Super Powereds: Year 3

by Drew Hayes

  He surged forward like the tide, neither conscious nor concerned with anything that might lie in his path. Vince was at her side in seconds, staring into her twinkling eyes as though they contained the secrets of the universe. For him, perhaps, they did.

  “Thief . . . is that . . . you’re alive?”

  Eliza reached up carefully, as if he were a bubble that the sharpest movement might pop, and tenderly brushed aside his red-and-yellow striped knit cap. It fell away, instantly forgotten as the spiky silver hair she knew so well, in her brightest memories and most painful dreams, was exposed. Her breath caught in her throat at that sight, and only years of training kept her from dissolving completely. She pulled her hand down slightly and ran her fingers across his left cheek.

  “Tights,” she whispered. In such a loud bar, her words were barely audible, yet Vince clung to every word. “Tights, I . . . I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  “Promise me you’ll be here when I wake up.” Vince’s voice was still weak; the smoke’s damage to his vocal cords would likely have left him with a permanent rasp in other circumstances. His eyes, in contrast, were unyielding, staring up at her with absolute need.

  She smiled and leaned down, giving him a careful kiss. It was strange that he never saw her apply anything to her lips, yet they still always tasted like cherries and root beer. He never would have imagined that combination before; now, Vince couldn’t picture a world without it. Her dark curls tumbled against one of the burns on his face, and he winced involuntarily, breaking their embrace.

  “I’ll be here. You think I’m not going to stick around to make sure you’re okay? Give me a little credit here, Tights.”

  Vince squeezed her hand with as much strength as he had, which was very little. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “None of that. You’ll be fine, and you can thank me by taking me out on a proper date when you wake up. I’m not letting you get off with just words.” Thief brushed his left cheek, one of the few spots on his face unburned by the explosion. It was the place where she could touch him casually, affectionately, without causing him pain. She stood up carefully, and motioned to the other person in the room.

  Unlike these two, he did not have stars or love in his eyes. He was a squat man with a round figure and haughty expression. He gazed down at the burned boy in front in him, trying not to focus too much on the scent of cooked flesh that lingered in the room. How this girl could have spent so much time around her crispy companion baffled him. Thankfully, he was not paid to comprehend such matters; his money came from a far easier task. Well, easier for him.

  The man reached down, touching an exposed patch of skin on the young man—Tights, she kept calling him. Tights winced slightly, but soon, he felt the power flowing into him, and the pain abated. It wouldn’t be long now. The man stood back up and walked toward the doorway. He loathed this smell and yearned for fresh air. Sadly, that was still to be denied to him for some time yet.

  “I think I’m feeling it,” Tights said, voice still raspy, but now heavier, like he was pulling up his words from the depths of a well.

  “Good. Let it take you,” Thief said. “When you wake up, you’ll be whole again.”

  “And then I’ll thank you with a proper date.”

  “You damn well better.” She leaned over him one last time, kissing him so softly he might have thought he was already dreaming, if not for the lingering taste of cherries and root beer.

  Tights fell away from the conscious world, swimming in a sea of dreams that were half memory and half hallucination. He saw lots of times with his father, and those made him happy. But he also saw the explosion that had taken his father, his only family, away from him. That played countless times, when even once would have served as a living hell. He also saw the explosion that had gotten him into this mess: the fire surrounding the propane tanks, the inevitability of death, pushing Thief out of the shack just in time. Then . . . the pain. He’d thought that, when he slept, there would finally be relief, but it wasn’t so. The pain followed him into his dreams, fresh and sharp, while lingering and stale at the same time. It was impossible to say how long he lay in that state; he’d been told it would take a day, yet it seemed to last millennia. But, like all things, good or bad, it eventually came to an end.

  The first thing he noticed upon waking wasn’t a thing at all; it was the lack of a thing. Pain. The pain that had haunted him for days, had driven him half-mad, was gone. His skin was pale and un-charred; even the scars he’d accumulated through childhood had vanished. He was whole again: amazingly, impossibly whole.

  The second thing he noticed was also an absence, but this one was far less joyous. Thief was gone, as was the man who’d healed him. Tights got up slowly, unsure of this body that was familiar and foreign simultaneously. He poked his head out of the small shed, taking in the brisk morning air that permeated the forest. The sounds of nature filled the woods, and he walked around the perimeter slowly, amazed at how good it felt to touch cold ground with his own feet. He ran a hand through his silver hair, always spiking in whatever direction it felt like, and continued searching.

  After an hour, he came back to the shed. Looking around, he found a fresh set of clothes, boots in his size, and a backpack filled with packaged food. There was nothing of Thief, though. Not a brush, not a note, not even her scent remained behind. For the first time, he truly let it sink in that she was gone.

  The silver-haired young man set his face in his hands and began to weep. His body was whole, but the pain wasn’t gone. It had only been traded. This pain, he feared, would take far more than a healer than remove.

  * * *

  “Tights, I . . . I’m so sorry.” She’d imagined this meeting hundreds upon thousands of times, seeing him, knowing he was safe and alive and happy. All of her fantasies, though, even the most hopeful ones, ended in his hatred. Eliza did not have Vince’s optimism or determined naiveté. She’d seen too much of human nature. What she’d done to him, it was impossible to forgive; even in her own fantasies.

  “You’re alive.”

  Eliza braced for whatever came next: cursing, yelling, even violence. She would take whatever he deemed fit. The time had finally come for her penance.

  Vince wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up, so that, for a slim moment, she could nearly see the entirety of the club. He stared up at her wordlessly, and she realized he was crying. She wondered if he’d even noticed it yet.

  “Thank God . . . I was so scared. You’re alive.” Then they were kissing, though who started it would be impossible to say. It was inevitable; it was gravity. They kissed, both crying freely now, as a very confused crowd that had just been trying to get some beers looked on.

  “Halloween, you son of a bitch,” Mary muttered under her breath. The telepath knew, more so than even the lovers themselves, that things had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  92.

  “I think you two should go grab coffee or something,” Mary suggested. She’d remained silent during their first bout of reconnected-at-last kissing, but the longer she mulled the situation over, the more she saw the necessity for compartmentalizing problems. First off, Vince was in no state to deal with Nicholas tonight, so she needed to get him clear of the bar. Next up, she’d have to explain her friend’s sudden absence, as well as why Eliza went with him. Then, unfortunately, she’d have to deal with Camille. That was not a duty she was looking forward to.

  “Huh?” Vince finally looked away from the girl he had clutched in his arms, staring at Mary for a few moments before finally seeming to come back to himself. As he did, it dawned on him that he’d been making out with a woman in the middle of a bar, for all to see. The tips of his ears burned as if they were about to release fire, and Vince slowly set Eliza down onto the floor. His only stroke of luck was that, since the club was so packed with people, they'd only drawn attention from those immediately around them.

  “Coffee. So, you can go talk and catch-up. Si
nce you seem to have history.”

  “We do have history . . .” Vince’s mind was slowly clicking back into action.

  “But it’s not the kind that can be dealt with over a cup of coffee,” Eliza finished. She caressed his hair one more time, then the softness faded from her face, leaving the sort of hard expression Mary had expected to see on an associate of Nicholas’s. “Tights, I need a little time to regroup. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. We can meet up and talk, just not tonight. I’d make you a promise, but you have too good a reason not to trust me at my word.”

  Vince stood there, impassive. He wanted to believe her, yet the idea of letting her out of his sight again, of risking that she might vanish, and he’d be left without answers . . . it was torture to imagine. He’d have to be a damned fool to fall for the same trick twice.

  He licked his lips nervously, realizing the taste of cherries and root beer still lingered on them.

  “One condition,” Vince said at last. “Tell me your name. I’d like to know you as something other than Thief, if I’m going to trust you.”

  A bit of warmth ran across Eliza’s face as she heard his demand. “Eliza. Eliza Tracey.”

  “Nice to meet you, finally, Eliza. I’m Vince Reynolds.”

  “Vince, huh? I like that. You look like a Vince.” She leaned in and kissed him once more, this time gently on his cheek. “Okay, Vince, I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “How are you going to find me?”

  “I’ve got my ways. And if I take too long, Mary over there knows how to get in touch with me.”

  Vince glanced at Mary, who nodded. The idea of helping them wasn’t exactly something that made her jump with joy, but it was better than having the whole thing come crashing down right now.

  “See you soon.” Vince released her from his arms at last, an action that seemed to sadden her almost as much as him.

  She dissolved back into the crowd, only her thoughts telling Mary that she was heading around to scoop up Nicholas and Jerome. The small telepath wasn’t certain how Eliza would get her friends to leave so quickly, and truthfully, she didn’t care. The waves of confusion and sorrow billowing off Vince were a far more pressing concern.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Mary asked.

  “I really, really don’t,” Vince said. “In fact, I need to ask you a favor. Can you tell Camille I had to leave? She’s across the bar, waiting for me to bring waters, and I’m afraid if I see her right now, I’ll break down and spill everything.”

  “Is that such a bad thing? You need to let it out, Vince. That much is obvious.”

  “I know I do, but not like that. Not to her. I know she . . . cares about me. If I go over and start talking, she’ll listen without objection. She’ll spend the entire night trying to make me feel better while I drone on about a lost first love, ignoring her own feelings and pain. I can’t do that. I won’t, not to Camille.”

  Mary gently put her hand on Vince’s arm and squeezed. “Fine, I’ll do it, but only if you tell me you’re going to go do something to let all this out. Bottling is dangerous, and not just for you.” She didn’t need to elaborate; Vince remembered all too well the fires that had come blazing out of him last time he lost control of his emotions.

  “I’m going to run all the way back to campus for a start,” Vince replied. “Then I’m going down to the gym.”

  “That’s not the healthiest method for dealing with things.”

  “It’ll get me through the night.” Vince covered the hand she was resting on his arm with his own fingers. “Trust me, Mary, the best thing for me right now is to go wear myself out, and I can only do that if I know you’re handling things back here.”

  “Fine, but you should talk to Dr. Moran in the morning. At least try to make an appointment.”

  “Deal,” Vince said. He released her hand and headed straight for the exit.

  She listened to his thoughts as he went, heard him pick up speed once he was outside, and then began sprinting for all he was worth down the paved, blacktop roads. She didn’t envy the gym equipment when he was done for the evening. Then again, she didn’t envy herself and the duty awaiting her, either.

  Pausing only to grab a glass of water, Mary made her away around the bar to where Camille sat, angrily glaring at anyone who so much as dared glance at the open stool next to her. Setting the glass down first, then pushing her red cloak back so she wouldn’t sit on it, Mary plopped down on the seat.

  “How’s the night going?” Camille asked. She was flushed and a bit sweaty from all the dancing, but the girl practically beamed after spending an evening chatting with Vince.

  Mary took a deep breath, firmed her resolve, and cursed whatever gods or chance had saddled her with the job of den mother to her friends.

  “It’s been . . . complicated.”

  93.

  Sweat dripped from Vince like it believed some sort of perspiration paradise awaited all droplets brave enough to journey to the floor. He was shirtless, having only taken the time to change from his costume into a pair of sweatpants, and every bit of his visible body was coated in a shiny layer of moisture. He paid no heed to this as he drove his fists into the punching bag over and over, just as he ignored the stiffness in his arms and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. Vince had no concept of time; he didn’t know if he’d been down in the gym for hours or days. All he knew is that he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. If he closed his eyes, it would all come bubbling up. He needed to be further gone, more exhausted, so he continued punching.

  “By my estimates, you’ve done enough damage to your arms that you’ll require healing, or you will find them almost unusable for the next three to four days.”

  Vince glanced away from the bag to find Roy and Chad standing at the gym’s entrance, both having taken the time to change into proper training clothing.

  “I can live with that,” Vince replied. He continued his striking session.

  “Figured you’d say something around those lines,” Roy noted. “Mary told us you had quite a surprise from your past at the bar. Gotta wonder, how many more of those you think you’ve got waiting for you?” In the case of at least one more—Nick’s return—everyone had been firmly instructed by the tiny telepath to remain silent. They’d agreed that it seemed unwise to mentally dog-pile Vince in his current state.

  “Unless my birth parents turn out to be international criminals or gods or Heroes, I think this should be the last one,” Vince said. He finally paused his hitting long enough to step away from the bag. “But what the hell do I know? I never expected to see her again. Maybe that’s my real superpower, being blind to everything about the people around me.”

  “Nah, Vince, I think you’ve got it backward,” Roy said. He walked over to the gym section that housed hyper-dense free-weights and grabbed half of a literal ton in each hand. “You have a real knack for seeing to the core of people. The problem is, not many people can see the truth in themselves so easily. If anything, you see people too well.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Chad said. “Would you like to talk about what happened tonight?”

  “Please, no. I just want to wear myself out enough so that I can fall asleep.”

  “Well, if you need anything, like a spot or a weight re-rack, we’ll be here,” Roy said. He let the implication stand on its own. Vince might be slow with subtlety, but even he could catch a softball like that.

  “Thank you.” Vince wished he could have said more, but his mind was already simmering with thoughts about the evening, and he needed to keep those at bay. He handled them the best way he knew how—by narrowing his focus onto a single task: knocking the hell out of the punching bag.

  It would be several more hours before he finally exhausted himself successfully.

  * * *

  Despite what one might have expected from her timid nature and soft-spoken countenance, Camille was not a crier. She had been, once upon a time in her childhood, but she’d left that habit beh
ind when she set her sights on the goal of being a Hero. So, as she sat in the Melbrook girls’ lounge with Alice and Mary, Camille was not tearfully losing herself in a box of tissues. Instead, she was working on a fourth slice of Meatsplosion pizza with double bacon. Greasy food was a rare vice she indulged in, but tonight felt justified.

  “I can’t believe I actually liked that bitch,” Alice muttered. All three girls were resting on a couch, a mindless late-night comedy that they weren’t really watching on the television screen. Everyone was in some form of pajamas; Alice’s being a coordinated silk set, while Mary and Camille wore shorts and t-shirts. Thankfully, Mary and Camille were of similar size, because Camille had neither wanted to be alone, nor spend the entire night in her costume.

  “She’s not a bitch,” Camille sighed. “She’s just a girl from Vince’s past. Who obviously means a lot to him. And who he totally recognized as soon as he saw, not taking two years to piece together her identity. Then who he immediately kissed, and you know what she might be just a little bit of a bitch, I mean, I don’t know her or anything.” She sank her teeth into the meat laden pizza as a way of stopping her endless sentence.

  “All we really know is that she’s a girl Vince met a long time ago, and that she works for the same organization as Nicholas. Beyond that, we’ll have to wait and see,” Mary said.

  “Oh come on, surely you can snoop through their thoughts a bit. With your range, no one would even have to know you were doing it,” Alice urged.

  “Forget it. People need to talk their way through these things. Vince and Eliza will talk, Vince and Camille will talk, and you and I will stay out of the way unless we’re requested,” Mary replied.

  “I’m very glad for that policy, because I definitely needed you both tonight,” Camille said.

  “Of course. You’re one of us. Never forget that.” Alice wrapped her long arms around Camille and pulled the small girl in close for a hug. It was a sweet, tender gesture that nearly allowed the emotions welling inside Camille to break forth. Almost, but not quite.