by Drew Hayes
“Correct. At that point, I can either write off the loss of incredibly powerful allies, or I can go against Mary’s will and see how full of bluster her threats were.” Nicholas dearly didn’t want the second option, not after the memory Nick had forced upon him. Mary had seen his darkest fear, his deepest secret, his soul laid bare. He didn’t want to cross her, if it could be avoided.
“Well then, this shouldn’t be a discussion of if Jerome and I will go.” Eliza leaned back against the couch’s soft cushion and daintily crossed her legs. “It should be a discussion of where we’ll be having our five-star dinner while you convince us. Word to the wise, you never go wrong with Wagyu beef.”
78.
The cold cheese sandwich on Walter’s plate did little to entice him toward eating, and not just because it was cafeteria quality. His appetite had been shot all week, ever since his team’s first trial. Despite having two of his three best friends in his roster, along with an assortment of other Supers he considered quite skilled, Walter’s team had been summarily crushed. They’d lost their flag in under fifteen minutes, and been beaten in three physical confrontations. For most of the team, it was disheartening, and somewhat scary. For their captain, a man currently staring at a cold cheese sandwich, trying to figure out why he’d purchased it in the first place, the loss had nearly destroyed him.
Walter was so focused on his plate that he didn’t immediately notice when someone sat down at the table next to him. He wasn’t expecting company; this was a Tuesday, which meant the others all had classes during his only time for lunch. He usually ate a quick meal, and then hurried off to study or train. Today, it seemed, was going to be different.
“Walter Cross, correct?”
Walter looked up from his sandwich, unsurprised that the guest at his table was a fellow member of the HCP. The fact that it was one of his seniors, however, did startle him a touch, rattling him out of his fugue and into speaking.
“Yeah. You’re Thomas. I met you last year.”
Speaking about anything linked to the HCP while aboveground, even something as innocuous as a party, had to be done with exceptional care.
“That’s right, you and your friends ended up at a party at my house,” Thomas confirmed. “Which, actually, is what I wanted to talk with you about. That party, it’s something of a tradition.”
“I’d heard about that,” Walter said. He’d done as much digging as possible when the invite had come last year. He knew it was a way for the sophomore class to officially welcome the freshmen who had made it that far, telling them they were part of the HCP. The party had certainly accomplished that goal; nothing like watching Cameron slug it out with Roy Daniels to send the message that this was where they belonged.
“Good,” Thomas said. “Hopefully this next part will not surprise you, then. I’m here to tell you that you, and by proxy your housemates, have been selected to throw the party this year.”
Part of Walter wanted to ask how Thomas knew he lived in a house, but then he thought better of it. Subtlety was a course in their school, after all; he really shouldn’t be surprised that the older students had skills for information gathering. Had Walter asked, he would have learned that Thomas had employed the favorite tactic of Subtlety Heroes all over the nation: he’d gone and talked to a telepath.
“I really appreciate it,” Walter said, his words tentative. “But I don’t think I can do that.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I need to double down on my . . . studying,” he replied, careful emphasis put on key phrases. “I was part of a group project last week, one we failed badly. We’ve got several more coming up, and I have to make sure we don’t get any more failing grades.”
“That is very important; your group’s grades should be your top priority,” Thomas agreed. “However, this party should be your second. The purpose it serves, welcoming strangers to an existing community, is a vital one. You should know this quite well.”
“I do, I really do, I just . . . couldn’t someone else do it?”
“That would depend on you,” Thomas informed him. “From the information I gathered, you seemed like the best fit. You have the house, you are responsible enough to be in charge of your group project, and you understand the need for the event. If you can find a better fit, then by all means, feel free to pass the burden of duty to them.”
Walter gave his head a little shake. “I don’t even think I should be leading my group project,” he admitted, his voice soft and fragile. “I feel like we could have passed the last . . . test, if only we’d had someone better leading us.”
“You might be right,” Thomas said. “Maybe you’re not the best pick for leading a group, or for hosting a party.”
“Gee, thanks,” Walter grumbled. It wasn’t untrue, but he sort of wished Thomas hadn’t just come out and said it like that.
“Still, that changes nothing,” Thomas continued.
“What do you mean?”
The older boy leaned forward, his dark eyes so serious that, for a brief flicker of a moment, Walter thought Thomas was about to start a fight right in the middle of the cafeteria.
“I mean, it changes nothing. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t the best pick for either of those roles, they have still been thrust upon you. They are yours, no matter what. Do not waste your time lamenting your fitness or fearing there could have been a better choice made. If you’re afraid you are unfit to lead, then work every day to make yourself better. That, and quitting, are your only options. Pissing away time on questions that have no relevance gets you nowhere. It doesn’t matter if you should lead. You are the leader. Own it, and make yourself the best you can be. If you can’t face your fear and do that, then you should turn in your resignation today.”
Walter gulped, and not just because Thomas’s words had come dangerously close to touching on the real subject of their discussion. The intensity of his admonishment had nearly knocked Walter from his chair. He suspected this speech wasn’t entirely for him, but rather than asking follow-up questions, he just nodded his head enthusiastically.
“I understand,” Walter said quickly. “I’ll throw the party.”
“Good,” Thomas said, appearing to somewhat come back to himself and dial down the intimidation. “Good, I . . . you are the best fit, you know. Whether you believe it or not.”
“Thanks,” Walter said. “I, uh, I need to get going to my next class.”
“By all means,” Thomas said. He watched as the younger boy with the light curly hair and glasses hustled out of the cafeteria, pausing only to drop an untouched sandwich in the trash. Thomas remained at the table for some time, quietly reflecting on the words that had come unbidden from his mouth. What he’d said hadn’t been wrong, but it also hadn’t been just for Walter. No, Thomas knew as soon as he spoke that those words were meant for him. He’d done everything he could to avoid the truth; he’d bucked it for as long as possible. Now, it stared him in the face, refusing to fade back into mental smoke.
Face your fears, or quit. That was what he’d told Walter. And, more importantly, himself.
79.
Mr. Transport had the fork, laden with pasta and sauce, halfway to his mouth when his phone rang. This was not the ringtone he used for his general calls, nor the flippant one he’d assigned Mr. Numbers, nor even the festive one he had rigged to ring when Sally Daniels called. This was a ringtone associated with a single number, a line used only in very certain circumstances. His fork clattered to the plate as Mr. Transport grabbed his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
“Transport,” he said quickly.
“We have a situation. Numbers with you?”
“No, he’s at the grocery store,” Mr. Transport replied.
“Come get us, then we’ll circle back for Numbers. We’re at a café in Lisbon, two blocks down from where you lived a few years back. Need an address?”
“No, I remember it well.” Mr. Transport hung up the phone and removed the n
apkin he’d had tucked into his white button-down. With practiced grace, he grabbed his black suit jacket from the nearby hanger and slipped it across his lean shoulders. With a moment of visualization and a minor application of effort, the world dissolved around him, reforming in the shape of a muggy day outside a small café—one that served truly great pastries. Sitting on the patio, both with coffee cups in front of them and clad in black suits, were a very large, muscular African American male and a dainty brunette. Mr. Transport walked over to them hurriedly.
As soon as he reached the table, the large man put a powerful hand on Mr. Transport’s forearm, then did the same to the hand of the girl sitting across from him. Just like that, the world around them froze, all life becoming a living sculpture, save for the three people at a single café in Lisbon.
“Glad you could make it,” Mr. Stop said, releasing his grip. He only needed to touch them when he did the freeze; afterward, they could function independently. This was what made him such a rare and powerful Super. That, and the fact that the ability to slow or halt time on such a large scale was so uncommon it had manifested in less than five total cases since Supers were discovered.
“I was about to eat,” Mr. Transport grumbled.
“This shouldn’t take long. I bet I can have you back before your dish cools,” Mr. Stop replied. “It’s a standard snatch and grab. Daughter of a Hero named Bilge. Made enemies with people smart enough to figure out who he was. The girl was taken approximately thirty minutes ago. As soon as Bilge realized she was gone, he called Dispatch. Good news is she’s still alive.”
“Alive, and in a building a few miles south of downtown Detroit,” Mrs. Tracking added in. Mr. Transport took her at her word. Mrs. Tracking could find almost any person in the world with just a picture. Her limitation was that they had to be alive, so if she had a location, it meant the girl was still breathing, for now.
“Any intel on the kidnappers? Powers we need to be aware of?”
“One is a baseline strongman,” Mr. Stop responded. “The Heroes would rank him as a Standard Class. We don’t know anything about the others.”
“Understood. Go in expecting the worst,” Mr. Transport said. “Anything else I need to know before we get Mr. Numbers?”
“Yes. Bilge is really pissed off, and from his history, we don’t think he’ll let logic dissuade him from vengeance, if given the chance,” Mr. Stop informed the team.
“Shit,” Mr. Transport said. “I hate these.”
“Nobody likes them,” Mrs. Tracking agreed. “But it’s gotta get done.” She tried to take a sip from her coffee cup, but it remained frozen. Objects outside Mr. Stop’s touch were locked in place just as much as they were in time.
“On that note, let’s go get Numbers,” Mr. Stop said.
Mr. Transport put a hand on Mr. Stop and Mrs. Tracking. Usually, just proximity was enough to bring people with him, but when operating in Mr. Stop’s time freeze, he needed physical contact to teleport others.
Moments later, the three appeared in front of a grocery store. It only took half a second of real-time for Mr. Stop to unfreeze the world, grab Mr. Numbers (along with the other two), and bring them back into frozen-time. Once that was done, Mr. Numbers was brought up to speed. Then, the work began.
* * *
Bertram, or Bonecrusher as he was known among his colleagues, had no idea what had happened. One minute, he and the boys were sitting around, discussing the first thing they’d make that asshole Bilge do once they told him they’d taken his daughter. Bonecrusher was in favor of having them make him show his face on live television, but Maggot pointed out that the station would probably just blur it. Maggot was oddly smart for a grunt-level criminal. The only thing that held him back from climbing higher in some gang’s ranks was his inability to deal with any kind of authority. Flick, who didn’t totally seem to get the concept of street names, was bringing up a point about having Bilge do some robbing for them.
Then, in the span of a blink, Bonecrusher was shoved backward, into a chair that hadn’t been there before, and locked down with some really tough manacles. He knew they were tough because they didn’t give way when he used his considerable strength to buck against them.
“You’re wasting your time,” said a calm voice from behind him. Maggot and Flick were gone; he couldn't see or hear either of them. The voice’s owner stepped in front of him—a short man with frozen blue eyes and a tailored black suit. “The chair and manacles were designed by a tech-genius. It would hold up to a Manhattan Class, or at least one with just strength. Someone like you will never break free.”
Bonecrusher didn’t like the way this man said “never.” There was an air of finality to it that Bonecrusher was accustomed to hearing when he was the one giving the threats.
“Who are you?”
“I’m no one,” the man replied. “I barely exist. You and I have that in common. For now. So, Bertram, who told you about Bilge’s identity?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Quite a coincidence, seeing as the girl you had tied up was his daughter. She’s gone, by the way. Reunited with her father, who is currently being told that all of you were killed in the extraction process. Viciously, too; we really laid on the gore. Had to, or he’d have come after you himself. Can’t very well have a Hero engaging in cold-blooded murder.”
“So that’s your threat, I talk or you tell him the truth?”
“The truth? That implies that what we told him earlier was a lie,” the man replied. “Which, I suppose, it might have been. A lie, or a prediction. That all sort of depends.”
“Fuck you,” Bonecrusher said, working up a good wad of phlegm and spitting it at the man. He dodged it perfectly, as though he knew exactly when and how it would be coming. The man leaned over Bonecrusher, his arctic eyes boring into the bald, tattoo-covered man’s mind. Not since becoming a Super had Bertram felt the kind of deep-down, brain-numbing fear that washed over him in that moment.
“You’re going to tell me what I want to know, Bertram. We can’t have people leaking the identities of Heroes, because then, someone might do something really stupid, like you did. Honestly, did you never think to wonder why there’s never been a reported case of hostages being used against a Hero? We’re very good at this, Bertram; we’ve been doing it a long time. That’s how I know you’ll talk. With enough time and motivation, everyone talks. It’s simple math.” The man flashed Bonecrusher a wide smile, one that felt like it was pushing an ice pick of fear right through his eye.
“Trust me, Bertram, you’re going to talk. It’s all just a game of numbers.”
80.
“Vince, can we talk?”
Vince was surprised to see Thomas waiting for him, the caramel-skinned student patiently positioned outside the gym. Despite his claims that he held no ill-will toward Vince from their earlier encounters, the two hadn’t spoken as much during the semester’s first weeks. It could have been time constraints—with training, and a new job, Vince certainly had less time available—but something told him there was more to it.
“Sure,” Vince said.
Thomas nodded, then motioned for Vince to follow him. They began walking down the hallway, two gray-uniform-clad young men traversing the concrete tunnels woven beneath the school. It wasn’t until no other students could be seen that Thomas finally spoke.
“I have a problem,” he said, his usually stoic voice coming out several shades softer.
“Can I help?” Vince asked immediately.
“If anyone can, I believe it would be you,” Thomas replied. “The issue I am facing is one that I’m deeply ashamed to admit, even to myself. That’s why it has taken me so long to come to terms with its existence. Yet, even now, when I’m trying to find a way to solve it, I find myself hesitant to say the words aloud.”
“Thomas, we’re friends. You can tell me anything. You know that.”
Thomas did know that. Vince wasn’t a perfect per
son, but his loyalty was an aspect that no one could call into question. No, the problem was not saying the words to Vince, it was saying them at all. To speak them aloud would make them real, would mean there was no path but forward. If Thomas admitted his problem, then he had to either face it, or be consumed by it. With only a small quiver of hesitation, Thomas made his choice.
“I’m afraid of you,” he said, words barely stronger than a whisper. “I’m afraid of you stealing my power again. What it felt like, last year, was just . . . . I’ve been injured many times. Pain is not a thing I’m scared of. But that sensation of having a piece of me torn away . . . it haunts me. I lost in our combat trial because I was too scared to attack you, too afraid of you draining me again.”
“Thomas, I . . . I’m sorry. I wish I could undo what happened.”
“I know, but you cannot. You cannot make it so that I will forget what happened, and even if it were in your power, I would refuse. That is not the way a Hero should defeat such a problem. But, I must ask you to make recompense for your actions. I need your help, if I am going to break through this barrier of fear.”
“Anything,” Vince said. “Name it, and I’ll do it.”
“I’d hoped you would say as much.” Thomas ceased walking, stopping in front of one of the many combat cells that dotted the Lander underground. He hefted the door open with a mighty wrench and gestured for Vince to enter. Vince complied, and Thomas pulled the door shut behind them.
“There is only one way I can see for me to overcome this fear,” Thomas announced, his body beginning to glow orange as he summoned his energy. “I need you to drain me again.”
“I understand.” Vince was not the smartest person on campus, and he was lacking in many standard social educations, but this was something well within his wheelhouse. It made perfect sense—at least, it made perfect sense to the kinds of irregular minds that could endure HCP training and still yearn for Hero careers. If Thomas was afraid of being drained, then he needed to experience the pain of it over and over, until it no longer held any power over him.