by Drew Hayes
“Thank you, but no. That much we’ll have well in hand,” Jeremiah assured him. “I just need to know if, should chaos rain down on us, you’ll be willing to come help me end it. This was what I hoped to accomplish today by making you all fully aware of the situation.”
“It’ll depend on the exact moment you call; I doubt any of us will leave our people in the lurch,” Gale said, rising from her seat. “But if I can swing it, I’ll come by.”
“Good to hear,” Jeremiah replied. “Perhaps you can pick up Titan, so we’re not stuck waiting for him to lightheartedly jog across the city.”
86.
Owen’s team was a touch more subdued as they pulled into the parking lot early for the Supers Care Charity Spectacular’s second day. Now accustomed to their activities, they’d realized that, the setting aside, it wasn’t really all that different from things they usually did when not on rescue calls: shake hands, pose for pictures, and make nice with the public. Besides, one day of sitting in those tents as guests walked by was all it took to remind them that they were secondary attractions. Between the sports stars and Heroes filling the ranks, few people even noticed that a team of corpies was present. While this should have been disheartening, it curiously had the opposite effect. Being out of the spotlight for a change took some of the pressure off and allowed them to enjoy themselves.
It had been a good call to spend a day getting settled, and Owen mentally tipped his cap to whoever had scheduled things out in such a way. As the crew unloaded from the SUV, however, Galvanize stopped them to deal with the one potential sore spot looming on their day’s horizon.
“All right, everyone, you’ve all got your schedules and know where to head, but I want to make sure we’re all clear on where to be at three this afternoon.” Galvanize pulled out a printed map of the fairgrounds and pointed to a moderately-sized outdoor pavilion on the eastern side. “The panel starts at half past three, so we need to be there early to get ready.”
Hexcellent stretched her hand in the air and waved it about, like a kindergartener racing the clock to get permission to use the restroom. “Can I be excused from that?”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of BOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Dropping her arm from the air, Hexcellent cupped both hands around her mouth as she started to jeer, adding a bit of volume to her already impressive voice.
Galvanize, to his credit, stood patiently and waited until her booing slowly waned and faded out altogether. Only after silence had once again reasserted itself did he speak, and it was with the same calm voice he’d asked the initial question. “Was that you booing me, or an impression of what you think the crowd will do to us?”
“Either or. Pretty much take your pick,” Hexcellent replied.
“Despite what you might think, there is an abundance of Supers out there who want to use their abilities in less. . . martial capacities.” Galvanize’s eyes flitted to Owen, who kept his own face neutral. What Heroes did wasn’t always pretty, and sometimes it was downright horrifying; there was no pussyfooting around that. It was the unfortunate truth that, bad as what they sometimes had to do was, it was necessary.
“The chance at fame and money doesn’t hurt either,” Bubble Bubble added. “I’m sure we’ll get a fair amount of people who actually want to talk with us.”
“Thank you, Bubble Bubble,” Galvanize said.
“Of course, Hex is right too; we’re bound to get a few assholes, be they there for us or for Titan.” Bubble Bubble patted her massive teammate gently on the arm, not even making his elbow wobble.
“It’s a Q&A at a charity event. Anyone who can’t conduct themselves appropriately will be removed from the pavilion,” Galvanize told them. “Some of the burlier players from the SAA are also volunteering their time as security.”
“Guess we better hope they’re tougher than anyone who starts shit.” Zone made his way around the SUV more slowly than any of the others, giving his joints as much of a break as possible.
“I think things will be fine,” Owen said, breaking into the conversation at last. “It’s only a half-hour panel. We’ll take a few questions, snap a few photos, and maybe at the end a couple of Supers will leave here ready to apply to be PEERS. Galvanize is right. This is a charity event. No one is going to make a scene.” Owen wasn’t entirely sure he believed that; there were those who still had extreme opinions about the Hero known as Titan. Either way, he was sure his team would be fine, though. If security couldn’t handle a problem, then Titan would.
“Anyway, that’s not until this afternoon,” Galvanize reminded them. “For the morning, we’ve still all got our own work to do, which means we should get moving. Remember: on time is ten minutes late.”
This phrase was met with muttered grumblings from the rest of his team, Owen included, as they spread out and left the parking lot. The others were no doubt going to work booths for Mordent again, toiling their days away until the inevitable panel. Owen, however, was off to something slightly different.
When signing up for his activities all those weeks ago, one particular option had caught his eye. A booth had been set aside for recruiters, sometimes ones that were Heroes, to talk with potential applicants about Sizemore Tech’s Hero Certification Program, and try to convince those with the right skills to try and apply. It was something he’d done many years before and in truth would have enjoyed doing again. Just jumping in didn’t seem right, given how his reputation had changed, though. Instead, he’d reached out to the booth’s organizer and set up a meeting. If it went well, he might pitch in. If not. . . well, Owen hadn’t ever really expected to be able to go back into that world anyway.
Despite the early hour, there were already at least a half-dozen high school kids clustered around the front of the tent. They whispered as he passed by, a sound Owen was quickly growing accustomed to, but didn’t seem terribly shocked to see him walking around. By now, word had doubtlessly spread that Titan was on the premises. Moving past them, he walked all the way around to the back, where a white tent was set up. Later in the day, this would be the air-conditioned break area for the recruiters to lounge in between talking to prospective students. Currently, however, there was only a single occupant inside as Owen pulled back the flap.
“Titan, good to see you back in a mask.” The man who was standing there was tall, nearly comparable to Owen himself, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. This was especially impressive since a head of white hair and noticeable wrinkles betrayed his advanced age. With one large step he closed the gap between them and took Owen’s hand in a firm shake.
“Dean Jackson, it’s always a pleasure.” Owen shook the hand right back, then took a seat on a couch clearly made for the outdoors and settled in for his meeting with the dean of Sizemore Tech’s Hero Certification Program.
87.
“So. . . you’re back in.”
Dean Jackson sat across from Owen with the same careful, measured expression he’d worn back before the name Titan was more than some boring old piece of Greek mythology. Of course, that had been decades ago, when Dean Jackson still had his dark hair and Owen was comparatively scrawny. Idly, Owen found himself wondering how many years the old warhorse had left in him. It was hard to imagine anyone running Sizemore Tech aside from Herbert Jackson. It always seemed like he’d been there since the first brick was laid and would continue running it until it was rubble.
“I’m back in,” Owen confirmed. “For a while now. Working as a Hero Liaison for a team of PEERS.”
Dean Jackson nodded, the wrinkles around his forehead bunching together as a thoughtful expression found its way to his face. “A fine job, working with good people. I’ve always felt the PEERS get shortchanged; they do as much as good as we do, and without having to get blood on their hands.”
“I can’t say I always agreed, but being with this team has made me realize how vital they are.” Owen was a bit surprised to hear Dean Jackson be so positive about PEERS. He could scarcely rem
ember the man saying anything kind about anyone, save for the mightiest of Heroes that had come before. Then again, it had been a long time since they last talked. Perhaps time had tempered his perspective just as it had Owen’s.
“To be frank, I was a little surprised to hear from you.” Now that the basic pleasantries were over, Dean Jackson was clearly moving things to the heart of the matter. He was a busy man with a lot on his mind, and as such he rarely bothered to beat around any bushes. It was one of the qualities Owen admired most in his former dean. “Getting back into the Hero world is one thing, and make no mistake, I’m sleeping sounder knowing that you’re out there, but doing recruiting work is a bit stickier.”
“The name Titan tends to earn some polarizing reactions,” Owen agreed. “And I understand completely if you don’t want me coming around the Sizemore booth. I just wanted to offer, in case it was something you decided would be beneficial. You know I love my alma mater.”
“Yet you sent your sons to Lander,” Dean Jackson replied.
Owen wasn’t exactly shocked that an HCP dean would be in the know about that, though he was taken slightly aback. Before he had a chance to defend himself, Dean Jackson continued, this time with what Owen thought might be a slight chuckle in his tone.
“Relax, I understand why it was the best fit considering their. . . situation. My ego has long ago made peace with the fact that Dean Blaine is far more capable at neutralizing a Super than I am. Were they my students and things went awry, there’s no certainty that I could stop them without making it permanent.”
“Thankfully, so far things have gone fine.” Owen wasn’t entirely sure how much Dean Jackson knew, so it seemed prudent to keep things as vague as possible.
“Better than fine; that class they’re in seems to be quite the strong one, yet they’re hanging in. It’s bad enough that all anyone can talk about for this year’s upcoming Intramurals is the golden girl from Lander and unstoppable boy from West. Damn thing is still months away and it’s like we other three schools are just already assumed to have lost. If I have to put up with another year of it, I might end up popping the other deans in their mouths.”
Dean Jackson leaned back slowly in his white plastic folding chair, the worn cushion underneath likely providing little to no comfort whatsoever.
“I’ll level with you: Sizemore could use a little help reminding people that we produce just as amazing of Heroes as everyone else. With Globe busting Relentless Steel out of prison last year, all people are talking about is the damn Class of Legends again. I’d love to rub one of our own legends in their faces. If you’re willing to do a little work here and there, I think we can at least draw in the students who look up to you for the top-tier ass-kicker you are.”
“And what about the people who steer clear because they hate me?” Owen pointed out.
“Fuck ‘em.” Dean Jackson rested his hands against each other, fingertips pressing on their counterparts. It was a position Owen had rarely seen his dean in when he was a student, but since graduation had come to learn as a signal that the older man was making a firm decision. “I’m not training the kind of milquetoast Heroes that would pass up a good education because an alumnus happened to make a mistake, and I’m damn sure not going to teach someone who believes your orientation affects how good a Hero you are. Even if no one thinks my HCP trains the strongest Heroes right now, I can still make sure I churn out ones that deserve to wear the title.”
Owen certainly couldn’t argue with that sentiment, especially since he’d seen it in action first hand. Dean Jackson had tossed out more than a couple of students who might have had the potential for greatness simply because they failed to live up to his standards of character. Sizemore Tech might not have as many Heroes who were household names as some of the other schools, but they also had the lowest number of Heroes turn criminal by a wide margin.
“Well, Dean Jackson, you let me know what I can do to help and I’ll be glad to pitch in. Sizemore gave a lot to me, I’m happy to give back to it.”
“Don’t suppose you could re-enroll in time for Intramurals, could you? Now that would be an upset worth watching.” Dean Jackson chuckled to himself, then shook his head. “Never mind, never mind. We’ll just get them next year. For now, if you’re willing to stop by the booth during operating hours, maybe help out a recruiter with the more obstinate potential students, I think that will be fine. Likely more work will come down the line, but for now starting small seems best. Besides, according to the schedule you’ve got a panel to be at this afternoon.”
“I’m all too aware,” Owen said, sighing heavily. “Why can’t every aspect of Hero work just be punching? That’s the part I’m good at.”
“No argument here.” Dean Jackson pulled himself out of the chair with a single motion, no sign of his age present in the way he moved. “But until the world devolves into a dystopian wasteland with nothing but constant combat, our kind will have to soldier on. Want to get some breakfast?”
As it turned out, Owen very much did want breakfast, or at least a breakfast that wasn’t carefully calorically calculated. There was no amount of skillful cooking that could replace good old-fashioned grease and salt.
88.
For all the worry he’d had about standing in front of people while publicly representing Sizemore Tech, Owen’s morning was shockingly uneventful. He sat around with the recruiter, a nice young man who was paid by the DVA to help potential students understand what the HCP entailed, and occasionally answered a question from a nervous teen.
While Titan might have been a household name a couple of decades ago, the vast majority of the kids he talked to had only a cursory knowledge at best of who he was. Even if he’d been in his prime, though, Owen had forgotten that most teenagers, especially Supers interested in the HCP, were far too nervous about their own future to worry about much else. Owen spent the vast majority of his time at the booth discussing whether or not some particular power could make it in the HCP, since that was the first question out of nearly every potential applicant’s mouth.
To nearly all of them, Owen gave the same answer: for admission, the power was less important than the person. These Supers would find their limits in the HCP, and at that time they would learn if it was enough to let them make the cut. Just in terms of making it through the admissions process, however, one’s power was almost secondary. Determination, willpower, strength of character, and guts all counted just as much, if not more, than what ability a student was born with. True, those who failed to improve or keep up would quickly be culled in the freshman year, but everyone who applied with at least a decent power had a shot. Save, of course, for those with completely useless abilities and Powereds.
Powereds were heavy on Owen’s mind as he finished his time at the booth and began the trek across the fairgrounds. He’d left plenty of time to reach the pavilion before Galvanize’s deadline, so he paused to swing by a tent that was sponsored by Shelby’s House, the largest charity for Powereds in the nation. The small staff was trying to coax passers-by in to donating their time at any of the local chapters in Brewster. Every one of the workers was young, and a few were charming enough that they’d actually gotten people to stop. Still, it was a losing battle, as it had always been. No one liked to think too much about Powereds: what they were, what they represented, or the problems they caused.
Owen had never taken his sons to a chapter of Shelby’s House; being a Hero meant he could have experts assess their condition. Being a famous Hero also meant he had the spare income to take care of them, and to make sure they had the chance to come to peace with their abilities. Titan, on the other hand, had spent a large chunk of his time at chapters of Shelby’s House across the nation. He’d given as much time as he could spare to the organization that only luck and career choice had spared him from needing. Of course, knowing what he did about Hershel and Roy, Owen was keyed in to the fact that in the next decade or so, Powereds might become a thing of the past.
“Excuse me; I’d like to sign up to volunteer.”
The copper-haired woman stared up at him, visibly craning her neck to take in the giant of a man standing before her. Unlike the teenagers, she definitely recognized him, and the nervous shifting of her eyes made it clear that she wasn’t sure what to do with the offer. Heroes usually went through different channels, they didn’t sign up with workers on at a booth.
“You. . . know what we do here, right?”
Owen smiled and gave her a large nod. “I very much do. And I’d like to help.” Carefully, Owen took the pen and clipboard from her hand and scratched the name “Titan” along with his contact information. It was a message service that Heroes used, one that would see to it he got any actual calls or e-mail and kept out the waves of spam or harassment.
“I’m not trying to do PR work or anything. I can sweep floors if you need it. Whatever helps.” Owen handed the young woman back the clipboard, which she accepted limply with her mouth still half-open. Without another word, he turned and started toward the pavilion once again.
Behind him, Owen could already hear the crowd forming around the workers, people who’d been ignoring their calls suddenly desperate to find out what was happening with the volunteers of Shelby’s House. If he was lucky, word would spread, and they’d spend the day getting the attention that was really due to their cause. That clipboard would be filled with people wanting to chip in within the hour, that much was a given. It wasn’t a lot, in the grand scheme of things, but it was what he could do for now. After all, a cure in ten years wasn’t much help to the Powereds just trying to make it through the week.
The rest of the trip to the pavilion was uneventful, assuming one didn’t count the usual array of stares and whispers that cropped up as he walked through the fairgrounds. Owen walked past a security guard manning the back entrance, pausing to give the man a handshake, and made his way up a narrow set of stairs. Though, in fairness, the stairs wouldn’t have been narrow for anyone else, but that was the curse of carrying around so much mass.