by Drew Hayes
“Welcome back, everyone,” Dean Blaine greeted them as the freshmen wandered into his classroom. “I hope you all had an enjoyable vacation.” There was a grumbling of answer that seemed to lean slightly toward the affirmative. “Glad to hear it.”
As Nick took his usual seat near the middle row, he noticed something. The extraneous chairs appeared to be gone. He kept watch as the remaining ones filled up and confirmed his suspicions. There were exactly enough chairs for the current number of freshmen attending the class.
“Now, as I’m sure some of you have noticed, we’ve scaled back the clutter of extra seats over the break,” Dean Blaine said once everyone was seated.
“Took you long enough,” Stella called out.
“So pleasant to hear your voice again, Ms. Hawkins,” Dean Blaine said with his usual unwavering smile. “I assure we had our reasons for waiting, as well as for removing them over break. Would anyone care to take a stab at what those might have been?”
Alice’s hand shot up in the air as usual. Dean Blaine pointed at her out of habit, only doing so after realizing that her hand had, in fact, been up.
“You wanted us to look at the empty seats and be reminded that those were students like us who didn’t cut it. And to remind us that if we didn’t do our best our seat could be empty too.”
“Very good, Ms. Adair. So why did we remove them?”
“Because... because we’re starting a new semester, so you wanted the empty chairs to be fresh examples?”
“Not quite, no. Anyone else?” Dean Blaine asked. This time a black-haired boy with a thin goatee raised his hand.
“Mr. Weaver,” Dean Blaine said, pointing at him.
“You’re took the chairs away because you’re finished cutting people with that system,” he said.
“Correct, Mr. Weaver, all of which leads us into what I’d like to talk with you all about today. I think it’s time we discussed how the remainder of the Hero Certification Program will work as far as continuation and admittance,” Dean Blaine said.
“Admittance? We’re already in the program,” Stella pointed out.
“You’re in this year’s program, yes. I’m talking about the years to follow, though,” Dean Blaine told her. The was a ripple of stillness as the implications of his phrase settled in the minds of the class.
“Allow me to clarify before anyone asks further questions on the topic,” Dean Blaine said; years of giving this speech had left him well-prepared to avoid the tidal wave of panicked queries that would strike if he didn’t take charge. “Each year we take a small number of promising Supers and admit them to the freshman course of the program, the one you are all currently enrolled in. The first semester of that time is used to trim the fat in multiple ways, both by beginning the basic necessary physical conditioning and eliminating those who lack the qualities to move onward. The second semester is spent continuing to lay the groundwork for continuing in the program, giving you training a bit more specialized to your particular talents. Near the finale of the second semester, we hold another battle session to assess your combat abilities, as well as looking at your other skills through various tests to see how much you have grown, and how much further we think you can grow. At the end of this year you all have the option of applying for the next year’s program. I should caution you, however, there are only twenty-eight spots available.”
A few of the mentally swifter students reach the conclusion first, but it was of course Stella who voiced it.
“So three of us will be gone?”
“Correct,” Dean Blaine confirmed. “While you are, of course, welcome and encouraged to continue pursuing a degree at Lander, you will no longer be part of the Hero Certification Program. I should tell you that generally speaking we have cut the class down to much fewer than thirty-one by now, so feel proud that you are part of such a talented group.”
Vince raised his hand hesitantly.
“I believe I said no questions, Mr. Reynolds; however, since I just took one from Ms. Hawkins, I will make one more exception for fairness before I expect that rule to be followed once again,” Dean Blaine said.
“Thank you, sir. I was just wondering, if it’s usually a lot lower than this, and there are twenty-eight spots, does that mean the sophomore year generally has unfilled spots?” Vince asked.
“An astute and fair question, and actually my next point,” Dean Blaine replied. “No, the classes are always filled and many are turned away. Let us say, hypothetically of course, that you don’t make the cut this year and are removed from the program, Mr. Reynolds. In the duration of next year you work hard and improve your abilities. When the year’s end comes around, you apply for the sophomore training once more. You are tested, measured, and found to be one of the twenty-eight most deserving candidates. You would then be accepted and placed into the next year’s course.”
“Wait, wait a second. You mean we’re not just competing with ourselves, we’re competing with everyone who ever completed their freshman year in the HCP and wants back in?” Stella asked.
“I’m going to choose to interpret that as a statement, rather than a question, since I feel I’ve been quite clear about my negative feelings towards those right now,” Dean Blaine said stonily. “That would be a correct summation of the situation, though. You should also note that the twenty-eight spot limitation is only for the sophomore year.”
The class relaxed a little bit. It was scary to have to jump through another hoop, but if it was only one time they each felt like they could make the cut.
“Junior year we only accept twenty students, and senior year it will be a paltry fifteen,” Dean Blaine continued. “Of course, the process will be the same each time, as will the existence of an outside pool of competition. And I suppose I should mention that of the fifteen accepted senior year, only ten will graduate and become fully licensed Heroes. You may now ask any additional questions you may have.”
“Why limit the number of Heroes out there?” Alex asked immediately.
“Because Heroes must be the best. They are tasked with dealing with Supers, Powereds, and all manner of natural disasters along with everyday problems. Just completing the course isn’t enough; you have to prove you’re better than everyone else. Because you’ll have to be,” Dean Blaine explained.
“What if there are more than ten capable Supers in the senior year class, one or two who would make awesome Heroes and are just below the cutoff point?” Gilbert tossed out.
“They are welcome to apply for the year once more and try again. Perhaps with another year of training they will rise in standing and make it out. If not, though, well, then they weren’t the best, were they?” Dean Blaine queried back at him.
The class lapsed into a stunned silence, taking in everything that Dean Blaine had explained to them and trying to mentally assess their current standing.
“The ultimate thing to remember here is to work hard, try your best, and never forget that just getting by is not an option for students who want to be trusted with the lives of the weak and innocent,” Dean Blaine advised them. “I know this system seems harsh, because it is. When Heroes fail, people die. That isn’t a responsibility that can be trusted to just anyone. Keep that firmly in mind as you learn this semester, and I’m sure you’ll find the gumption to push yourself just that little bit harder.”
77.
“Rule number one is that you’re stronger than you think you are,” Coach Persephone said as she walked down the line of students before her. The two hours of conditioning were over and they had finally arrived at a more specialized training. She was handling her kids in the regular gym while George had taken his down a floor to a combat field. The faces staring back at her were uncertain and timid. She knew these expressions well: every year she was surrounded with the same looks on different faces. It was an arrangement of features that told the familiar story of someone who was powerful yet mortal, a Super who had to fear the mundane. She knew these expressions very well -
she’d seen one in the mirror all her childhood, after all - and she took a particular joy in wiping them off any student in her charge.
“That isn’t just pretty talk, either. I’m not encouraging you, or trying to build your self-esteem. I’m being literal. Each of you is more powerful than you believe. Alice Adair, for example, can fly. Now, how useful would you rate that skill in combat, Mr. Weaver?”
“Not very,” said Rich, body language solid but voice hesitant.
“You’d be right much of the time,” Coach Persephone agreed. “In circumstances where battle is taking place in an elevated location, or the enemy has the high ground, or even mid-air, though, you would be very incorrect. The ability to move freely through the air is a very rare talent among Supers, and one that has turned the tide of many battles. What about Tiffani Hunt’s ability to create illusions? Any thoughts on its battle worthiness, Mr. Murray?”
“Well,” Will began thoughtfully. “Normally no, it wouldn’t be useful in a one-on-one battle in an open plain. If it were used to alter the opponent’s perception of the environment, though, it could be downright deadly if used properly.”
“Mr. Weaver has hit upon the magic phrase,” Coach Persephone praised. “And that is ‘if used properly.’ You see, none of you are a tremendous threat in a regular fistfight, but we don’t deal with those situations. We deal with criminals and villains that are clever as well as powerful. Being a Hero very rarely boils down to something as simple as a fistfight. So while you are under my care it is important that you understand the purpose of this course. I’m not trying to teach you how to fight like the students in the combat course. I’m teaching you how to find the right scenarios where you are deadly, and then how to orchestrate them in a field of battle.”
She paused for a moment, seeming to collect her thoughts. In reality she had given this speech many times and found a small break here drove home her next words well.
“To put it more concisely, Coach George is turning your fellow classmates into tanks. But as for me, I’m building snipers.”
* * *
“Rule number one is that you’re weaker than you think you are,” Coach George said, pacing the line with a half snarl plastered to his face. He knew all too well the faces that stood before him in the sparse concrete combat area under the glaring fluorescent lights; they were the same cocky stares that met him every year at this time. These were the kids who grew up unstoppable. They didn’t understand fear or insecurity. Sure, some of them knew what the words meant, but they didn’t know the horror of wondering if you’ll be able to walk out of a bad situation alive. They weren’t picked on or made to eat dirt, though plenty of them had done the picking. These were the expressions of arrogant idiots who’d never known what it was to really lose - George had worn one himself for longer than he cared to admit - and he took a special joy in smashing it off the face of any student in his care.
“I know you all grew up powerful, the baddest-ass kid on the block,” Coach George continued. “I’ll bet, with the exception of you who had Supers for teachers, none of you has even lost a fight before Lander. Hope you enjoyed it, kids, because that ride of luxury stopped the minute you stepped into my gym. This course is designed to show you just how weak you all really are, so that I can teach you how to be strong. Reynolds, punch Castillo in the mouth.”
“What?” Vince asked, making no move to strike Thomas, who was standing next to him. “Why would I do that?”
“Wrong answer, Reynolds. Fifty push-ups. Now,” Coach George ordered.
Vince looked at him uncertainly, then got down to the floor and began his penance.
“You see, this is not playtime. I’m going to be teaching you how to fight with the intent of taking an opponent down for the count. Me giving an order should be met with instant obedience, because there will be times when that order will save the life of you or another. Foster, punch Griffen in the mouth.”
Alex never even had a chance to react before Sasha’s fist buried itself in his unsuspecting jaw. The impact knocked him to the ground.
“Good job, Foster. The sound of flesh on flesh impact was the only acceptable answer there. Griffen, fifty push-ups,” Coach George said.
“But you told her to hit me!” Alex pointed out from his prone position as he rubbed his jaw.
“And if I told you not to dodge then you’d get a ‘good job’, too. But you didn’t duck a fist flying at your face. That shit doesn’t float in combat training,” Coach George explained.
Alex groaned, but he flipped over and began doing his own push-ups.
“Now, I’m sure at this moment Persephone is giving her kids a pep talk about how to use their special talents to be better Heroes. You lot don’t have special talents, though, you only have the one: kicking ass. Sure, it comes in different flavors, but at the end of the day that’s what it all boils down to. I’m going to tear you down and then build you up again, but this time the right way,” Coach George declared.
The gym was silent save for the soft grunts of Vince and Alex still doing their push-up. That was fine; George didn’t have to hear the grumbles and the ‘yeah, rights’ to know they were there. Kids like these didn’t take anyone’s authority on words.
“I know each of you is thinking that this speech doesn’t apply to you. That you’re the exception to the rule, a true warrior in every way, and that I don’t know a damn thing about combat. I know because I’ve been you, and I’m going to do with you what my coach did to us. I’m going to establish right here and now who the authority on the subject of winning fights is.”
Coach George shrugged off the jacket of his uniform and cracked his knuckles for show. “Anyone who wants to see where they stack against the old timer can step up now. One by one I’ll be glad to knock you down.”
Smarter students of this age, ones who had been on the losing end of a few fights, might have suspected that Coach George wouldn’t make an offer like this unless he was able to follow through on it. Unfortunately for a large portion of the class, they didn’t fall into that demographic, and as such hadn’t learned just how humiliating and devastating a loss can be.
Yet.
78.
“This is some kind of trick, right?” Roy asked as the rest of the students stared uncertainly at Coach George.
“Not at all, Daniels. This is part of the learning experience,” Coach George said.
“What exactly are we supposed to learn?” Sasha ventured to ask.
“Respect. Not the kind that makes you say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, the kind that lets you trust implicitly that I know what I’m doing. This class will be far more lucrative for you all if you do as I tell you, when I tell you.”
“Of course we will, you’re our teacher,” Jill assured him.
“Some of you will,” Coach George agreed. “Some of you need to really know you should, though. Need to know it in a visceral way, a way that can only come by having the man you’re learning from best you in a fight. I’m not condemning that fact, I’m acknowledging it for what it is and getting it addressed right here and now. Nobody has to fight me, and there won’t be punishment for anyone who does. Just ask yourself this simple question: can you one hundred percent trust the battle instructions of a teacher you haven’t tested firsthand? If so, then fine; if not, then let’s fix that problem.”
There was a brief silence after Coach George finished, broken almost immediately by Roy’s deep, confident voice.
“Oh I have so got dibs on first.”
* * *
“The first step is understanding exactly what it is your power does,” Coach Persephone instructed her students. “This is also the last step, because it is a step that never truly becomes accomplished. Trying to define the miraculous is a capital enterprise in futility. Still, we can improve our understanding, and from there we gain strength.”
Nick leaned over and whispered to Alice, “If I cough the words ‘hippie bullshit’ you think anyone will notice?”
> “Shush!” Alice snapped at him.
“Nick Campbell,” Coach Persephone said without turning to face him. “Do you have a problem with my instructions?”
“Yeah, look, not to stir the pot or anything, but what about people like me? I mean, hell, I don’t even know how my power works really, let alone have a clue on how to understand it,” Nick told her, stepping forward from the line.
“You manipulate probability,” Coach Persephone said.
“Probabilily,” Nick said, grinning slightly.
“That is somewhat abstract, I’ll give you. If you want my honest advice, though, and not just an opportunity to show the class how you can make a bad joke from a common word, I would tell you experimentation is the key,” Coach Persephone said. “Start trying to do things with your power you haven’t done before. As you find things that work and things that don’t, you will grow closer to understanding the mechanics behind your ability.”
“Ah, great idea. Thanks, teach,” Nick said, retaking his place beside Alice.
“Nick Campbell, walk over here right now,” Coach Persephone told him.
“What’d I do? I asked a question,” Nick began protesting.
“Just walk over here, young man,” she reiterated.
Nick let out an exaggerated sigh and began slowly schlepping toward his teacher. It wasn’t far, maybe thirty feet at the max, and yet he only made it halfway. Once there, Nick proceeded to jerk his head back, twitch slightly, and collapse onto the ground.
* * *
“Anyone else?” Coach George asked. Scattered around him were the bruised and often unconscious figures of several freshmen students, Roy, Stella, Michael, and Sasha among them. The ground in the area was now cracked, and in several places there were scorch marks burned into the surface. Most changed of all in the scenery, though, was Coach George himself. Coach George was a shifter it seemed, one of the more common types of Supers, especially of those who specialized in combat. Coach George was a bit extra special, though, for while shifters like Hershel turned into Roy, or the sophomore Ben had turned into a lizardman, Coach George turned into something different.