by Drew Hayes
“Right now, we have a single unconfirmed outlier claiming a different situation than countless other trusted resources,” Mr. Numbers said. “I don’t wish to be insensitive, but I presume you both know what the logical conclusion to draw in such circumstances is.”
Sean looked up from the table, his long-practiced calm quickly melting away. For a moment, his body seemed to shimmer and turn see-through as his emotions attempted to overwhelm his control of his power. That ended with a single glance from Dean Blaine, though it did nothing to stop the building storm of Sean’s wrath.
“Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say what you’re thinking. After all these years, I finally get a clue to finding my sister, and you want me to write it off? Why? Because we don’t know if we can trust the person who gave it to us?” Sean lifted himself from table, this time knocking the chair back from the force of his legs. “Newsflash, Numbers, we’re having a secret meeting in an underground bunker because we have no fucking idea who we can trust! We’re hiding from friends, fellow professors, even family in my case. All because no one is trustworthy. Well guess what, this Abridail guy might be mysterious and unknown, but he sure as shit seems to believe what he’s selling. You heard Esme when she told us about Alice’s dream. I’m not ignoring what he’s offering just because your ‘sources’ seem to disagree.”
Mr. Numbers stood as well, meeting Sean’s aggression with a fierce voice of his own. “I was merely pointing out the logical explanation, so that we could focus on—”
“Enough.” Dean Blaine didn’t stand up, or raise his voice. He didn’t even look at them when he talked. He simply spoke with the expectation that he would be listened to; that others would obey. Shockingly, that is precisely what happened, as both Sean and Mr. Numbers quieted down and stared at him, waiting to hear what he had to say. Zero might have been a greater warrior than Blaine, but years of training and dealing with Supers had made Blaine the far superior leader.
“Mr. Numbers is right; we can’t afford to spin our wheels like this forever. With only one dream-walker’s word to go on, it’s not a productive use of our time. Not with Globe still at large, and a possible mole in our school. Assuming Shelby is alive, Charles has clearly covered every route we might use to find her, which makes looking around like this pointless.”
“But—”
Dean Blaine held up a hand, halting Sean’s objection before momentum could build. “That said, Sean is also right. We can’t afford to ignore the possibility that Shelby really is still out there just because Abridail isn’t someone we’ve dealt with. Even aside from the moral aspect, I can’t be the only one who finds the timeframe of all of this too coincidental. I don’t see the thread connecting them yet, but all that madness happening around the same time, and both with events centering on Charles and Phil . . . no, this is worth pursuing. Demands pursuing. But we’re not going to get anywhere by groping about blindly.”
“What do you suggest?” Mr. Transport asked.
“We’re going after the only solid lead we have: we need to find Abridail,” Dean Blaine declared.
“How? It’s obviously a fake name, and without a name or picture, there’s no locator than can run someone down,” Mr. Numbers pointed out.
“Obviously, we won’t be able to find him, since he took such pains to not be found. However, we do have the capability of drawing him out,” Dean Blaine reminded them. “He has been involved in the entry of two students’ dreams thus far: Alice and Vince. These occurred only when their mental defenses were shut down by Rich Weaver’s unique ability. Thus, it seems if we want to learn more from, or about, Abridail, the best option is to have Rich put them under again. Lucky for us, I happen to be the one in charge of the student’s curriculum. And I think a supplemental lesson may just be in order.”
181.
“. . . and I forgot to check if the toaster was plugged in. After that, I had to be in a specialized facility that could contain me—I was a bit out of control at the time—and while I was there, the people found me. That pretty much catches us up; at least on the stuff I’m allowed to talk about.” Vince dumped a few more pink, fake sugar packets into his coffee, trying to mask the subpar flavor. He didn’t entirely know why Eliza insisted on having their meetings here; there were certainly nicer coffee spots around town. Nonetheless, it was nice to talk with her, to see what had happened after they . . . parted. It was good for him, as well. No longer the girl in his memories, Eliza was becoming real to Vince again, and that was aiding his efforts to move on.
“You know, part of me wants to say how ridiculously unbelievable that all is, but knowing you, I actually don’t have much trouble believing it,” Eliza replied. “You’ve always seemed to live the most unpredictable life.”
“Back at you,” Vince said, smiling over his steaming mug. She never showed it, but those smiles still made her stomach flutter, just a touch, when she saw them. Perhaps it was because she’d thought she would never see them again. Or perhaps it was because the first one was wedged so firmly in her mind.
* * *
“Stop! Thief!”
Vince’s breath was ragged as he pounded through the dense forest. A rogue branch scratched at his face, but he didn’t so much as break stride. He needed to keep running if he had any hope of catching the dark-haired woman bounding ahead of him through the forest. A sudden slope nearly caught him off guard, but he managed to keep his footing and add the increase of momentum to his speed. As he burst out of the brush and saw the woman scrambling to get up, he realized that she hadn’t been quite so quick at catching the slope.
“Stop!” Vince yelled.
The young woman turned around, eyes wild as she hurried to regain her footing. The wince that raced across her face was well-hidden, but told Vince all he needed.
“You sprained your ankle in that fall.” His voice came out worried, kind, a far cry from the demanding hollers he’d been belting at her.
“Here’s an idea: fuck you,” the girl spat. “Why are you running me down, anyway?”
“Because I saw you steal that man’s wallet,” Vince replied. “So I had to stop you.”
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. A park full of people, and the only one who notices my lift is the one who thinks he’s a damned Hero.” She shuffled, changing position slightly. As she did, her foot knocked over a small glass jar sitting in the grass.
The clinking drew Vince’s attention to his surroundings for the first time, as he realized that this clearing wasn’t entirely empty. Set up near them was a large contraption of tubes and barrels. Empty milk jugs and glass jars were scattered about, as if they’d been knocked over, and footprints dotted the ground nearby. He could smell soot and recently doused flames as well. While he had no idea what the thing was, it was evident that he and the thief’s trampling had scared off whoever was using it.
“I’m not a Hero, I’m just not letting you rob someone,” Vince said, turning his attention back to the girl. “It’s everyone’s obligation to stop bad things when they see them happening.”
The girl tilted back her head and let out a harsh, angry bark of laughter. “You are just too much! Did your grandma tell you that when tucking you in at night? The only obligation any of us has in this life is to not die. I stole that rich-looking bastard’s wallet, and tonight, I’ll have a place to sleep and food to eat. Tough shit on him for not being better at keeping up with his stuff.”
“No,” Vince said, trying to stay calm. He could still feel the fire nearby; whoever ran off hadn’t killed it entirely. Fire made him nervous; it was the energy that he seemed to draw most frequently. As long as he stayed away and kept his emotions in check, it should be all right, though. “No, tonight you’re going to be in jail, after you return that man’s wallet.”
“That a fact? You know, if you hadn’t started yelling, he wouldn’t even know the thing was gone. You screwed me real good here, Tights, and I’m not letting you cause any more trouble.”
&n
bsp; “My name isn’t—”
“I don’t give two shits what your name is.” The woman pointed over her shoulder, past the barrels and still smoking fire. “I’m leaving, and you aren’t going to stop me.”
“Yes. I am.”
She took off like a shot, barreling forward in spite of her sprained ankle. It would be easy to catch her, but Vince still hesitated. The thief would run right by the metal container with the fire. Better to go around the far side, just to be safe.
Vince hurried forward, weaving his way around the strange contraption. He was careful and sure-footed, but as he saw the girl make a break for a nearby section of brush, Vince decided to cut it slightly closer so he wouldn’t lose her. Unfortunately, this was one step too close to the fire, which his tired body called out to without his permission.
The flames roared out of the oven heating the moonshine still (for that is what it was, even if Vince didn’t know it), tearing across the pipes and barrels as it flowed into Vince. For a moment, the girl paused in shock at what she’d just seen, while Vince regained his footing after the unexpected surge of energy. As they stared at one another, a new sight caught Vince’s eye. Some of the other pieces of the still had caught fire, and he could already feel the rapidly building energy.
He barely made it in time, but he slammed into the girl, knocking her low and putting his own body over her. There was no time for words, no time for anything before the whole thing blew and the fireball cascaded across the clearing. In the seconds before Vince’s body would be seared—his damned unreliable power refusing to the take the fire in when he actually wanted it—all he could do was try and comfort the girl. So he smiled. He smiled to try and show her that everything would be all right.
Then the fire came, and Vince’s world dissolved into a world of pain.
* * *
“Anyway, we’ve mostly been catching up on my stuff,” Vince said. “Tell me about things in your world. How the heck do you know Nick, for one thing?”
“Oh, Vegas is smaller than you’d think, especially among the locals,” Eliza told him. Vince’s question had quelled the butterflies his smile had summoned. It danced too close to the topic she had to avoid, no matter what the cost. “My life is pretty . . . well, obviously, it’s not boring, but it’s more mundane than you’d probably expect. It’s not bad, though. I always have food and a place to sleep.”
“I’m glad,” Vince said.
Eliza was glad too. For a long time, she’d wondered if the price had been worth it. Now, staring at Vince from across the table, knowing where his life had ended up, she had no doubts.
182.
The spring sun warmed the tepid air, forcing those on campus who had donned sweaters to strip down to their short sleeves and tie the extra garments around their waist. Winter had held firm for a long while during this year, but at last, the icy grip was fracturing beneath the indomitable passage of time. Soon, there would be no more jackets or pants to be seen on the Lander campus, save only for those worn by professors and staff who didn’t have the option of showing up to class in shorts.
Hershel, for one, missed the chilly weather as he plodded along the smooth sidewalk that wound through the entire Lander campus. It was easier to run in the cold, easier to ignore his aching joints and the damp feeling of sweat coating his face. For the past several weeks, he’d actually been enjoying his morning runs; it was an invigorating way to start off the day, not to mention it was an easy way to wear himself out. Hershel wasn’t even sure whether interval-sprinting until he was nearly sick helped Roy; he just knew that he wanted to contribute. Roy was doing his best every day, and he’d been grappling with what Professor Cole told him for weeks now. Hershel couldn’t really help make that decision; it should fall on the one who would actually be wielding the weapon. All he could do was put forth every bit of effort he had to make Roy just a little bit stronger.
The brisk sound of methodically moving feet reached Hershel’s ears, and he quickly moved to the edge of the sidewalk. Chad zipped by, giving Hershel a quick nod of greeting, and kept right on running. He kept his speed contained while on campus, but every morning-jogger knew him on sight. Hershel wasn’t even sure what time Chad got up to start training, or when he stopped and went to bed. All he knew was that, in the entire time since Chad had moved in, Hershel had never gotten up early enough to beat him.
It was frustrating at times. Chad was already so strong, had started out so far ahead of them. Why couldn’t he ever just slow down a little bit and let the others catch up? Why did he have to be the one training the hardest, on top of being the best? Of course, Hershel knew that Chad’s relentless training was likely a huge part of why their blond dormmate was at the top of the class, but it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to close the gap between them. Roy could do it. Hershel genuinely believed in his brother, and, to an extent, in himself. They had a year and some change left, best case scenario. It wasn’t very long, but it might just be enough.
Hershel swallowed a large gulp of air and pumped his legs, determined to set a new personal best time on this morning’s run. He didn’t know how much each individual session helped; he just knew that it did. And that was all he needed to push as hard as he could go.
* * *
Roy jogged into the gym to find most of the other students gathered around Dean Blaine, who was patiently waiting for the rest of the class to arrive. Roy scanned the room, but didn’t see any unknown person that might be delivering a guest speech, so that probably meant this had something to do with their upcoming midterms. Close Combat had already told the students to expect more of the same, as Professor Fletcher wanted to chart each student’s growth in one particular exercise. Roy wondered if perhaps the dean was throwing in some sort of twist to liven things up. He certainly hoped for that, anyway. Fighting the Sims in the semester final had been a real rush, but it left Roy wanting more genuine battles than what the controlled sparring sessions offered up.
“Starting this week, we’re going to be doing a new bit of training,” Dean Blaine announced as the final student fell into place nearby. “As a rule, the HCP focuses on training your reactions, defenses, and skillsets from a purely physical standpoint. However, with this year’s class, we have the very rare opportunity to offer you a chance at training your mental capabilities as well. Rich Weaver and Selena Wilkins, please step forward.”
Both of the students complied immediately, though they seemed just as clueless about what was going on as the rest of the class.
“Tell me, both of you, what is the maximum number of people you’ve successfully used your abilities to enthrall at once?”
“Five,” Rich said without hesitation.
Selena seemed to consider the question carefully, turning over different memories in her head. “Can you define what you mean by ‘enthrall’? My power has different levels of influence. I can push a lot of people at once, but if you’re talking about a complete mental takeover, then I don’t think I’ve ever tried to do it on more than three people simultaneously.”
“For the purposes of this discussion, let us stick with the complete mental takeover aspect,” Dean Blaine replied. “So then, five and three, respectively. Very impressive in a one-on-one encounter, but quite limited in a large-scale brawl situation. It has been brought to my attention that, since this year’s focus is on dealing with multiple opponents, you would both benefit from training that focused on mentally binding as many people as possible and seeing how long you can hold them. This will give you the chance to truly test, and then stretch, the large-scale limits of your abilities.”
Dean Blaine looked away from those two, turning his gaze to the other eighteen students, who were wondering why this discussion had any impact on them. “As for the rest of you, this training will also offer you the incredible chance to have first-hand experience in dealing with those who attack your mind, rather than your body. As anyone who has faced Mr. Weaver or Ms. Wilkins is surely aware, their abilities
are quite formidable. Breaking out of such powers is no small feat, and is, in fact, impossible for the vast majority of people. Some of you, however, may possess the strength of will and self-awareness to free yourselves, and if so, then this exercise will offer you the chance to learn how.”
It was all about the framing, as Dean Blaine had learned so long ago. Tell the students you needed to use them for an experiment and people would shy away. But tell them it was for training, training they couldn’t easily get elsewhere, and one could have them breaking down doors to beg for such an opportunity.
“We’ll be scheduling sessions for Mr. Weaver and Ms. Wilkins to undergo their training starting today. Each session will be watched over by myself, two other professors, and a healer, so you need have no fear about what will happen to your bodies when you are under. While everyone will be given the chance to test their mental escape skills, any extra spots we have will be first come, first serve, so make sure you sign up early if you want more bites at the apple.”
He could already see several of them getting riled up, eager for the opportunity to prove they were one of the few who could break such restraints. While the real goal of this had little to do with actual training, Dean Blaine wondered if perhaps he might get some unexpected results from a few of the students anyway.
If so, he’d have to look into adding similar training to the planned curriculum.
183.
Angela was going to miss her house. She would also miss her friends, her school, her rivals, and her boyfriend; but all of that was too emotionally sticky to dwell on so soon. There would be time for it all later, when the end had arrived and she was forced to confront the overwhelming sense of loss she’d face at being taken away from almost every component of her life for the last four years. Until then, however, all Angela allowed herself to admit was that she was going to miss the house she rented. It was small, but serviceable, and it had been her little oasis ever since sophomore year. Each day, when she pulled into her driveway, she allowed herself a few minutes to take in the sight of it, every tree in the yard and chip of paint on the exterior.