But, you wouldn’t really know about my esteemed title by looking at me right now.
Nope.
Today I’m just your average helpless retail worker, stuck inside a big box store that shall not be named on a busy Monday, while everyone else is outside enjoying the pristine weather at the beach.
“Shaun!”
The voice crackles over the walkie clipped to my belt. I fumble with it, struggling to get it off the holster so that I can reply. I’m not quick enough.
“Shaun, repeat, Shaun. What is your location?”
I roll my eyes as I hear the sound of my supervisor, Richard. His nasally voice pierces the air around me. This is the third time that I’ve been harped at today, and my shift is only four hours long. That means that pretty much every hour I’ve been told that I’m not where I’m supposed to be, or I’m not pushing the right stock, or I’m putting things in the wrong location.
You’d think I was completely new to this job.
But, it’s actually my third week here. I’m lucky to have any job, frankly, with all the competition from the college students home on summer break.
Most people would be wondering why I have a job since my family is basically rich? Well, you’d have to ask my mother. Something about learning how to earn my own money and take care of my finances. Independence. Something like that.
So, I got the retail job. Beggars can’t be choosers. I grit my teeth and soldier on.
“Go ahead,” I reply into the walkie.
Static echoes against the rough concrete walls of the back room before my supervisor continues.
“How’s the bookcase coming?”
I wander down the rows and rows of stock, all piled on top of each other like a giant game of Jenga, and shrug.
“It’s going…” I say. “Just getting to the bookcases now.”
“Well, hurry it up,” Richard replies. “The customer is waiting for you at the service desk!”
There’s a click and then I’m on my own once more.
With my portable iDevice in my hand I double check the numbers for the bookcase that the person wants. Once I’m positive that I’m at the right storage location I look straight ahead and am relieved to see that the box I need isn’t up high. There’s a fork lift for those precariously placed boxes on the top shelf, but I’m definitely not authorized to use it. Knowing my luck I would smash into a tower of boxes and send them crashing to the floor.
However, it’s not like objects on a top shelf are any hindrance to me. With the Vestige, a mystical medallion around my neck, I have the ability to fly. I can even shoot energy from my hands - pulse blasts - which would be more than enough to start up the forklift without keys.
But, there’s no chance I can use my powers back here, or anywhere in the store. Up on the ceiling there are dozens of domed cameras encased in black glass. They watch me like all-seeing eyes and send shivers down my spine.
I feel like a prisoner in this store.
“Let’s get this bookcase to the front so I can go home…” I mutter to myself as I set down the iDevice and prepare to do some heavy lifting. By the clock on the device, I have five minutes until I’m free from this place. It can’t come soon enough for me.
Reaching around the edges of the box, I try to heft the rectangular thing off the shelf. But, it’s way too heavy for me to lift and it barely budges more than a few inches. I can picture myself dropping the thing on my foot, which is not something that I need to happen. That would mean zero flying for a while. Sadly, super strength is not one of the gifts that the Vestige bestowed upon me.
I step back and bring the radio up to my mouth.
“Can I get some help in the back room, please?” I ask.
I wait a few seconds, but there’s no response.
I try again.
“I said, can I get someone to help me out in the back room, please?”
It feels strangely like I’m being ignored.
I press my hands into the small of my back and sigh. Two whole minutes have passed and I’m no closer to getting out of this place than I was before. In fact, now I’m going to be late punching out.
I’m about to give a third call into the radio when a voice to my right startles me.
“Hey, Fallout,” says the familiar voice. “You need some help lifting something?”
I can’t help but smile when I see my best friend Mae Williams coming towards me. Her cropped black hair is highlighted with pink streaks, and she wears her walkie and equipment as if she belongs here. She claps her hands together and gives me a mischievous grin.
“Some help would be wonderful,” I say and gladly accept her help as we lift the bookcase off the shelf and onto a cart.
“I was hoping that my sidekick would show up,” I say as we wheel the massive piece of furniture up to the service desk. The metal tub, a three-sided cart that’s banged all to heck, makes a clicking noise as its worn rubber wheels pass over the tile floor panels.
Mae scoffs beside me as she keeps pace.
“I prefer to be called a partner,” she says, giving me a side glance. “Sidekick just sounds so stupid.”
I stick out my tongue at her and she goes to punch me lightly on the arm.
“What, you don’t want to be my Robin?” I tease.
“Robin?” says Mae. “If anyone would be Robin, it would be you. I’d be Batman every time. I’m much better at utilizing technology than you.”
“You’ve got me there,” I say. “I can’t even use the fork lift. That’s like Batman without his Batmobile.”
We successfully deliver the box to the customer at the service desk. The customer, a red-faced woman, gives me a stern look of disapproval as she taps her shiny shoe against the linoleum. Clearly I wasn’t fast enough for her.
“Here you are,” I say before darting away from the woman. Mae follows me.
I wipe away the sheen of sweat from my forehead and rub my damp palms on my khakis in a vain attempt to dry them.
“Only three minutes late,” I say as I glance at the clock.
“That’s enough for me,” says Mae. “What do you say we blow this popsicle stand and get something to eat?”
My stomach growls. I ate lunch before I got here earlier in the day, and now that seems so long ago. I pull off my radio and name tag, tossing them into a bin behind the scenes, and reply, “Sounds like a good plan to me. I’m starving.”
3
Burgers and Fries
Once we’re changed into our street clothes I meet Mae at her car. She drives us over to the nearest burger joint and soon we carry bags full of double cheeseburgers dripping with every topping you can imagine, accompanied by freshly cut fries. To wash it all down we splurged on massive cherry Cokes. I chug a third of mine as soon as the car door closes beside me. The carbonation mixed with the tart cherry flavor washes away the taste of work from my mouth and I smack my lips.
“This is nice,” I say.
Mae rolls up the opening of her sandwich bag, which is stained with patches of oil.
“You know what would be even nicer?” she asks. I catch a glint of mischief in her eyes as she grins.
___
We park the car at a public beach and head out towards the sand dunes, clutching our lunches. The air smells salty and crisp and the late afternoon sun beats down on us mercilessly. I’m glad I have sneakers on. The sand must be roasting.
As I trudge across the sand with Mae, I hope that I don’t get sand in my sneakers. They’re not just ordinary sneakers. These have been modified by Mae to allow blasts of energy from my feet to pass through slots in the rubber soles, giving me the ability to fly without needing to take off my shoes. This also keeps them from ripping apart my rubber soles because the energy won’t have anywhere to vent through. RIP, my old shoes.
After a few minutes of walking we stop at a remote location where no wandering eyes can spot us. I hand Mae my bag of food.
“Hold on tight to this,” I say. “And to me.�
�
She wraps her arms around my shoulders like I’m giving her a piggy back ride. The paper bags settle against my chest.
I take one last look around, confirm that we’re alone, then shoot us up into the sky. The energy from my feet propels us swiftly away from the beach while two steady streams from my hands keep us upright. It almost feels like surfing on air, or snowboarding.
Mae tightens her grip on me and lets out a gasp as we shoot over the water, making a bee-line for one of the small uninhabited islands off shore. No beach dwellers can make us out at this distance and within a minute I touch down on the private beach, setting Mae on her feet.
“That never gets old,” she says with a delighted laugh as I take my burger and fries from her.
“You’re spoiled,” I reply and lead the way over to some small gnarled trees skirted with light-green beach grass.
“Maybe,” Mae says. “If I could fly myself, I wouldn’t need to keep piggybacking on you.”
We settle down in the shade and enjoy a picnic on the beach.
I devour my burger within minutes. It’s wrapped in tin foil and dripping grease. The juices run down my chin and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
Mae eats most of her fries first before sucking the salt residue from her fingers and turning to her own burger.
After ten minutes our pace slows. My pants start to feel much tighter around my waist and I lean back on the sand while we find room to talk without our mouths full.
“I don’t know about that job,” I say, crumpling my tinfoil into a ball and setting it down beside me. “It seems like it’s a whole lotta stress for not enough pay.”
“You let the stress get to you,” Mae reasons. “It would be easier if you just let it go and didn’t take things so personally.”
I don’t reply but instead drag my shoe through the sand, making figure eights. Perhaps she has a point. I come from a family that has enjoyed some pretty good wealth the past few years. Anything that starts at minimum wage seems like a real step down to me, even though I’ve never had a real job besides helping out my Dad.
Still, I know my heart isn’t in retail. Mom forced me to get a job to keep me out of trouble this summer. Little does she know about all the trouble that has attracted itself to me the past few months. She is unaware that The Drone nearly killed me, Mae, and my grandparents over the Vestige.
I bring a hand up to play with the medallion around my neck as Mae continues.
“Don’t forget that you have to start somewhere.” She bites a particularly long fry in half and looks out at the rolling waves. They crash onto the shore in front of us and leave slashes of white foam on the dark sand.
I sigh.
“I still don’t know how long I can last there,” I say. “Mom is the one who wants me to learn some discipline when it comes to money, and I know Grandpa is the one who egged her on this time. But, it just seems easier said than done.” My fingers close around the Vestige and I squeeze it tightly. “I just feel like I should be doing something more meaningful with my life.”
A gust of wind tugs Mae’s hair across her face and she brushes it away. “What about your father’s publishing house? Have you thought about Mr. Crichton’s offer at all?”
I scratch the back of my neck and rest against the sand dune. She’s talking about our chance meeting with the co-owner of Marshall-Crichton, one of the largest publishing houses in Boston. Mr. Crichton tried to coax me into writing a new Super Guy story for him. I let out a long stream of breath and reply.
“Actually, I have,” I say. “The offer’s been stuck in my head for a few weeks now.”
“And?” Mae raises an eyebrow.
“And I’m starting to think that the offer has some merit.” I pull my knees up to my chin. “Writing a new book sounds a lot more enjoyable than doing a retail job - and it’s probably a lot easier.”
“Maybe not easier,” says Mae. “But, you have the experience to continue writing your father’s series if you wanted. I like to think that having Super Guy’s finale in your hands is a lot better than getting some ghost writer to do it. You know that Crichton will find a replacement if you take too long.”
I squirm at the thought.
It’s been nearly two years since my father died in a plane crash. The devastating accident not only left me without a father and my mother without a husband, but it left Marshall-Crichton without an ending to their most successful comic series of all time.
The only problem is, my father didn’t leave any roadmap for the ending of the series. That also means that I’m as in the dark with how to end his magnum opus as anyone else on the planet. At this point, I’d be making things up using educated guesses.
I glance at Mae.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think you should go for it.”
I lick my lips. “I’m not a professional writer,” I argue.
“But, you have other qualifications that professional writers don’t have,” says Mae. “You’re an Aberrant. You have super powers. Those are two big qualifications to writing about Super Guy, right? You have first-hand experience.”
“Yeah, but nobody at Marshall-Crichton knows that. Only you and my grandparents know that. I can’t use that as a bargaining chip when I walk in.”
“Still…” Mae finishes her burger and crumples up her wrapper. “If you have super powers, the least you can do is use them. I know it’s what I would do.” Again she gives me a side glance. “You haven’t forgotten about your promise, have you?”
I try to shrug it off.
“Promise?” I say, crumpling my napkin into a ball and chucking it into the open paper bag like a basketball. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you know,” Mae chides me. She leans into me and nearly knocks me over.
“Hey!” I say, scrambling to keep from rolling over on the sand. “Watch what you’re doing!”
But, Mae isn’t listening to me. Instead she goes on.
“You promised that I could use the shard to get super powers, too.”
“I really don’t remember that,” I feign ignorance. Part of me is playing along, but the other part of me wishes I could take back the promise I made about giving Mae the shard. I glance at her. “You know that having powers is a huge responsibility.”
“With great power, blah blah,” says Mae with a laugh. “I understand. Still, I’m getting those powers whether you change your mind or not.” She brushes off her hands and stands up in front of me. “I know you could use the help in a tight spot, partner.”
My mind is jogged back to the lake in Pine Grove. It was there that I went up against my father’s greatest enemy, The Drone. I suppose now he’s also my greatest enemy, but thankfully he’s in a prison hospital somewhere, paralyzed from the waist down from what I’ve read. That means I can rest easy. However, if Mae gets powers like me, that will be something new for me to worry about. One more variable beyond my control.
I shake my head.
“I think we’re going to leave the Vestige alone,” I say. But, Mae doesn’t let me shake her off.
She thrusts out her hand, palm open.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “We’re trying this now, so hand over the shard.”
4
Test Run
Mae continues to hold out a demanding hand at me until at last I give in.
“There’s no guarantee that you will get super powers on the first try,” I say as I get to my feet.
She dismisses me.
“I’ll take my chances,” she replies. “I studied some of your dad’s comics and the majority of the characters are able to fly on their first try.”
This makes me laugh. “I guess I’m not in the majority,” I say, remembering how the very first power I discovered - on accident - was my pulse blasts. I used them on a particularly horrible bully named Tyson who found himself flying around on is butt in the middle of the cafeteria. I didn’t learn to fly until a few days
later. “Flying is not easy!” I warn Mae.
“I can learn!” Mae laughs. “Come on. Just let me try. It’s not like anyone will see me out here. We’re on a deserted island. Please!”
I make her wait a few more moments before giving in.
“Alright,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “But, you’re only allowed to try with the shard. There’s no knowing how much power you’ll end up having, and you need to be able to try it out in smaller bursts.”
The shard of the Vestige is kept in a tiny bottle in my pocket. Originally this shard was connected to the Vestige, but Bill Flagrant, The Drone, broke it off years ago so that he could steal some of my father’s power. I have a suspicion that the shard isn’t as powerful as the main body of the Vestige, so at least in that regard I can sit back a bit as Mae messes around with superpowers.
To be honest, I am pretty curious what powers Mae will develop, if any.
The Vestige chooses which powers a holder receives. There’s no predicting what one person will get over another person. I have a feeling that the Vestige grants you powers based on your personality. Whatever you get, you just learn to harness your power and have respect for it.
Once you have a power, you are then officially an Aberrant - a person with superpowers. The slang term in my father’s comics was superhero, but I prefer the more official term of Aberrant.
Like I said earlier, the title is pretty important.
Without the Vestige, I’m just a normal sixteen year old boy.
I hand Mae the tiny bottle and she tucks it into the pocket of her shorts.
“There we go,” she says. “First step done. Now what?”
“Now you take off your shoes,” I chuckle.
The Aberrant Series (Book 2): Super Vision Page 2