by Drew Hayes
“He would have done anything for Joshua. They were best friends since freshman year,” Dean Blaine said.
Miriam nodded and took another bite of her food. “We asked him to be Chad’s godfather, but he talked us out of it. He said it should be someone not on the team, someone who wasn’t a Hero. That way, if anything really bad happened, Chad would have someone whose life wasn’t always at risk. He wanted to do it, you could see it in his eyes. He just refused to put his desires over what was best for our son. That’s the man who killed my husband.” She looked up at him, not asking the question she’d grilled him with so many times over the years. Wasn’t there something he knew, some tidbit to give clarity on what had happened?
Dean Blaine said nothing. He had nothing he could say. It didn’t make sense to him either. It never had, probably never would. The footage was there, grainy though it was. Several different security cameras from nearby businesses had captured the two team members’ confrontation. Intra had allegedly discovered that Globe was secretly working with a local mafia boss and had attempted to talk to him about it. Globe had become aggressive, and in the ensuing battle Intra managed to sever Globe’s arm. Globe, unfortunately, was able to leave his best friend as nothing more than a corpse in the street. This had all been explained by their teammates later on. One could see the series of actions on the video, but not hear the words. Dean Blaine would have given damn near anything to know what those two said to one another. He was far from the only one.
“This classmate of Chad’s, the one who had Globe’s watch, what sort of person is he?” Miriam asked, bringing Dean Blaine out of his internal reverie.
“Kind,” Dean Blaine replied after some thought. “Kind, and surprisingly gentle, given the nature of his power. He is quite dedicated to all of his friends, and he seems to be a bit ignorant of people’s social wiles. Also, he’s positively dense when it comes to women.”
“Sounds like he and Chad would get along,” Miriam noted. She looked up at Dean Blaine and locked eyes with him. “He also sounds a lot like I’d expect a child raised by Globe, by the Globe I knew, to be.”
“Good men are in short supply in our world, but they do exist,” Dean Blaine countered. “All it would take is one of them to raise a boy like that.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Miriam said, temporarily retreating. “Let’s move onto more pleasant topics. There’s a modern art show opening tomorrow night.”
Dean Blaine suppressed a groan. He loathed the modern stuff, but it was a small price to pay for making Miriam happy. Besides, there would probably be decent wine there.
136.
By the time Owen called the first day to an end, Hershel was barely able to stand. Weights, running, jumping, and a variety of aerobic workouts had been spread out through the day. It was enough to make him long for that first day of working out under Coach George. Despite his body’s constant protests, Hershel had stumbled on, the quality of his movements gradually deteriorating until even standing was a concentrated effort. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this weak or worn down. Owen had literally pushed him to the end of his limits several times, always backing off just enough to keep him from losing consciousness. He gulped down a few sips of water as he watched the afternoon sun on its downward trek toward the horizon.
Owen emerged from the inside of the bar holding a grey plastic water bottle, the kind designed to fit on the inner frame of mountain bikes. For a terrifying second, Hershel was sure that his father was going to demand a twenty-mile bike ride or some other terror, but instead the enormous man just handed him the bottle.
“I think that’s as much as we have time for today.”
“Oh,” Hershel said. “So I should leave now, I guess.”
Owen shook his head. “I promised Roy proof by tonight. Now it’s time for me to pony up.”
Hershel pulled out the stopper top on the plastic bottle and sniffed. Definitely whiskey.
“You haven’t even trained him yet. All we did today was work on me.”
“Trust me.” Owen gave his son a reassuring smile, one that made Hershel feel good, then feel guilty for feeling good. He might have been more inclined to argue, but he was sore, tired, and curious. The whiskey would cure the first two; hopefully some answers would satisfy the last one. A long drink drained the bottle of its contents and initiated Hershel’s transformation.
By the time Roy stood up, the fatigue in their muscles had completely dissipated. If anything, he felt more energetic than usual. Rather than jumping about, Roy simply looked at his father and narrowed his eyes.
“Well?”
“Weights,” Owen snapped back at him. The giant of a man lumbered across the yard, stopping at a set of weights he’d used to put Hershel through the paces only a few hours previously. This time Own didn’t reach for any of the shiny silver ones; instead his massive hands wrapped around a pair of dumbbells that were charcoal black. Roy recognized them as the hyper-dense weights used to train people with super strength. These weren’t quite as well maintained as the ones at Lander, but the dents they left in the ground as Owen pulled them up left no doubt that their heft was still impressive.
Roy came up to the larger man and held out his hands. Owen deposited a dumbbell in each, placing them down as easily as if they were merely awkwardly-shaped pillows. To Roy they weren’t nearly so easy to deal with; his arms were straining with just the effort of holding them up. He wondered if Hershel’s workout had left him weaker than he realized.
“Let’s warm up,” Owen said. “Those are seven hundred and fifty pounds each. Even you should be able to handle them for six reps.”
There was a snapping click as Roy’s jaw set at the words ‘even you’ and a small vein in the young man’s forehead bulged with an effort that had nothing to do with the weights in his hands. It was successful; somehow he managed to hold his tongue and focus on the task at hand. Roy moved the dumbbells up and down slowly, ensuring that the tension on his biceps never slacked. It took more work than he remembered seven hundred and fifty pounds requiring, but he did the six and then did three more on top of that. Whether those last three were out of pride, spite, or some mixture of the two could be debated, but they got done with perfect form nonetheless. Roy carefully set the weights on the ground, all-too aware of the damage that material could do if dropped aimlessly.
“Not bad,” Owen complimented, settled down in sitting position on the weight bench. “So, you remember what I told Hershel earlier, right?”
“I’m guessing you mean that bullshit about us not being shifters.”
“That’s the part. Play devil’s advocate with me for a minute. If you weren’t shifters, what other explanation could there be for your power?” Owen asked calmly.
“I don’t know. Is being fucking awesome enough to make you a Super now?”
“You are pretty awesome,” Owen agreed. “Confident, good-looking, athletic, strong, tough, even charming when you’re motivated. All the things a male wants to be at some point in his life. You got them all. Have you ever wondered why that is?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m just me, why would I wonder about that?”
“If you were just a shifted form of Hershel, then why would your identities separate? Why would your personalities diverge so greatly? Heck, if you were just a version of your brother with powers then why wouldn’t you look the same? Not all strongmen have muscular frames after all.”
“I... I don’t really know,” Roy admitted. He resisted the urge to shuffle uncomfortably. That was shit Hershel would do. Instead Roy just kept his gaze locked on his father’s eyes.
“Maybe because you’re not just a stronger version of Hershel. You’re literally everything Hershel has wanted to be, but wasn’t. Do you remember when you first appeared?”
“We were kids. Some classmates were making fun of Hershel. They were calling him fat and slow and ugly. He got really upset and a minute later there I was.”
“A boy w
ho wasn’t fat, slow, or ugly. A boy who couldn’t get beat up, whose ego was strong enough to withstand their taunts.”
Roy realized he was flexing his hands into fists involuntarily. Something about this conversation was making him very uncomfortable. “Can we cut to the fucking point, old man?”
“You two aren’t shifters,” Owen reinstated. “You inherited my power, but you got a better version of it. I adapt to new challenges or injuries, my body improves itself to overcome them. There’s a threshold to how high I can take that. Sooner or later I run out of things I can train myself to be immune to, eventually I can’t find heavy enough things to improve my strength on. There’s a logistical cap to my power, one that doesn’t apply to you.”
“What the- what are trying to say we are?”
“You have the power of adaption. Hershel is the human side, the one who can always find more challenges. When he encounters a need to be stronger or tougher, your maximum potential increases in proportion. The reason you’ve been stuck in place is because Hershel didn’t need to be stronger; you’ve been fighting his battles and doing all the physical work for most of your adult life.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I only hit a wall this year!” Roy seemed unaware of the increasing volume of his voice.
“That’s because you didn’t try until you entered the HCP. You had catching up to do. When Hershel trains, it raises your potential. When you train, it increases your actual strength. You are Hershel’s reaction to the challenges of life; you get whatever he needs in a moment of failure or stress. Physical, psychological, doesn’t matter. It’s why you two are so different and why you have separate minds.”
“I’m not some nerd’s fucking fantasy ego! I’m my own person, and if you’d actually stayed around instead of running off maybe you would fucking know that!” Roy turned and stormed off toward the bar. “You’re full of shit and I’ve wasted enough time here. I’m going to the beach with our friends.”
How a man his size moved so fast, Roy would never know, but Owen closed the gap between them and placed a massive hand on his son’s shoulder. The grip wasn’t too tight, but it was firm enough to send the message that this conversation wasn’t over.
“You think I’m full of shit? Then tell me something, how did you lift nine hundred pounds with each hand a few minutes ago?”
“It was seven hundred and fifty.”
“I lied. It was nine hundred.”
Roy slowly turned to face his father. Owen flashed his son a devilish grin, one that Roy wouldn’t realize until much later he’d seen on his own face in the mirror more times than he could count. It was a smile that said quite clearly the wearer had gotten exactly the outcome they wanted.
“Who’s full of shit now?”
137.
By the third day, several of the beach-dwelling students had grown weary of the amateur cooking that half-drunk college sophomores could produce, so a small excursion was mounted to a local bar and grill. Nick, Alice, Thomas, and Will managed to snare a table amidst the thick crowd of fellow college students, whether it was due to genuine luck or a bit of Nick’s interference was anyone’s guess. Regardless, the four huddled around the polished wooden tabletop and scrolled through menus coated in a sticky substance they all hoped was spilled liquor.
“Classy joint,” Nick commented, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the dull roar of intoxicated college students. He wondered if he’d put in too much effort on the fake IDs; some of the ones he’d seen walking in the door had been little better than cardboard with photos glued to them, yet they had all garnered entrance. Hell, the bouncer hadn’t even looked at Alice’s, but that probably had more to do with the tight tank-top half shirt and beach shorts she was dressed in.
“I offered to get us into a nice steakhouse,” Alice reminded him.
“You’ve already done more than enough,” Thomas said. “Besides, this is part of the spring break experience.”
“If only there were some other place we could have hung around a giant crowd of drunks. Perhaps some sort of well-stocked beach house,” Will conjectured.
“Oh, stop being a spoil-sport. It’s good to get out on occasion,” Alice said. “Tell you what, you guys find some appetizers we can share, I’ll go get us drinks. Beers all around?”
“Water for me,” Will corrected.
“Right. Beers all around.” Alice flashed her friend a daring smile, then began squeezing her way through the crowd toward the packed bar.
“I suppose I’ll be drinking after all.”
“Don’t mind her, she just wants everyone to have fun,” Nick said. “The girl thinks we’re all wound too tight and this is her chance to help us blow off some steam.”
“She isn’t entirely off the mark on that one,” Thomas concurred. “I don’t think I’ve seen everyone let their hair down this much since the river trip. Even then it might not have been as much, because we had to keep setting up camp and keeping together. This is just a week of pure fun and relaxation.”
“And who better to champion that spirit than our bubbly, glitter-eyed blonde,” Nick said.
“I can’t think of a soul. Well, maybe Violet,” Thomas conceded. “That girl does love her beer.”
“So much so that she is trying to train us all to down a hundred shots of it in the span of a hundred minutes,” Will pointed out. “Which, by the way, very well might give someone alcohol poisoning.”
“Good thing Camille will be there,” Thomas said with a shrug. He was more than accustomed to Violet’s antics by this point; the best strategy was to prep for damage control and hope things didn’t get too out of hand.
Nick started to respond, but he noticed Alice making her way back to the table. She was balancing two beers in each hand and walking carefully. Something was wrong; her eyes were downcast and her form seemed to be pulling in on itself. Alice usually walked with assertive confidence: a stunning figure and years of cultured upbringing will do that to a person. Right now, in contrast, she seemed embarrassed. It only took Nick a quick sweep of the room and a sorting of voices to discern the reason why.
Alice was being catcalled by some drunk guys at the bar.
“Hey, come on baby, don’t be like that. Come back and have a drink with us.”
“Fuck, you’ve got an ass, girl. I want to bounce my dick off of it.”
“I love the glitter! Are you a stripper, ’cause if so I’d like to buy a dance.”
Alice had reached the table by the last one and Nick felt something in his gut tighten. Her eyes, beneath the smear of pink sparkles she’d taken to applying on a regular basis, were beginning to grow moist. She set the beers down silently and angled herself away from the rest of the table.
Thomas and Will hadn’t noticed the boisterous voices; they were easy to miss amidst the chaos if you weren’t listening for them, so they didn’t know why Alice had returned in a significantly sadder mood. It was only a matter of time until they pieced things together; both of them were perceptive enough to figure it out. That situation was too dangerous to be allowed to manifest.
“Guys, why don’t you go find a waitress and get us some wings,” Nick said. “Right now, if you don’t mind.”
Thomas and Will looked at each other. Something was off with Nick. His affable, silly demeanor had all but evaporated. When he spoke that request, if it could be called one, it was with absolute authority, as if even the idea of being disobeyed was a foreign concept to him. It was strange, but Nick was right: they were both perceptive. It was obvious something was going on, and they would give their friend the space he needed. For now.
“Sure,” Thomas said. “We’ll be close by, just in case you decide you want anything else.”
“Much appreciated,” Nick said without looking at them. Thomas and Will peeled off and began wading away from their table, toward a small serving area near the back of the restaurant. Once they were gone, Nick leaned in toward Alice so he could lower his voice. “Alice, there’s some
thing I’ve been wondering about.”
“What?” She still faced away from him, but he could tell her voice was thicker than normal. She was still fighting back tears.
“The glitter you wear: it’s because of your mother, isn’t it?”
Alice whipped her head around and stared at him with a surprised look.
“High attention to detail, and I got you that book of pictures of her for your last birthday, remember? You’ve never shown any interest in that kind of look - in fact, you usually stay away from it - and then after you get some as a gift it starts showing up on you all the time. Didn’t take a genius to figure out.”
Alice nodded slowly. “My dad told me she used to wear it all the time. Said she believed it was impossible to be unhappy when you were sparkly.”
“I see.” Nick took off his sunglasses and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He slid both across the table to table toward Alice. “When this is over, call speed dial number three on my phone. Tell the person on the other end my name, where we are, and let him know I need a Counter’s Exit.”
“What does that... what are you going to do?”
138.
Nick didn’t answer Alice’s question; instead he dropped off his stool and moved toward the bar. While the others had jostled and pushed their way through the crowd, Nick flowed through it like a river across a bed of rocks. He barely got touched by the time he reached the three drunken offenders.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
The tallest one, a frosted-tip blonde who had made the stripper comment, looked him up and down. “What do you want?”
“I want you to apologize to my friend, beg her for forgiveness, and then get the hell out of this place while it’s still an option.” There was no aggression in Nick’s voice or his body language; if anything, he seemed to be perfectly peaceful. The only hint of what was simmering beneath his calm surface was his choice of words.