by Drew Hayes
“Vince hit the nail on the head,” Dean Blaine agreed, barely concealing his surprise at the silver-haired student’s insight. It was easy to forget that, despite his failings in most social regards, Vince had a good idea of how people behaved in regards to strength and power. “Every other student in the HCP has spent their life knowing they were, technically speaking, greater in some way than nearly every other person they met. They’ve had to temper their egos and learn to suppress that sentiment in order to function in society. None of you have had to deal with that; you went from being Powered, to being in a place where you were surrounded by fellow Supers. Except for class and a few outings, you haven’t had extended dealings with the outside world. A point has been raised that, if we don’t give you some experience, it could lead to disaster once you are done with the HCP, regardless of whether it is through failure or graduation.”
“Not to mention, it gives people one more field to observe us in, and one more chance to watch for failure,” Mary added in.
“I won’t lie to you; that is true, too. But I wouldn’t have agreed to this stipulation if I didn’t believe there was genuine merit in it for all of you,” Dean Blaine said.
“I want to jump in and say that I understand this isn’t exactly a normal situation, and that’s quite a statement, given what I do for a living,” Kent Mears said, stepping forward from the corner where he’d been standing. “Blaine has explained to me that you four are working under special circumstances, so I’m going to do my darndest to place you in jobs that won’t be overly taxing or shove you too far out of your comfort zones. Unfortunately, it’s been clearly dictated to me that all occupations need to carry a social component, so I can’t stick anyone away to do data entry, but I still aim to make this as painless for you folks as possible.”
“Thank you,” Vince said, rising from the couch. “I’m sure we’ll all appreciate whatever help you can give. So, Mr. Mears, what do you need from us?”
“A few documents, a scan of your driver’s licenses, and a chance to talk with each of you one-on-one. I want to get a sense of who you are and what you’re good at, so that I can find positions best suited to you. Once I float your resumes, you’ll probably need to come in for an interview with the owners, and they’ll let you know if you’ve got a gig or not.”
“I should point out that, while Mr. Mears always has enough job openings to accommodate the junior and senior class, many of them are at the same establishments, so the odds of you working with fellow HCP members are very high,” Dean Blaine added.
“That shouldn’t be too bad,” Vince said. “I think we’re on good terms with most of our class.”
No one had the heart to point out that Vince was still gauging their acceptance by looking at the time before he’d wrapped himself in flame and torn a swath of destruction through last year’s final match. Things might still be okay—it was certainly possible—but there was also a very real chance that his escapade had placed a large target on their collective backs.
After all, a Powered becoming Super was hard for most HCP students to swallow. A Powered becoming stronger than them . . . that was a problem on a whole other level.
9.
Roger Brown skimmed over the application in front of him. It was light (not that he’d expected a wealth of experience), though it did have more than he usually saw in these applicants. This kid had at least worked a part-time job in high school, which was something. Unfortunately, it had been at a pet store, which wasn’t exactly the same set of skills needed in the establishment Roger owned. The Six-Shooter was a western themed bar and dance club near the edge of town, several miles from Lander. Unlike many of the nearby bars, The Six-Shooter didn’t put up with fake IDs or other such shenanigans. Roger ran a club, which was sleazy by definition, but he liked his sleazy club to be clean, safe, and free of harassment from local authorities.
The single sheet of paper made a light rustle as Roger set it on his desk. He turned his attention to the kid, no, the young man sitting in front of him. Roger was predisposed to thinking of his employees as kids, but that wasn’t a good description of the male currently looking awkward in the silence of their interview. He was tall and blond, with medium-sized shoulders and an obviously muscular build. Even if Roger didn’t know Chad Taylor had powers, he would still have been sure this younger male could kick his ass. Chad was handsome too, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. That was a check in his favor: looks made sales and tips go up in any service job.
“I notice you’ve never had any experience as a server,” Roger said, the first words spoken since their initial greeting.
“That is correct,” Chad confirmed.
“Normally, that’s not such a big deal—waiting on tables is pretty easy, as long as you’ve got the head for it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a pain in the ass and the customers can be awful, it’s just not a difficult skill to learn. The problem here is that you’re applying for a bartending position.”
Chad nodded, his face curiously impassive. Roger wondered what this guy’s ability was. Technically, it was illegal to ask if someone was a Super, just like you couldn’t ask their age or religion, but since Roger went out of his way to specifically hire them, he considered it more along the lines of bad manners to probe.
“What made you think this would be a good fit?”
“Angela DeSoto was quite adamant that it was the right position for me,” Chad replied. “I asked for her advice, since she’s been working since her own junior year, and she immediately insisted I apply here as a bartender. No other options were suggested. I trust Angela’s advice, so I followed it.”
Roger gave a nod of his own. Angela was one of his best shot girls: sexy, sassy, and able to put the fear of Lucifer into any patron who got handsy. She had come in earlier with a glowing recommendation for Chad; however, she’d somehow left out his overall lack of experience.
“Look, let me level with you. Bartending well takes a great memory for recalling drink mixes, excellent organization for getting everyone served, and at least decent dexterity for pouring. Charm is nice too, but as a male bartender, people will expect you to be efficient more than flirty. We both know you aren’t exactly a regular Joe, so you tell me: are those skills you think you’ve got?”
Chad reached across the desk and plucked four pens from the coffee mug where Roger stored his writing utensils. He lobbed the first one in the air, then followed suit with the others, one by one. As each descended, he moved it along from hand to hand, until he was juggling all four pens.
“A Royal Flush is one part Crown, one part cranberry, and a half part peach schnapps, amounts adjusted based on whether it is a shot or a drink. A Vegas Bomb is Crown, peach schnapps, and Red Bull. A Cosmopolitan is vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, and a squeeze of lime.”
Chad went on for a minute and a half before Roger raised his hand and signaled him to stop. Chad complied, catching all the pens in one quick motion and carefully placing them back in the cup.
“Since we’ve established you’ve never bartended before, how do you know all that? Heavy drinker?”
“I very rarely ever imbibe alcohol. I read a bartender’s bible last night in preparation for this interview.”
“Right. So, photographic memory then.”
“Yes, sir.” Chad knew the proper term was eidetic, but he was aware enough of social conventions to at least not correct a potential employer mid-interview.
“That could come in handy,” Roger admitted. “And I guess there’s no doubting your dexterity. Organization, I suppose we can delay for now. You’re clearly strong, so I guess there’s no worry about you being able to haul beer from the back. Now, this might be a dumb question, however, I know not all of you HCP kids are fighters, so I still need to ask. We keep bouncers here, good ones, but occasionally a customer will get rowdy with my staff. Are you able to handle yourself until the bouncers get to you?”
Chad found it surprisingly difficult to suppress his urge to
smile.
* * *
There were a lot of things Angela liked about her job. The tips were great, getting to take drinks with customers was fun, and the late hours never conflicted with her training. She even liked how the mandatory outfits made her feel sexy, even if the plaid half-shirt didn’t always insulate her from the AC, and the tiny Daisy Duke shorts had a tendency to ride up her ass by the end of the night. The only thing she hadn’t really liked was how boring all the men she worked with were. Sure, they were muscular, and some of them were even good-looking, but all of them were so invariably weak of gumption. That was fine, she supposed. The world didn’t need a glut of conquerors tearing it apart, but she found she couldn’t enjoy the company of regular folks. Maybe it was the HCP’s fault for surrounding her with elite competitors. More likely it was her grandfather’s fault, but then again, she found the trade-off for what he’d taught her to be more than worth it. No, the simple truth was that Angela was a warrior, and the only men she’d ever found appealing had been like her.
“You’re here early,” said a shorter girl with bright red hair and a set of dimples framing her smile. “You don’t usually show up until right before your shift.”
“And a hello to you too, Cora,” Angela replied. “I’m here to congratulate my friend when his interview is done. He’s going to take over one of the bartending spots.”
“Oh wow, that’s great. Are you sure he’ll get it though? Roger is really picky about his bartenders.”
Angela answered her question with a smile that would set the hearts of foolish men on fire and fill the souls of wiser ones with a sense of inescapable dread.
“Trust me. As of today, Chad works here.”
10.
The once neat and tidy apartment that Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport shared at the back of Melbrook was now cluttered with boxes stuffed to their brims, full of files and papers. These, at least, were organized carefully, many labeled with the date of first review, and of any subsequent reviews that occurred afterward. The files and pages were similarly marked. Each bore an identical number, all in the same handwriting.
Mr. Numbers made a few motions with his pen and stuffed yet another file into a box that currently bore no date. He reached for the next one, only to discover that nothing remained undated. His joints crackled as he rose, lifting the box and writing numbers on it, then selecting a new, unmarked one from the pile. Off went the lid, and out came the first file. He’d been at this all summer, and a little bit before, thus far filling and emptying the room twice. The others were doing their own investigations; however, this was the part that only he could execute. Lander had dozens of security systems, safeguards on top of safeguards, which made it an incredibly safe place to be. The downside was that, when something did go wrong, it meant there was a truckload (literally, it had taken a truck to move all this paper) of data to sort through looking for abnormalities. Normally, they could use someone with technology gifts like the Murray twins, but in this case, the number of people the group could trust was far smaller than the staff and students.
Before he left, Nick had called their attention to the fact that Globe somehow knew Vince had freaked out and been put under while he was in the HCP’s secured area. That meant he was getting information about the school. His ability wouldn’t allow such actions outside of his field, so either he had a Super with a spying gift, or he’d found a way to snoop on them through more mundane means. The Super aspect was possible, but unlikely. HCP schools were built with every known protection against things Supers could do, and were upgraded quarterly. Add in the fact that Dean Blaine’s presence would be sure to make all observations dodgy at best, and it just wasn’t all that likely they had a Super who could see everyone’s actions.
That was why Mr. Numbers had to slog through all this data. He was searching for any blips of irregularity that might indicate Globe, or one of his minions, had hacked their way into the security system. That, at least, was plausible. Hard as hell, but plausible. Mr. Numbers genuinely hoped he found something too, because locating a flaw in security was by far the preferable option. The other way Globe might be getting information was more reliable, more executable, and much harder to uncover.
The other way Globe could be fed information about what was happening in the HCP was if someone in the program was still working with him.
* * *
Jill finished unpacking her last box alone. Normally, she liked to make a bigger deal about the final moment of a move, when she could good and rightfully say she lived somewhere new. If she’d asked the others, they would have joined her, or at least Will would have. They didn’t begrudge her this room, quite the contrary actually. She’d taken over the missing part of the rent, which is why they were able to keep their house. They felt no anger when they saw her drifting through the halls, only a slight pang of sadness. For her part, Jill felt a bit morbid, as though she had cannibalized Stella’s room. After all, she was only here because the steel-shifting student wasn’t.
It had been hard to believe at first. How could Stella not make the cut? Her power was solid, her skill undeniable—hell, even the way she’d asked questions was aggressive. She was a fighter, and a damn good one. Jill probably could have beaten her, but only because Will was always keeping her stocked with new gizmos and upgraded systems. And he was still here. That was a real brain-scrambler in its own right. She loved her brother dearly, but in a real fight, Stella would mop the floor with him.
Jill took out a hammer and surveyed the wall, deciding where to hang some pictures. They didn’t need to worry about holes in the wall; Will had already built a doodad that filled them so perfectly they were impossible for the landlord to detect. He was useful; Jill had to give him that. Ultimately, she supposed, that had been Stella’s failing. Stella was strong, but far from the strongest. She was tough; however, she wasn’t near the toughest. And in terms of skill, she came up short compared to the best among them. Stella had never given more than a passing shit about her other courses. All she’d focused on was Close Combat, and at the end of the day, that was an area where she was good. Good, not great.
Violet was about on par with her; however, her ability let her do more than just punch things. She could float, change an object’s density, even lower her own mass enough to pass through things. Really, everyone in Close Combat who did well had varied talents. Vince could do the energy thing, Shane’s shadow manipulation had endless uses, and Chad was fucking Chad. Who knew what he couldn’t do. The only person who had the same limited skill set as Stella was Roy.
His continuation was the subject of plenty of whispered debate among the less accepting of their class, however, Jill didn’t entertain such silly ideas. There was no conspiracy to keep the Powereds in the HCP; the difference between Roy and Stella was one of power. They had the same basic skills, yes, but Roy was undoubtedly the stronger of the two. He’d trained with Chad for half a year, and there were rumors he’d even gotten a few hits on him. Not to mention, when Roy sparred with Violet and Stella, they’d both later admitted his raw physical capability was higher than theirs. No, Roy wasn’t here because he had a varied set of skills, he just had one set that he did extremely well.
Jill idly wondered how long that would keep him in. Maybe it was the better strategy. Not that she had such an option. If she wanted to make it to the end, then she had to cultivate a whole myriad of talents and battle options. She needed to excel in multiple fields. That was the only way she would stand on stage and hear Dean Blaine announce her as a Hero.
A few rapid blows set the nail in the wall, and then Jill carefully hung the framed photo and straightened it. The picture was of a family beach trip they’d taken in high school. She was beaming at the camera, giving a smile she always tried and failed to recreate in new pictures. Will looked sullen, though that was likely because of the sunburn already spreading across his spindly frame. Strange to see him now—after two years of HCP gym, even his scrawny body had packed on toned mus
cle. Behind them both was their father, grinning broadly and looking slightly away; he’d been worried the auto picture function had failed and was looking for some sign it was still going to go off.
She appraised her handiwork and set down the hammer. Now, she was officially home.
11.
Unlike freshman year, the new rankings were not posted on a giant board for the entire HCP to see. This time, they were written on a chalkboard and easy to miss if one wasn’t looking for them. However, every student filtering into the gym certainly took notice. Some of the changes, or lack thereof, weren’t that surprising. Chad was still on top, of course. Since this was the first co-ed ranking they’d gotten, Mary was now number two overall, bumping Shane down to three. All of that was well within everyone’s expectations. The next rank, however, was a bit more surprising.
“I’m number four?” Vince said, staring at the board while the other students bustled around him.
“Were you expecting to be on top? You put on a good show, but the others still have far better overall records than you,” Alice pointed out. She was glad to have the attention off of her own rank, which had leapt from near the bottom to eleventh in the class. Since it was based on the single match where she’d shown her power, it seemed a bit excessive to her.
“No, I mean I can’t believe I’m that high,” Vince replied. “I don’t have that many official wins. Definitely not as many as some of the other people on here.”
“Tell me about it,” Roy, the number five rank, grumbled. “Some of us have been busting our ass for two years and haven’t moved up a single spot.”
“Considering how much changed, I’d say staying in the top five is a real accomplishment,” Mary told him. “As for you, Vince, I think they weight the year-end matches more heavily than our overall record when determining these ranks. The whole point of these things is to see where we are now, not where we were when the program started.”