by Drew Hayes
“Well, if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”
Nick got up from his chair, snagging his own glass in the process. His teacher was right: better to enjoy the good days when they came. There were always horrid ones lurking around the corner.
157.
The spirit inside Melbrook Hall was lighter than it had been in months as its residents returned. With the hurdle of last semester cleared, the next one far away, and Nick’s successful rescue, everyone was feeling optimistic about the coming weeks at Lander. One person was extra excited, though, and his joy had nothing to do with the program.
Vince and Hershel had only been back for half an hour, dropped off by Mr. Transport in the mid-morning, before the doorbell of Melbrook began dinging incessantly. Vince headed down the front hallway before any discussion arose, returning quickly with Alex, who was clutching a large binder in his arms.
“Tell me you did some costuming work over the break,” Alex said, barely managing to get through the door before the words leapt out of his mouth.
“I . . . we aren’t even seniors . . . oh!” Hershel nearly smacked himself as realization kicked in at last. “That costuming. For the Star Puncher opening. Yeah, I knocked out a few sketches in my downtime. What about you?”
“I did considerably more than a few,” Alex replied, setting his weighty binder down on the table. “Home is really boring compared to here. Practically all I did was train and plan.”
“That can’t possibly be full of just stuff for your costume,” Hershel said, words more filled with hope than certainty.
“Of course not. I just knew everyone else didn’t have the background to put their own outfits together, so I made designs for them too.”
Vince carefully interrupted the conversation. “When you say everyone . . .”
“Everyone. You, Camille, Mary, Alice, Chad, Violet, Thomas, Will, Jill, all of our friends. Good thing Star Puncher has such a wide array of characters; I don’t think I had to repeat a single person.”
“I don’t recall all those people agreeing to join us,” Vince pointed out.
“Maybe not, but they will, once they realize how awesome it’s going to be,” Alex replied, enthusiasm willfully undeterred. “In the meantime, we can start with the people we know are coming along. I whipped up some basics for Chad’s Gelfrak costume—there’s no one else he could really play. Vince, for you, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure who best fit your look, so I made concepts for Dialong and Tuspay. Technically, they’re twins, but the style of their costumes and the makeup you’d need would both be very different.”
“Wait, did you say makeup?”
“Nothing too extensive, just some horns by your ears and ridges on your forehead. Oh, and of course, we’d do all of your visible skin in either a light blue or a dark green, depending on which character you played.”
“And you know how to do all that?” Vince asked.
“Duh, I’ve been doing sci-fi openings since I saw The Trilogy for the first time. My dad taught me how to do Klingon makeup when we went to see Star Trek. I’m also decent with a sewing machine, but I’ve got nothing on Hershel.”
Hershel gave a humble shrug and began flipping through Alex’s binder. He didn’t consider himself especially gifted at any aspect of costume crafting; it was just that running his LARP group for so long had given him wagon-loads of practice. Tunics and capes didn’t sew themselves. Well . . . technically, they did in-game when the right spells were cast, but he still had to do actual mending as the real-world counterpart to his character. Even with his level of skill, a cursory glance at Alex’s binder told him that many of the proposed outfits were beyond what he could manage.
“Alex, you’re going to have to scale some of these back. The premiere is in about a month: there’s no way I’ll be able to do Kilworth’s Robe of Battle. It trails ten feet behind him, and every scrap is a different pattern.”
“I can pitch in some,” Vince offered. “We had to sew our clothes when they ripped for my whole childhood.”
“Working a sewing machine with a pattern is a whole different animal,” Hershel said. “I’m not saying you can’t learn, or that I won’t take you up on the offer to help, just that it won’t cut out as much work as you might think.”
Suddenly, Mr. Transport was standing in the middle of the room, as was Chad, holding a pair of suitcases in his powerful hands. For the three who had already been in the room, it was a curious experience. They were usually the ones being teleported, so they never got to see the momentary look of confusion as those hopping through space re-acclimated to their immediate change in surroundings.
“Hey, Chad. I thought you drove home over break,” Hershel said.
“Hello, Hershel. No, I merely caught a ride with someone; however, Mr. Transport was the best option for my return trip.” Chad carefully lowered his suitcases to the ground. “Hello, Vince and Alex. Are you all studying already?”
“We’re going over costume plans for the Star Puncher premiere,” Alex explained. “But this might not be good anymore, since Hershel and I can’t manage all of it ourselves.”
“I don’t mind adding my hands in when time allows,” Chad said. “It is supposed to be a group effort, after all.”
“Do you know how to use a sewing machine and read a pattern?” Hershel asked.
“Not currently, however, if you give me half an hour for research and video tutorials, I should be able to achieve a moderate skill level.”
“Yeah . . . that’d be great.” It was amazing how easily Hershel let it slip his brain that Chad’s ability came with an entire suite of practical uses. It boggled the mind to think what their blond friend could have accomplished if he’d gone into the mundane world for his career. Of them all, Chad’s power most lent itself to a life of ease. He could excel at a job that taxed the mind, body, or both. The fact that he’d traded it for Hero work, the sort of career that was likely to get him killed more than anything, made it all the more impressive.
“Awesome, with Chad on board, we should be able to handle the sewing, which is good, because it frees us up the tackle the bigger problems,” Alex said.
“Dare I even ask?” Vince said.
“I thought it would be obvious. To make this night all that it can be, to truly turn it into the piece of cherished memory it was meant to be, there’s a crucial element that must be present.” Alex shut the binder and all but beamed with determination. “We have to get the girls to costume up and join us.”
158.
None of the students were surprised to see Dean Blaine waiting for them at what was supposed to be their first gym session after winter break. In his hands were a stack of folders, some thicker than others, and it didn’t take a very astute guess to figure out what the information pertained to. Without a word from their dean, every HCP junior fell into the usual half-circle they took when being addressed by a teacher or guest.
“As I’m sure you’ve all figured out, I’m here to give you your results from the semester final,” Dean Blaine announced. “But this time, we’ll be doing things a bit differently. Just giving you a grade wouldn’t impart the level of feedback necessary for you to learn. So today, you’ll each be receiving thorough breakdowns of how you performed.” He could see the interest peaking in some of the students, those who already realized the value in what they were being given.
“We’ll cover what you did well, what you could have executed better, how you showed the skills you’re majoring in, and what you should work on. This will be the system of feedback for all major exams going forward in the program, as we have now reached the point where you all possess basic abilities. What is left is to sharpen and refine those skills until they are unrivaled. Each of you will have the duration of this class to look over your results. When it ends, you’ll return them to me, and they will be destroyed. Any clarification or advice you need from your professors can be obtained during their office hours. Any questions?”
Several ha
nds went up before he’d even gotten the words out, and Dean Blaine suppressed a grin. He knew darn well what they were curious about, and he fully intended to give it to them, but every now and then, it was fun to watch these ever-growing-powerhouses sweat a bit.
“Yes, Mr. Murray?” Dean Blaine pointed to Will, who immediately looked a bit uncomfortable now that all eyes were upon him.
“I, um, I was just wondering if you were going to tell us how we ranked.”
“Rankings only change at year’s end, Mr. Murray. I’d expect you to know that by now.”
“No, I meant . . . you know, in the test.” Will shuffled his feet, only now realizing that the front-runner asking for confirmation of his win might seem somewhat egotistical.
“Yes, Mr. Murray, I know what you’re talking about.” Fun was fun, but dragging this out any longer would border on cruelty. “I will be relaying the information before you pick up your folders; however, I’ll only be giving you the top three in each category. Any lower than that would be shaming those who had a bad day, instead of lauding those who had a good one, and that’s not what I’m here to do.”
“What do you mean each category?” Violet asked.
“I mean, you were being tested in your overall performances, as well as how you fared in your individual majors. For example: someone who is enrolled in Close Combat and Weapons might have done well overall, but used their weapon very little and as such, not placed highly in that category,” Dean Blaine explained. “Now then, are you all ready for the results?”
No one actually spoke up, but there was enough nodding that, had an observer peeked in from outside, they might have thought Dean Blaine was hosting a secret head-banging metal concert. The faces of his students ranged from eager, to nervous, to downright terrified. Rich and Terrance wore those latter expressions, their status as the only two to fail at finishing the test no doubt weighing heavily on their minds.
“I’ll give these to you in order; first name is the number one spot, then number two, then number three. We’ll start with what is likely the most obvious of results, Subtlety. The top three for that class are Will Murray, Britney Ferguson, and Alice Adair.”
This was hardly shocking news, as it had been obvious by the amount of Sims that were shut down who had done the best in the class. Still, Alice let out a small sigh of relief at the news. Part of her had been worried that Professor Pendleton would find some way to dock her enough points that she’d fall out of the top three.
“Next is Ranged Combat,” Dean Blaine continued. “Our top three for that category are Thomas Castillo, Jill Murray, and Shane DeSoto.”
The room filled with polite clapping, but all Shane could hear was the blood suddenly pounding in his ears. It was his own fault for falling to third. That challenge had been his to lose, and he’d had to go and get caught up with a yellow-light Sim while a red managed to run wild. There was no one to blame but himself, and no solution except to train harder. Chad put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but otherwise said nothing. He knew there weren’t any words that would make Shane feel better.
“For the Focus major, the top three are Selena Wilkins, Mary Smith, and Alex Griffen,” Dean Blaine announced.
Alex found himself being slapped on the back by several sources, some of them unexpected. It was no surprise that Selena was in the top; she was a contender for the overall top three in every category but time. Mary might have taken the top spot if she hadn’t been so rushed, but for him to make the top three . . . he allowed himself a gleeful grin. It wasn’t often he got to stand in the spotlight, so it only seemed right that he enjoy it.
“In Weapons, the top three students were Britney Ferguson, Roy Daniels, and Will Murray.”
Britney kept a neutral expression as Dean Blaine called her name for the second time. She was keenly aware that plenty of people thought invisibility was a useless power. So, far as she was concerned, there was no need to correct them. Britney would let them keep on thinking that as she outscored them and won her way into the graduating class.
“Control’s top three were Alice Adair, Vince Reynolds, and Amber Dixon.”
Amber didn’t let the frustration on her face show as she clapped for her fellow top three. The whole class must have known the truth, though: that she’d been the real number one, but she’d lost it on a technicality. Just because she’d accidentally killed a couple of yellows, she was demoted to third. That was fine for training and drills, but once they got into the real world, Amber was certain that her strategy would be the one real Heroes used.
“And finally, we have Close Combat,” Dean Blaine said. “There were a lot of you in the running for this one, but the top three managed to stand out from the pack. They are Chad Taylor, Vince Reynolds, and Camille Belden.”
Camille’s eyes went wide, and her body froze at the sound of the dean’s voice saying her name. She’d expected to do well with her showing . . . but top three? The others must have lost points for things she wasn’t counting on. Camille finally realized that Violet was shaking her shoulder, trying to high five her, and snapped out of the mental fugue. It was just in time too, as Dean Blaine was moving on.
“With your assessments by major out of the way, it’s time to move on to the overall stats. As I said, I’m only announcing the top three, but the rest of you will still get your ranks in the packets I hand out. If you need help understanding why you placed in the spot you did, I encourage you to seek out your professors. We have very quantifiable criteria we grade on and will be glad to break down, number by number, why you ended up where you did.” This was an addition to the speech Dean Blaine had learned to add over the years, otherwise, the students tended to ignore the real meat of their feedback and focus on pestering him with questions about why they’d gotten the rank they did.
“Your overall top three classmates shone in many areas, not just the ones tested by major, though those that excelled greatly in those skills did place higher. The student who placed highest overall was, to what I imagine is the surprise of very few of you, Will Murray.”
Jill slapped her twin brother on the back so hard that he nearly went sprawling onto the gym floor, only two and a half years of constant training allowing him to catch himself before the tumble.
“Second place demonstrated high overall skills, dispatching red Sims quickly and leaving yellow Sims in a healable state, all while putting up excellent time and minimizing damage. Second in the class is Chad Taylor.”
If Chad was bothered by placing second in something, it didn’t show. He accepted the muted applause and handshakes from his friends with the same detached manner he used for most things.
“And finally, the student who won the number three place overall put up a good time, minimized casualties, and earned a bonus for being the first among you to realize the full extent of what was being tested. The number three student overall was Vince Reynolds.”
Vince let out a breath he’d been holding since he walked in. Maybe since the exam had ended, really. He’d needed to put on a great showing, and number three in this class was nothing to sneeze at. At long last, he was out of the middle of the pack, and this time, under his own power. That was one test down.
Only a year and half of them to go.
159.
“Let’s talk about your final,” Professor Pendleton announced, barely having shut the classroom door. He strolled over to his desk and took stock of the bright-eyed students staring up at him. They looked so well-rested and refreshed after their vacation; it was clear he’d have to wear them back down quickly. Real life in the Hero world didn’t come with scheduled breaks when the mind and body could recuperate. Getting them accustomed to running on a half-tank was the best training he could possibly impart, and he aimed to train them well.
“Aren’t we supposed to go see you during office hours?” Britney asked.
“Well, certainly, you are, but that’s only regarding your last final. And really, who cares about what’s already gone? I
want to focus on the new, on the next, on what’s over the horizon.” Professor Pendleton hopped up and sat on his desk, his long legs still nearly skimming the ground.
“You’re going to tell us about our year’s end exam,” Will surmised.
“Close, very close, but just slightly off,” Professor Pendleton said. “I’m going to tell you exactly what your exam is, how it will be graded, and what you can do to prepare. That’s right, first class of the semester, and I’m dealing out the goods. Who’s your favorite teacher now?”
The class remained silent, merely watching him with careful eyes. They’d been under his tutelage for too long to believe anything that easy would be assigned to them. The ones who couldn’t figure that out were no longer in the curriculum, after all.
“That last exam tested the analytical side of your minds, putting you through the wringer as far as code-cracking, hint-following, and the general madness that comes from sniffing out a digital trail can. But, Subtlety has another side to it, one equally as important, but far less defined. Would anyone care to guess what that side is? Maybe Miss Adair would like to take a crack at it.”
“Social engineering,” Alice shot back, not an ounce of hesitation in her voice. She was getting bolder, which was both good and bad, depending on if she was aware of it or not.
“Correct. Social engineering. Things like, oh I don’t know, telling mall security that an innocent and beloved teacher was taking up-skirt photographs of young women just so they would track him down.” Professor Pendleton gave Alice a short glare, which she greeted with a warm smile. Definitely bolder, no doubt about it. “Crass as it was, that was still a valid use of Subtlety. Turning assets, misdirection, using people as tools, it’s all part of what a Subtlety Hero does. Information is our bread and butter, and sometimes, there’s no easier way to get it than with a charming smile and an open bar tab.”