by Hayes, Drew
“Isn’t it far too early for that?”
“New DVA policy,” Dean Bishop informed him. “We have to choose early enough for them to tack on all kinds of extra security and arrange replacements while we’re gone. Nothing left to chance. Not anymore.”
“I suppose that’s a fair concern,” Dean Blaine said, tapping the bullet and bringing up several documents full of information. “In that case, it seems the first issue on today’s docket is one we have annually. Which school will play host to this year’s Intramurals?”
23.
“Let’s see, no one has had more than seven years elapse since hosting, so there’s no automatic choice,” Dean Blaine said, skimming through the digital document displayed on his tablet. “West Private has gone the longest without hosting, so Maggie, you get to pick the game. I’ll ask you to please not go with something as long as Risk again. Some of us would like to get at least a little sleep this weekend.”
When Intramurals had first started, the schools hosted on a simple rotating schedule that gave every institution the burden of organizing the event and the advantage of an extra student’s participation. It hadn’t taken long for someone to point out the flaw in that system: namely that it was predictable. Anything that could be anticipated was dangerous, because someone with a bit of inside knowledge could leverage that information maliciously. After all, if one knew where Intramurals were taking place, they could mount an attack to try and take out an entire crop of the most promising Heroes. Dean Blaine had considered the practice of randomly changing schools as overkill until last year.
The system now in place was a simple one: every year, the deans played a game, and the winner would host Intramurals at their school. Whichever school had gone the longest without hosting got to pick the contest to give them an advantage, and if any HCP went more than seven years without hosting, they were automatically selected for that year. It wasn’t entirely fair, but it was as close as they could manage while still keeping things somewhat unpredictable.
“Actually, Blaine, the others and I had a talk about this already. I don’t think a game is really necessary.” Dean Silva momentarily shed her peaceful, relaxed demeanor as the topic turned serious. When meeting her, many students often took their dean to be something of a wispy pushover. That impression was spectacularly short-lived: there were few more dangerous or more merciless on the battlefield than Margaret Silva.
“Oh? There hasn’t been a consensus in over a decade. What’s the occasion?” Technically, all the deans could skip the game if they felt there was good reason to host at a certain school. Generally, these occasions were reserved for celebrating milestones or highly unusual events. Seeing as Dean Blaine had been warned of no such things, he had a sneaking suspicion what they were building toward. Best to let them say it, though; no point in seeming presumptuous.
“The occasion is that some insane bastards attacked one of our schools.” Dean Jackson didn’t sound measurably angrier as he spoke, though anyone with a sense of self-preservation could sense the violence radiating from his voice. “They declared war on us, tried to drag down the very names of Heroes and the HCP. It was a message, and we want to send one right back.”
“What Herbert’s trying to say is that, since Lander was attacked last year, we think you should host Intramurals again,” Dean Bishop said. “We want everyone, from the DVA to whatever pathetic pieces of shit might be spying on our schools, to know that we’re not afraid. More than that, that we have complete trust in you and in Lander’s security.”
“That is… forgive me, I’m finding myself lacking for words,” Dean Blaine stammered. “The sentiment, and your support, mean more to me than I have the skill to articulate. But are you sure you want to do this? We did just host last year, and giving us the fourth student two years in a row seems an unfair advantage, especially just to send a message to such a limited audience.”
“The audience is bigger than you might realize,” Dean Fox said. For once, the teasing manner was gone. In its place was the shrewd mind of one of the Hero world’s most dangerous telepaths. Wesley Fox was the only Subtlety Hero in the history of the HCP to gain a position as dean, likely because he was as powerful with a bit of information as he was with his telepathy and telekinesis—which was extremely. “And like they said, it isn’t so much about Lander as it is the program as a whole. It’s important they know we stand beside one another. Things are still in turmoil above our heads; solidarity is one of the most potent weapons we can wield.”
Dean Blaine listened well to Wesley’s counsel, as any intelligent person would. He’d hoped that Senator Malcolm’s sacrifice would be enough to assure them safety; however, until his successor was officially chosen, they had no measure of true security. The Hero Certification Program had always existed in a precarious position, balanced delicately among the DVA, the host schools, and the Heroes running the show. If one side pushed for more power, the others would have to yield or push back, and if they chose the latter the whole thing might come tumbling down. Some manner of facility would still exist in the end, but it wouldn’t be the HCP they knew and loved.
“I see. We show that we, as the deans, are united, and it makes it less likely that the DVA will try to shove one of us out.” Though Dean Blaine spoke in generalities, he knew they were all perfectly aware of who the most likely to get fired was. After all, none of the others had allowed a deadly attack to befall their campus.
“Wesley wanted to mail them a shoebox full of dogshit, but we felt like this was a better way to go,” Margaret added.
“What on earth would a shoebox of dogshit have accomplished?” Dean Blaine asked, turning to the dark-skinned man with the immaculate mustache.
Dean Fox gave a half-hearted shrug, his ever-present smirk back in its usual spot. “It would have made me laugh. Especially if someone actually tried to make a thing out of it. Can you imagine one of those stuffy suits showing up to a boardroom, shoebox of dog turds stuffed under his arm as evidence, demanding to know who kept sending him pallets loaded with shit?”
“Pallets?” Dean Blaine raised an eyebrow and squinted slightly, just as he would if he were questioning a student.
“We got bored waiting for you. The original idea kind of snowballed,” Dean Bishop admitted.
Dean Blaine coughed into his hand to mask a sudden onset of very undignified chuckling, fooling precisely zero people at the table. Once he’d finally composed himself, he made a few taps on his tablet before speaking. “I want you all to know that I appreciate this gesture. I consider hosting Intramurals one year after the attack as spitting in the eye of every member of the Sons of Progress who hoped to drag us down, and I know you all feel the same. Please know that I will do everything in my power to protect you, and, more importantly, your students. Does anyone have anything else to add before we close this agenda item?”
“Yeah, you’d best all get your students as well-trained as possible,” Dean Bishop said. “Because I’ve got some real shit-kickers in my lineup this year.”
“Bring it on,” Dean Fox replied. “We’re not short on contenders at Korman, either.”
“Must have been something in the water way back when, because my class isn’t exactly full of pushovers,” Dean Silva added.
Dean Jackson didn’t contribute to the bluster, which wasn’t much of a surprise. He preferred to let his actions, or those of his students, do their own speaking. It was an attitude that Dean Blaine admired, even if he hadn’t always adhered to it himself. Still, as he closed out the agenda item and brought up their next one, a small smile made its way onto his normally stoic face.
He really hoped the other deans weren’t just blowing smoke about their classes being strong. Otherwise, they wouldn’t stand a chance against whichever students Lander brought to the table.
24.
“I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but that actually wasn’t as bad as I expected.” Alice was as surprised as anyone to hear the words leave her mo
uth; she’d gone into the zombie film expecting more cheap effects and a half-hearted plot. And while the effects certainly weren’t stellar by modern standards, the plot had managed to make up for it. After so many terrible films screened by Nick, she’d nearly forgotten that the genre possessed good movies.
“It was interesting,” Mary agreed. “And I like that they didn’t try to shoehorn in a Super angle. Seems like most of the modern ones like to use deranged or mutated Supers as the default monsters.”
“That’s a modern trend,” Shane told her. “The older films usually pretend Supers don’t even exist. If they were in them, too many of the problems would be easily solved. Unless you make them the bad guy, of course.”
The conversation continued as they made their way through the lobby, merging with the tail end of a crowd from another showing in a bottleneck near the door. At first, no one was quite certain what the holdup was; they merely took it to be a human traffic jam. However, as they drew nearer to the outside, they began to make out a small group of people stopping those exiting and thrusting clipboards toward them.
“It ain’t even an election year. What the hell are these people out campaigning for?” Roy said, peering over the heads of those in front of him as they made their way forward.
“They’re… oh. Well, this is going to be unpleasant.” Mary had tilted her head as she tried to single out the thoughts of those with the clipboards, and a sour look appeared on her face when she found them. Moments later, a similar expression came over Alex’s face, though his was tinged with anger. Neither could say anything, as they were surrounded on all sides by civilians. All they could do was trust the self-control of their friends.
“Take back Lander!” It was impossible to tell which of the people this first call—or most of the ones that followed—came from. The group was all young—likely students at the college from their age range—and wearing identical homemade t-shirts with the letters “HCP” and a line drawn through them. Their cries rang through the open air as people made their way out of the multiplex, assaulting the ears of everyone in their vicinity.
“Get rid of the HCP!”
“Make Lander safe for humans!”
“Sign our petition to kick out the HCP.”
“Don’t let Supers draw us into another attack.”
At the last cry, Nick noticed Alex’s fist clench up. He put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. Together, they plowed past the group, ignoring them completely as they called out for more people to join their cause. The sole consolation to their experience was that almost every other person in the crowd was doing the exact same thing, brushing aside the unwanted advances of these advocates without so much as acknowledging them. Unfortunately, it was not a unanimous sentiment. Some did pause to talk with them, and even signed their petitions.
One particularly bold boy with curly blond hair bounded over and thrust a clipboard toward Alice, who was at the edge of their group. “Good evening. Would you like to sign our petition to force the HCP off campus, making Lander safe for the rest of us?”
She found his cheerful tone disconcerting, since it was paired with such a toxic sentiment. Still, Alice was a Subtlety major now, officially, and she betrayed nothing of how much she’d like to hurl him in the air as she reached forward.
“Gladly,” Alice said, yanking the clipboard away from the boy’s firm grip. Her own smile was dazzling, charming the young man so much he didn’t even notice what she was writing until she handed his petition back to him.
“Thank you very much, Miss…” He glanced at the clipboard for the first time, and his cheery demeanor seemed to falter. “…‘Go Fuck Yourself.’ Hey, this is an official document. You can’t—”
His voice fell away as Alice merely turned and continued walking, no longer deigning to acknowledge his existence. For a brief moment, he started forward, as if he were going to have his say regardless, but Vince and Roy repositioned themselves behind her. While neither made so much as a step in his direction, their stares and well-trained bodies made it clear that he was courting violence, and if he tried hard enough he might snare it. They were technically neutered in this situation, but the would-be activist didn’t know that. Moments later, he rejoined his own group as they shouted at more passersby.
“I thought Dean Blaine told us the students were on our side,” Vince said once they were finally away from the crowd and heading toward their cars.
“The student body has somewhere upward of thirty thousand people in it. You’re going to have some dissenting opinions in a group that large,” Nick told him. “Luckily, it looks like the dicks are in the vast minority. Pretty much no one was giving them the time of day, which is probably why they’ve had to start staking out party events to have a shot at getting more followers.”
“It is an unfortunate truth that there is no such thing as universal adoration,” Chad said. “Even should we graduate, there will be people who hate us. Some for what we do, or fail to do, others for merely having the gifts we were born with. This, just as much as the danger and violence, is part of what it means to be a Hero.”
“You pretty much stole the words right out of my mouth,” Shane said. “Though I’m curious how you already know that.”
“My mother was… not always supportive of my career choice,” Chad admitted. “She insisted that if I go down this path, I would have to know exactly what I was getting myself into.”
“Look, don’t let those shitheads drag down what has been an otherwise fun night.” Nick turned around to face the group, walking backwards without so much as bothering to glance over his shoulder. “That’s exactly what they’d want to happen. Instead, let’s keep the train rolling. There’s a new spot over on Main Street that mixed a fifties-style diner with a bar. They even have milkshakes, alcoholic and boring. What’s say we hit that up and forget all about those fuckwads?”
While the group did eventually agree to follow Nick to the next destination, none of them were quite able to forget about the unexpected detour in their evening. It weighed on their minds, along with the one question none of them had dared to ask out loud:
If those petitions got traction, could the HCP be kicked out of Lander?
25.
Globe stood just outside the small room in their current warehouse, easing the door shut carefully as he exited. Inside, Quentin had finally fallen asleep, and Globe had no desire to wake him. He had muted the sound of the door before it could ever reach their youngest member’s slumbering ears, but some habits died harder than others.
“Kid finally down?” Persephone asked, reading a tattered novel on a threadbare chair nearby.
“He’s hardly a kid anymore. All too soon he’ll hit the teen years, and from there they grow like wildfire,” Globe replied.
“Of us all, you’d be the expert.” Persephone lowered the book and glanced at the door. While they all took turns looking after Quentin, Gerard and Globe always seemed to make a little extra time for the boy. With the latter, she wasn’t sure if it was out of concern for him or because he simply missed his own adopted son. “How many stray Supers have you picked up off the streets in total, anyway?”
“To be fair, Gerard is the one who found Quentin. And Vince was technically a Powered,” Globe said.
“Hard to imagine Vince like that.” Though she hadn’t seen him since their fight at the end of freshman year, she could still recall the bright blue eyes brimming with determination. “I bet he was a sweet kid. Probably why you took him in.”
Globe smiled at the idea, seating himself on a couch with busted springs across from Persephone. “I think you’d have been surprised.”
* * *
Keep moving. That was the key to survival, to holding on to the few meager scraps of life he still possessed. Just keep moving. Stay out of sight, keep to the shadows of the world. As long as Globe was dead, then he could endure another day. The moment anyone learned differently, there would be no more escape.
Somet
imes, in the flickering light of his dying makeshift fires, he dreamed of more. He couldn’t be the only one. There had to be others. If he could find them, unite them… then maybe, working together…
Those thoughts never panned out, of course. Even if he had others, there was no way forward. Nothing made sense. He had no idea who to trust. Not anymore. It was all too much, too big. He’d never been much for thinking or scheming—that was what Subtlety Heroes were for. No, when he’d worn the costume, he’d only known how to handle the problems right in front of him. That was what he excelled at. Those problems were so far away now. He didn’t know how to find them, or what to do even if he could.
Moving silently, binding the sound before it could echo off his feet, he turned into an alley behind a sandwich shop. Despite it being summer, the weather was freezing thanks to a now-captured Super some towns over mucking with the ecosystem. The cold air bit him through the long red coat, so tattered, stained, and beaten it wasn’t even recognizable as part of Globe’s outfit. He could have fixed it up with a thought or thrown it away to secure his safety, but he’d never been able to bring himself to do either. Patching it was too great a risk, and casting it off too much sacrifice. He’d already lost almost everything else. All he had left were this, a watch, and the desire not to die.
With a bit of effort, he warmed the air around him, pushing back the worst of the cold. According to local estimates, in a few days’ time snow would begin to fall, and by then he needed to be out of this town. He’d already lingered longer than was safe. His silent steps moved closer to the dumpster that was nestled in the small alleyway, and for the first time, he noticed that sounds were echoing from inside of it.