by Hayes, Drew
Dean Blaine paused to run through his mental checklist. The final piece of the agenda would steal their focus so thoroughly that nothing said afterward would stay with them. It was imperative that he get all the lesser announcements handled before he told them about the enormous event looming in their future. There were small things they’d still need to know, minutia that could be handled in a less formal setting. Save for the big announcement, there was nothing else on Dean Blaine’s docket, so he pressed forward, a touch of excitement in his stomach. No matter how many years he’d presided over the program, this part never stopped being fun.
“Today’s final topic is one that I’m sure some of you have found out about through friends or family that came before, in spite of our efforts to keep it secret from the younger students. Every year, each of the five Hero Certification Program schools come together, bringing students for a friendly competition we call Intramurals. Each school may choose three of its seniors to represent them, save for the hosting school, which is given a fourth slot to even out the numbers. Those students will fight in a tournament-based system, earning glory for their school and perhaps intern opportunities for themselves. This will take place before graduation, and winning is not a guarantee of making the final cut, though there has never been an instance of Intramural champions who weren’t also considered fit to wear the title of Hero.”
All of the restraint and quiet the seniors had been exercising up to this point vanished in a sea of frantic whispers. Dean Blaine allowed it to continue for several seconds, enjoying the wave of enthusiasm from his eager students that washed over him before he cleared his throat in the microphone once more. Silence quickly retook its stronghold, though the bright eyes and fidgeting showed that it wouldn’t last for very long.
“Intramurals are a long way off, and we have work to do today,” Dean Blaine said. “Still, I know how exciting it is to get that news, so if you would like to confer amongst yourselves, I will answer three questions before sending you to go prep for the freshman matches. You have two minutes to choose your questions, starting now.”
In no time at all, the remaining eighteen seniors had circled together, chatting amongst themselves. After only a single minute, they all dispersed back to their seats, except Chad Taylor, who remained standing. Speaking calmly but loudly, his voice carried through the auditorium with their first question.
“What determines the students who are chosen?”
“That’s what every class asks out of the gate,” Dean Blaine remarked. “And the answer is: you do. Your class, anyway. This is a contest to bring glory to your school and to your class as a whole. We feel it’s best to let the students decide who should represent them, as they have the most invested in victory. Whether you are chosen for strength, wit, or skill is irrelevant. The class determines its own champions.”
Chad nodded, either unsurprised by the answer or taking the reply with his usual stoicism. “Do we get any information about the opponents?”
Now that was one that few classes thought to ask. Dean Blaine was a bit impressed, though he should have expected it with so many solid tactical minds amongst the seniors.
“You are allowed to watch the other matches. It’s up to you to collect information from that, just as they will from seeing your fights. The exact lineups are chosen randomly, so who you battle next will be unknown until the Intramurals begins.”
What Dean Blaine didn’t tell them, what they would have to see on their own, was that hiding their own abilities was almost as important as figuring out what their opponents could do. Depending on whom the class chose to send, it might be a lesson this year’s crop learned through failure.
“Our final question is simple,” Chad said, speaking over the small din of conversation trying to crop up around him. “Will these be simple fights, or could other elements be at play?”
Dean Blaine repressed a grin. Normally, this was something he had to brief them on when Intramurals were drawing close. Few classes considered the possibility that they might be facing more than a straight-out brawl, at least when they first heard about the event.
“Match conditions, as well as participants, are randomly determined. Some will be straightforward fights. Others… less so.” Dean Blaine turned off the microphone and stepped away from the podium, signaling that the meeting was officially over.
“That’s three,” he said, easily filling the room with his well-trained voice. “Which means it’s now time to get you ready for the freshman matches. Everyone, follow me. We have violence to watch over.”
7.
“This one is going to be a pain in the ass,” Professor Blake Hill said, laying a white index card down on the wooden table. “How the hell is she supposed to fight someone without using lethal force?”
“If they’re smart with their power, there’s always a way.” Professor Esme Stone mentally lifted the card from across the table and brought it over until it hung before her. A slight frown crossed her face as she read the name and power listed there. “Or not. Damn, I forgot about her.”
“Is it the boomer?” Professor Sonya Cole asked. The table in front of her was already covered in carefully paired sets of index cards.
“I pray that’s not what we’re calling her, but yes,” Professor Stone confirmed. “Ariel had one set aside for that.” Professor Cole turned her cloth-bandage covered face across the room, where a redheaded woman was rifling through the small pile of cards in her hands.
“One sec, I know I saw it… here we go!” Professor Baker produced a white card with a folded corner and handed it to Professor Stone. “That should get her through the first round, at least. After that, we’ll have a better idea of how much control she’s got and can choose an appropriate opponent.”
Professor Stone looked over the card she’d been given, examining the words carefully. “Is this a fair match, though? We’re pitting Transmute’s daughter against a girl with no documented training whatsoever. She made it in on ability alone.”
“Which is why we need to send her against a skilled opponent for the first round,” Professor Hill said. “She’s got power, and until we teach her how to control it that makes her dangerous. Judy inherited her mother’s ability, and she’s been trained since it manifested. She won’t let herself get hurt.”
“Just to be safe, maybe one of us should watch the match,” Professor Baker proposed.
“Let’s have Professor Fletcher on hand. He can get in there the fastest,” Professor Hill agreed. “But put one of the seniors on it, too. Someone with a bit of brains. It might be good to get multiple eyes on the fight. Plus, we can see just how well these kids know how to break down a match.”
“Sean has a pair of Subtlety students that passed the final; either of them is probably smart enough.” Professor Baker had turned her eyes back to sorting her own pile, making sure none of the other matches were so lopsided that they wouldn’t provide useful information.
“Perhaps it would be better to choose someone from a different major,” Professor Stone said gently. “It’s a good learning opportunity, especially with Intramurals ahead of them this year, but you know how rarely a class elects to send Subtlety majors to the event. Besides, they already receive that sort of training in class.”
“Smart, but not in Subtlety.” The bandage across Professor Cole’s face spread, signaling that she was smiling under her cloth coverings. “You know, I actually think I’ve got the perfect kid for that job.”
“Then let’s consider the matter settled.” Professor Hill reached over and took the two cards from Professor Stone, setting them on the table next to a Post-it with a combat cell number written across the top. “Next up, does anyone have a good fight for an acid-spitter?”
* * *
Mr. Numbers finished scribbling the last few notes down on the form and slid it across the small table to the waiting DVA agents. While Lander had agreed to make room for the DVA as it tightened security and evaluated protocols, there were onl
y so many spaces to use in the underground area. Combat cells were needed, training facilities were a poor fit, and classrooms were obviously dedicated already to a different purpose, so most of the makeshift DVA offices were renovated storage spaces made as habitable as possible. It was for this reason that the form had a very short journey across the narrow table, arriving quickly in the hands of Ralph Chapman.
“We thank you very much for your input, Mr. Numbers. Your expertise is considered second to none.” Ralph was the only one who spoke in these meetings—his two underlings had firm instructions not to say a word. This was less a power play to make him seem more important than it was a concern for privacy. Mr. Numbers was indeed renowned for his mind, and a single slipped word from the other agents might betray information he wasn’t meant to have.
“Anything to help make the school safer,” Mr. Transport said. He stood at Mr. Numbers’ side, since there was inadequate space to fit more than the single chair. “We’re happy to do our part to keep these students safe, so long as the company permits it.”
“No worries there. Senator Malcolm spoke to Isaac Lamont personally. He’s pledged as many resources as he can spare to help shore up defenses.” Ralph skimmed the document Mr. Numbers had handed him, skipping the more complex parts entirely. Ralph Chapman was a multitude of things, many of them bad, but he was not a man who pretended to be more than he was. The Super in the dark suit with blue eyes had a brain that could do things no human would ever rival. There was no shame in not understanding his work; that was for the DVA’s more intelligent personnel to handle. “Most of the changes I can understand look fairly simple.”
“They are,” Mr. Numbers confirmed. “My goal was to make small alterations to the protocols, ones that were easily executable and which slightly narrowed an enemy’s chance to attack us. Each is a small piece, but using them all will make it fourteen percent less likely that a successful sneak attack can occur.”
“Only fourteen percent?” The DVA agent who spoke immediately slammed his mouth shut and grew a few shades paler as Ralph glared up at him.
“That’s on top of the reductions we’ve already made through the larger changes,” Mr. Numbers said. He resisted the urge to smirk at one of the silent duo finally speaking, managing to keep a neutral demeanor. The time for chuckling would come when he and Mr. Transport were on their own.
“I’ll run this up the channels, though I doubt there will be any contention,” Ralph said, slipping the form into his briefcase. “Once we make the changes, I’ll get you fresh data to check over. Same time next week?”
“Certainly,” Mr. Transport said. “We look forward to it.”
Without another word, he and Mr. Numbers vanished, leaving Ralph Chapman and his two underlings in the room, one of whom was already braced for an extensive tongue-lashing.
8.
Hershel followed Professor Fletcher up the small set of stairs then stepped into the viewing room above the cell below. The clear, plastic-like material that separated him from where fellow Supers would be slugging it out seemed almost flimsy, belying the number of matches that had safely been watched behind it. It wasn’t the plastic that felt weak; it was Hershel himself. Despite taking a more active role in their education since last year, this felt firmly like something Roy should be handling, which made the fact that Professor Fletcher had told him not to shift all the more confusing.
“As we covered downstairs, these are your deterrent controls,” Professor Fletcher said, gesturing to a small panel on the right side of the viewing window. “The blue lever will send electricity coursing through the entire room, the yellow will fill it with gas, the white one will start lights that blind everyone, and the red will do all of that at once. Given the power sets of the two students we’re about to watch, the yellow lever is most likely to be the one you’ll pull if the need arises. Both are physically durable enough that the other deterrents might not work as well.”
“Do you really think I’m going to need to stop their fight?” Hershel had already memorized which levers did what, and even if he hadn’t, there were small drawings positioned below each one. While it was nice to know he wasn’t expected to break into the match personally, the responsibility of making such a call was still heavy on his shoulders.
“It’s possible, but not likely,” Professor Fletcher admitted. “This fight is one where both sets of powers are strong enough that there’s a fair chance of injury, which is why I’m on hand to watch it. If someone needs to take action, I’ll be the one to make that judgment. That said, I might need a little assistance, which is why you’re here, too. Just watch the fight carefully, and be ready to act if I give you an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Hershel turned and looked into the cell, noting that the door had opened and its combatants were walking in. One of the young women was medium height, with tawny brown hair in a braid that fell halfway down her back, while the other was tall, with dirty-blonde hair that was chopped short. Just from watching them step into position, Hershel could see the difference in their training. The blonde walked like someone who’d spent years learning to be aware of her movements, while the brunette with the braid merely plodded along, trying to appear bigger than she was.
“Ashley Beck,” Professor Fletcher said, pointing to the girl with the braid. “And Judy Bush.” This time he motioned to the blonde, who was already carefully examining her opponent’s stance. “Ashley has the more dangerous power, though it’s assumed that Judy will take the match.”
Hershel nodded absentmindedly as he continued staring through the window. “She’s clearly the more skilled of the two. Prior training, I assume?”
“I can’t say from whom, but yes, Judy Bush has been extensively instructed in combat, as well as the use of her power,” Professor Fletcher confirmed.
“Yet you’ve got her going against someone who’s obviously an amateur.” Hershel studied them both carefully, trying not to let the sense of nostalgia overwhelm him. Thinking back too closely would take him to when Roy had been down there, and for this, he needed to be fully in the moment. “Which means Ashley has a power suited to doing lots of damage, but not to being precise. That’s why you’ve put her against an opponent who can hold her own.”
“Spot on.” Professor Fletcher spared a glance away from the window to look at Hershel, who was so engrossed in watching the freshmen that he didn’t even notice. Dealing with Roy so often, it was easy to forget that his counterpart possessed quite a capable mind. It was why he hadn’t briefed the student on the combatants’ powers; he wanted to see how well Hershel could break down a situation just from observation. So far, Professor Fletcher was impressed. If Roy could learn to think as tactically as Hershel, he truly would be a nigh-unstoppable force.
“Hershel, whenever you’re ready, they’re waiting for you.” Professor Fletcher pointed to the only button on the wall, a large gray one that most people had to lean into to hold down.
Hershel pressed his hand against it, and the soft crackle of static filled the air. The intercom was engaged. “Please introduce yourselves.” Hershel tried to sound more sure of himself than he felt, though he doubted there was any chance they’d sense his nerves over their own.
“Ashley Beck. Here to take the number one spot.” She was confident, and in a way Hershel admired that. He’d admire it a lot more after she proved it was deserved, however.
“Judy Bush. The spot is yours, if you can win it. But I have no intention of making the first round easy.” Judy hunkered down slightly, preparing herself for the fight that was about to commence. She was well-balanced, but far too low for any attack Hershel could imagine her pulling off. He chalked this up to either an unfamiliar combat style or something power-related and continued with his duty.
“Remember, the use of lethal force is banned in all ranking matches, but what is lethal will vary from opponent to opponent. Use your best judgment, because we will be watching. You may begin.”
Hershel barely had time
to let go of the button before Judy acted, though it wasn’t to break into the attack he’d expected. Instead, she dropped her hands to the ground, slamming them palm-first into the concrete. No sooner had she made contact than her skin began to ripple and shimmer. In mere seconds, her entire body had taken on the same gray, chalky appearance as the concrete that lined the combat cell. Across the room, Ashley merely watched as her opponent shifted, clearly content to see where this led. If Judy was at all inconvenienced or weighed down by her new concrete body, she didn’t show it. The young woman was as controlled and graceful as ever when she rose back to her feet, shifting to a defensive stance.
“A property mimic who can do a complete alteration? Holy crap, those are rare.”
“Yes, they are,” Professor Fletcher agreed. “Though Ms. Beck is not exactly a common variety of… well, never mind, I’ll just let you see for yourself.”
From across the room, Ashley Beck had launched a headlong charge that would have made Roy proud, racing right toward her enemy without so much as a thought spared for her own safety. Hershel hoped she really was powerful; otherwise, this was going to be a very short fight.
9.
Ashley was halfway across the cell when Hershel noticed her hands starting to glow. It was a red, flickering light that oscillated as it grew progressively brighter. The possibilities whizzed through his head; an energy manipulator like Thomas seemed the most likely choice, or perhaps she merely blasted something from her hands, like Allen. Next to him, Hershel noticed that Professor Fletcher had taken a half-step back as he unconsciously moved away from the window. Without prompting, he followed suit, just to be on the safe side.