faith he would have been put on a healthier path.” Dean Blaine knew that despite her occasional trepidation, Miriam was not a woman easily stopped, especially where her son was concerned. “But all of this is for nothing. Chad is a well-adjusted, if overly focused, young man, and Globe is dead in the ground where he deserves to be.”
“All these years, and that thought is still strange to me,” Miriam admitted. “Even knowing he killed my husband, even seeing the videos... Joshua almost missed Chad’s birth, you know. He and Globe got tangled up a few miles from the city with a criminal that could turn into swarms of bugs. By the time it was resolved there was so little time left, and Shimmerpath was with the rest of the team on another assignment. It was thanks to Globe that Joshua made it in time. He ignored all manner of protocol to do it, but he made it happen.”