by C. B. Lee
Bells spots his reflection in the twisted metal of a hubcap and curses; he’s back to himself. He concentrates to shift back to Barry before Rebecca and the lab techs reach him, but his power seems slower than usual. Oh no, is he running low? That’s strange—usually running his disguise shift doesn’t take much out of him, but the fire is burning low, as if he’s been using his power all day.
He must have done something different, but he doesn’t have time to think about it.
“Barry! Barry, are you okay?”
“Yup, I’m fine. Thrown clear of the crash.”
Rebecca nods, making notes on her DED. “Great. I think we can go faster, yes?”
Bells takes a deep breath. “I think we can work up to that.”
“That’s the spirit!”
It takes five more practice runs and two more ruined prototypes before Bells is comfortable doing a complete loop around the track on his own and then picking up the speed at Rebecca’s urging.
Bells’ heart is still racing when he goes back inside for his meeting with Harris. Walking into the research center makes him queasy; he can’t put a finger on why, but something about the cold metal and the dark hallways and the doorways labeled with project codes makes him hyper-aware of how Harris has strongly encouraged him every year to participate in the League’s Power Development research program. He’s politely declined every year, partly because his parents don’t approve and partly because it would mean time away from his friends.
“Chameleon,” Harris says, smiling at him. His eyes remain cold, and Bells feels a prickle at the back of his neck. “Please sit.”
Bells sits down in Harris’ office. It’s devoid of personal effects—no holos of Harris’ family or friends, nothing on the walls, nothing to show Harris has any interests outside the League.
“I’ve always found you very capable, even though you haven’t taken advantage of the research we do here at Power Development.” Harris smiles again, and this time he reaches across his desk to pat Bells on the shoulder.
Bells tries not to flinch and gives Harris a watery smile.
Harris withdraws his hand and then steeples his fingers on the desk. “Shapeshifting is such a unique power,” he says. His normally stern voice is laced with sugary flattery. “Usually I find people with meta-abilities, over time, will develop other aspects within that ability, or perhaps even uncover powers lurking just beneath the surface: unexpressed genes, inherited powers from distant relatives waiting to be discovered.”
There’s a file open on the desk. Barry’s file. Every bit of it is a lie.
Bells swallows the lump at the back of his throat.
“You have a deceased uncle who could shapeshift? And I see here a great-great-aunt who could as well?”
“Yes,” Bells says.
“Powerstorm, for example, started out with just the ability to fly, but by the end of our sessions she could exert superstrength as well: inherited powers that she didn’t know she had, you know.” Harris’ eyes gleam.
“No, thank you,” Bells says, standing up.
Harris’ eyes follow him as Bells steps backward, toward the door. “Of course,” he demurs. “It is your choice. Remember that this door is always open to you.”
Bells nods, ducks out of the office, and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t run out of the building, but he doesn’t look back, either.
* * *
The first day of school is always a chaos of familiar faces and new schedules and classes. Bells fidgets with the zipper of his leather-look jacket, readjusts his hair, and leans against the wall as he waits for Emma so they can walk to AP Biology together.
“Hey, Bells! Looking good!”
“Cool jacket, Bells!”
“Love the green hair, dude!”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Bells says, smiling. “Am I gonna see you in yearbook this year?” Jimmy is a sophomore who came out as trans last year. Nice kid, great at photography.
“Definitely!” Jimmy beams at him, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “See you later!”
Two girls walk past, whispering to one another. “Hi, Bells,” one says, nudging her friend.
“Hey. Daisy, right?” Bells guesses. He thinks she’s on the volleyball team; she looks familiar.
“Oh! Yes. Hi,” Daisy exhales; two spots of pink appear high on her cheeks. She giggles, grabs her friend by the elbow, and darts off. She’s not even a few feet away when Bells hears her saying to her friend, “He is so cool!”
“And cute! I can’t believe he knows who you are!”
Bells chuckles. He knows people know him at school, but it’s what he lets them know: the Bells who’s always ready with a comeback to teachers, who always has a joke ready, who can ease in and out of clubs and cliques like nothing; the guy with the cool hair and cool clothes—that Bells is the one most people see. He’s friendly with a lot of people, but no one knows him the way Emma and Jess do.
Emma appears around the corner, the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes crinkle when she sees Bells. “Hey,” she says, linking her arm in his. “Ready for class?”
“Now I am,” Bells says.
They get assigned lab partners in AP Biology according to last name, and Bells makes a face at Emma as they shuffle to their new seats. She gets paired up with a senior Bells doesn’t know, points at him, and winks at Bells.
Bells rolls his eyes and holds up eight fingers at her. The super-swooped hairstyle isn’t doing it for him, but the guy is pretty cute.
Biology passes quickly, and then it’s time for history, which drags on and on. Who starts with an actual lesson on the first day?
Bells ignores the lecture and sketches instead. Moving quickly, the graphite of the pencil smudges as he guides it across the paper. He captures every whorl of Emma’s hair and the tilt of her head as she rests her chin in her hands while intently watching Thalhofer explain the history of the Western regions, including the settling of Andover. Forgetting the lesson, forgetting himself, he commits Emma’s likeness to paper.
“Mr. Broussard?”
“Huh?” Bells sets down his pencil, but it’s too late to hide the sketchbook. Thalhofer, already at his desk, is glaring at him.
“If you have enough time to draw your girlfriend, I’m sure you already know why the settlers chose to name our town Andover.”
“Um… old rich white dude decided to name this new town after his favorite place on the East Coast?”
“Detention, Mr. Broussard,” Thalhofer says, his mouth a thin line.
“He’s not wrong,” Emma says, raising her hand. “Why are you sending Bells to detention?”
“For disrupting the class, as you are, Ms. Robledo,” Thalhofer says. “You can join him in detention this afternoon.”
Other teachers make detention interesting. Rhinehart’s students do service projects around the school, and Gaine’s detention students turn the compost in the school garden. Thalhofer’s detention is uninspired. Everyone is just supposed to sit quietly and do their homework.
Emma sidles up next to him. “Girlfriend, huh?”
“I, uh, it’s just Bellevue in her new supersuit,” he says, hoping the attractive hero will be a good cover.
He can’t… Emma can’t see this. This particular book is filled with sketches of Emma: Emma, at volleyball practice, hair flying as she jumps up to hit a ball; Emma, biting her lip in concentration as she studies; Emma, deep in conversation with Jess; Emma, asleep in class.
Emma just laughs and goes back to her holobook.
They don’t share all their classes, but they find a rhythm, where and when to wait for whom and which perfectly shaded spot to claim for lunch, and the routines of school settle in as easily as breathing.
Twice a week after classes, Bells takes the bus to Vegas to practice on the motorcycle. He’s getting bette
r, but last week Rebecca yelled at him for driving so slow in Vegas traffic that people honked at him all the way down the Strip.
Rebecca and Harris show him holovids of people on motorcycles doing stunts, driving at breakneck speeds, and careening around edges of cliffs.
“No cliffs,” he says, laughing nervously, “but I’ve got the turns down.”
After a few assignments, Bells is cleared for his public introduction as Chameleon. Bells hopes for something cool—maybe stopping a bank robbery or interfering in a mugging—but apparently he’s not quite ready for that. He’s supposed to stick to the carefully planned appearance schedule that Harris laid out.
He’s on a vidcall with Harris, staring at the file that Harris just sent him. “Rescue… a cat,” he repeats.
Harris’ hologram sighs and crosses his arms. “It will endear you to the public, I promise,” he says in a long-suffering tone. “You’ll have to be in Vegas. I’ve already lined up a few prospective clients for you. A Mrs. Dorothy Abernathy’s cat will be stuck in a tree on Saturday morning. Here’s the address.”
His DED chirps.
“Barry, the League is counting on you.”
“To rescue cats,” Bells says again, incredulously.
“Raising public morale,” Harris says.
Bells loves cats.
Okay, he loves the idea of cats. He knows they exist in multitudes in the Unmaintained lands and that they used to be domesticated. They’re carnivores, which means they are expensive to keep; everyone in the Collective is on a mostly plant-based diet. Bells is pretty sure no one in Andover has a cat as a pet. A few feral cats roam the city, particularly around the grain stores, where they keep the mice at bay. The city encourages people to feed them if they can, but they don’t belong to anyone.
Bells loves the history of cats, the ridiculous things people used to make them wear, and the absurd photos and vintage videos of people interacting with them. Among his favorites is a video of a cat sitting on an early version of a MonRobot, watching the world go by as it rolls across a floor.
He gets to Vegas in less than an hour on his motorcycle, zooming past buses and people in their cars. No one knows who he is, although he gets a few looks of interest in his rainbow-green bodysuit and the matching motorcycle. A few people snap pictures with their DEDs and whisper, and Bells smiles behind his mask; a thrill of excitement thrums through him.
On the outskirts of downtown is a cluster of beige-colored homes that look alike; they are well-maintained, large homes with lawns, of all things. Bells eyes the lush grass in front of the homes: such a waste of land and water when farmers struggle to grow enough food for the two million people living in the North American Collective.
Mrs. Dorothy Abernathy is at least seventy years old and she ushers him inside her lavish home with much tut-tutting. “Oh, hello, dear, it’s so wonderful to meet you. Your film crew is already here, such nice young people. Chameleon is a fine, fine name. What were your powers again?”
“Shapeshifting,” Bells says. He does a double take at the three—no, five—people sitting on the squishy armchairs in Dorothy’s living room. “Film crew?”
“Here on League business.” A burly woman hefts a camera onto her shoulder. “Gotta get the good deeds down so we can broadcast them.”
Dorothy nods. “Well, Sir Fiddlesticks is in the tree, as requested. It’s quite high up. Do you want a ladder?”
Bells sighs. “I don’t think I’m allowed. I have to get the cat back using only my powers and my wits.”
In the tall tree in the backyard, a cat sits on the very top branch. The lush green oak has no business being in the desert, but this is Las Vegas, a city of opulence and decadence, one of the few that kept its original name from before the Collective.
Sir Fiddlesticks is a fat orange tabby who is eating out of a… bowl, which is also nestled on the top branch.
“I had to get him up there somehow,” Dorothy says. “All right, dear. Do your heroics!”
Bells takes a deep breath and starts to climb the tree. How tall is this tree? Twelve feet? Don’t look down, don’t look down… oh no, he looked down.
He gets a brief glimpse of how far down the ground is, Dorothy’s patient face, and the camera crew and their gear, documenting everything. Suddenly dizzy and nauseous, he scrabbles at the branches for a better grip; the tough bark scrapes at his palms.
“Hi, Sir Fiddlesticks,” Bells says from his unsteady perch. “You’ve got to come down.”
The cat meows and continues eating out of his bowl.
“Come on, please?” This is nothing like he’s seen on the Net. Cats are supposed to be cute and fluffy and to love interacting with humans, and this one is ignoring him.
“Just pick him up, dearie; he loves that!” Dorothy calls.
Bells isn’t sure what to grab. Avoid the head and the legs, right? He settles for trying to gently grab the cat round the middle and lift him up. The cat hisses, lunges forward, transforms from a docile fluffball into a flash of teeth and claw, and startles Bells. He falls out of the tree. He has no time to panic, but rolls into a ball, hitting the ground butt first. The cat lands easily next to him and looks up at him.
“Good job, dear,” Dorothy says.
Bells picks up the cat and smiles for the camera.
Bells is officially inducted into the League on a Monday afternoon. He doesn’t get to meet Captain Orion, but she recorded a message for him in which she waves and welcomes him to the Heroes’ League of Heroes. As the audience applauds, Bells smiles. He’s not entirely sure who all of them are. He thought there would be other people from the League, but apparently they all had other commitments. According to Harris, they “send their best wishes.” Bells also has messages from Arête, Bellevue, Starscream, and Lilliputian. He’s already watched each message five times. If only he could tell Emma and Jess; they’d be hysterical over a personalized message from one of their favorites.
Bells doesn’t recognize many members of the Associated League, but of course he knows Andover’s celebrated hero team, Smasher and Shockwave. They always seemed larger-than-life; standing next to them is surreal. Bells is taller than both of them.
Smasher’s hair is coiled into a neat bun, and her half mask doesn’t move, but the tiny folds beside her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “Congratulations, welcome to the League!”
She sounds very familiar. He shakes the notion away and holds out his hand. “Hi, hi, it’s so nice to meet you!”
Smasher’s grip is tight, and Bells squeezes back, trying to match the force.
“Are you sure you don’t have superstrength?” Smasher asks, laughing.
“Pretty sure,” Bells chuckles.
Shockwave scrutinizes him. “How old are you, kid?”
“Sixteen.” Bells still can’t believe he’s hanging out with two heroes he’s looked up to forever. “You two are amazing. That time you captured Master Mischief in the bubbles, that was hilarious. And Smasher, when you picked up that bridge in New Bright City!”
“Oh, thank you, you’re so sweet. That wasn’t in my territory, so probably best not to mention it in front of the League reps.”
Shockwave beams and slings his arm around Smasher’s shoulder. “So, newest member of the League, I hear you’re in our area?”
“Ah, yes, Devonport,” Bells says.
Shockwave nods. “We could take you around, show you the ropes! Maybe team up against the Mischiefs?”
Bells grins. “That sounds great, but I’m not supposed to mess with your territory. I’m kind of Andover-adjacent, mostly floating around wherever the League needs me until I establish my own space. Besides, I think the two of you have been doing a great job of keeping the Mischiefs in check—I haven’t even seen anything in the news about them for a while!”
Shockwave and Smasher trade glances.
�
��Yes, thank you. It was lovely to meet you, Chameleon,” Smasher says with a kind smile. “Hopefully we’ll see each other soon. We’re going to go say hello to Echo, excuse us.”
“Of course.” Bells steps aside.
He holds his soda awkwardly while the adults drink their wine and champagne and mingle.
“Chameleon! What a splendid start for you, boy,” an oily voice says to Bells’ right.
“Hello,” Bells says.
He looks familiar, but Bells doesn’t remember how he knows him. The man has a thick wave of styled brown hair and very even, white teeth that sparkle in the dim light of the room. He’s wearing a stylish suit with the crest of the North American Collective pinned to his lapel. It’s the Council’s elected President of the Central Regions of the NAC, Lowell Kingston. The man is smaller in person, less vibrant, and his carefully tanned skin takes on a sickly hue in the dim light.
“Lowell Kingston,” he says smoothly, shaking Bells’ hand with a wide, practiced grin. “And you’re the soon-to-be famous Chameleon, of course, wonderful, absolutely wonderful to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, President Kingston,” Bells says. He racks his brain for something to say. Kingston represents one of the Eastern regions, right? Which one? Brighton? Hopestar? Didn’t Captain Orion recently get her hair cut in in Hopestar?
Kingston keeps shaking his hand and edges closer. “Look at the camera, son.”
“Which one?” Bells jokes; he’s seen five roving camera people filming the festivities.
At the flash of light in front of them, Kingston smiles amiably and squeezes Bells’ hand. “A jokester, that may come in handy,” Kingston says. “The people love to see personalities. I trust you’re getting along well with your League rep?”
Something tells Bells that now is not the time to joke about Harris. “Yeah, he's great.”
“Excellent, excellent. You’re going to be a credit to the League; I can tell. I hear you’re going to start combat training,” Kingston says, lifting his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I’m pretty excited.”
The assignment is to shift into Jetstream, a minor C-class villain in Santa Barbara, and then fight with Aerodraft. The coastal hero’s fans have been losing interest ever since they took Jetstream to Meta-Human Corrections a year ago, so sparring with them will build public morale and allow Bells to develop his hand-to-hand combat skills.