Super Powereds: Year 3 (29 page)

“Which is why I’m telling you to quit hiding it,” Professor Fletcher said. “In the Hero world, that surprise will work once, maybe twice, and then everyone will know. The first two years, I agree, it served you better to stay covert. Then, you could use their ignorance to your advantage. But now is the time to learn to fight people who do know what you’re capable of. That will force you to learn how to counter their counters. It’s how we grow our abilities in a combat setting.”

“I understand,” Camille said. She did, too. She had known since the first day of junior year that it was only a matter of time until someone told her she wasn’t allowed to sandbag anymore. It had only been luck and cunning that let her hold on to her secret for this long. Still, knowing it would happen and hoping it wouldn’t weren’t mutually exclusive things.

“There is another option,” Professor Fletcher said gently. “Healers do benefit from Close Combat, but there’s also a case to be made for them learning Ranged Combat. You were doing well in that course until you chose to drop it at the beginning of the year. I spoke with Professor Baker, and she’d be willing to let you back in.”

“That’s surprisingly nice of her,” Camille noted.

“It’s not something either of us would sign off on if there were even an outside chance you were going to do Ranged Combat as your major, however, if you make the change, obviously you’ll lean into the healing abilities and major in Focus.”

“I could major in Close Combat,” she replied, a bit of heat in her voice. Camille tolerated a lot, but she had little patience for others telling her what she was or wasn’t capable of.

“No argument here,” Professor Fletcher said. “You’d be a real terror under the right conditions. That said, if you aren’t willing to train on how to use your ability for Close Combat, then you sure as shit aren’t going to be able to major in it.” He pulled a form from his desk and slid it across the table. Though the fine print was hard to make out from a distance, Camille could clearly see the word “Transfer” in bold lettering near the top.

“We both know you’ve got your reasons for wanting to hide your real power,” he continued. “I’m not here to make you break out of your shell of secrecy. My job is to train you as best I can with what you’ve got, in the class I teach. If you want to keep hiding, that’s your business. You just can’t do it in my classroom.”

Camille picked up the page and skimmed the text. Everything was just as he’d said. She would transfer to Ranged Combat immediately, and though she’d almost certainly fail the first test, that didn’t mean she couldn’t pull her grade up by year’s end. Besides, it was like Professor Fletcher said, with Close Combat gone, she’d inevitably be majoring in Focus, like every other healer. It was all there in black and white, a way to keep her secret and still keep moving through the HCP.

“No, thank you,” Camille said, pushing the paper back across the desk.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She was sure when she’d taken her first martial arts class, all those years ago. She was sure when she told her parents that she wanted to be a Hero, and sent in her applications to the HCP. She’d been sure ever since a silver-haired young boy had shown her what it meant to have someone stand between you and the darkness. She’d been sure she wanted to be that shield for someone else, and Vince’s surprise attendance in the program didn’t change that. Camille wanted to be a Hero, not a healer or a helper. She wanted to give some other little girl hope that there were people in the world that would protect her, merely because it was the right thing to do.

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” Professor Fletcher warned her. “In fact, you’ll have the hardest exam in the class, if only because I want to test your real potential.”

“That’s fine,” she agreed, picking up her bag and standing from the chair. “Just make sure there’s another healer on hand.”

“You can’t heal someone after a fight?”

“I could, but there’s a very real chance they won’t want me to touch them ever again,” Camille warned. With that, she was out the door, refusing to look back at the office, or her choice.

52.

“Next week begins the first round of testing in your other classes,” Professor Pendleton announced on Friday. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked out at a fraction of the faces he would see in nearly any other class. Subtlety was, if possible, even less popular than when he’d gone to Lander. It was very possible his own Hero career had contributed to that, which was a thought he quickly banished before continuing. “We, however, will not be taking one. Your other classes should provide four tests: one now, one at semester’s end, one midway through spring, and one at year’s end. Subtlety only has tests at the end of each semester.”

The students covertly exchanged tentative looks. While having two fewer exams than the others was a boon, they couldn’t help but feel apprehension at the idea. Two years in the HCP had made them aware that few good things came without a cost. Professor Pendleton was proud of their suspicion. It meant they were learning.

“I could tell you why this is, but I think I’d rather see who among you can put the pieces together yourself. Anyone want to give it a shot?”

Rich Weaver raised his hand, and was immediately given the nod to go ahead by Professor Pendleton. “Because our major is different from the other five, and so, it requires a different way to test?”

“A bit obvious, but in a roundabout way you came close, so I’ll count it,” the professor said. “Yes, the other five all do some variation of many people getting together and punching or shooting or blasting one person who must defend. Our first exam is going to be similar, but with some components meant to test things I care about seeing in you, not just your punching talents. That deals more with parameters, though, not why we have less tests.”

“The HCP wants us to focus on martial skills, so less time is allocated to Subtlety?” Britney Ferguson ventured. She noticed the slight narrowing of the professor’s eyes, and quickly clarified. “I’m not saying I agree with it, I really like this class. I’m just accepting the situation for what it is and making deductions based on that, like you taught us.”

“Damn you students and your gift for remembering my words so well.” Professor Pendleton sighed. “I’ll admit, you’re correct in that this course is seen as less prestigious by many, however, the time and training for it are still deemed necessary, so they did not strip our testing opportunities out of mere derision.”

Will Murray raised his hand, having taken the time to carefully consider the professor’s precise question. Since he was the only one volunteering, he was quickly chosen to speak.

“We get fewer tests because we get fewer chances to succeed,” Will said, voice steady and even. “Subtlety doesn’t work like fighting classes; we’re information gatherers much of the time. If you lose in a fight, assuming you don’t die, there are chances to have a rematch. In information gathering, once an opportunity is lost, there is no promise it will ever appear again.”

“Very, very well said,” Professor Pendleton complimented. “You hit the nail on the head. As Will stated, you have fewer chances to succeed. The other classes have four tests, four grades, four scores to average together in determining their fitness to continue in that major. One bad showing doesn’t need to be the end for them. You get two. A failure means continuing will be incredibly difficult. A total blowout means there is almost no hope. This major, this career, is one of constant high stakes. Your testing schedule is one, among many, of the ways we like to slowly indoctrinate you to that world.”

*              *              *

Ralph Chapman, Dr. Moran, Mr. Numbers, Mr. Transport, and Dean Blaine all sat in a conference room, silent save only for the sound of turning pages as Chapman reviewed the file in his hand. Several minutes passed, then he closed the set of documents and turned his attention to the other people in the room.

“I’m not sure how I feel about it,” he said warily.

“No one is asking how you feel,” Dean Blaine replied, his tone more patient than his words. “You’re being notified because this change affects Vince’s living situation, and we felt it was good faith to let you know before things became official.”

“Still, seems dangerous,” Ralph Chapman said, glossing over the dean’s dismissal of his opinion. “Intra’s son living under the same roof as Globe’s kid, are we sure this Chad Taylor isn’t just setting himself up to make an attempt on Vince?” At no point did his tone indicate he would object to this turn of events, he merely posed the question of their viability.

Dean Blaine felt a fiery retort try to break free from his mouth; instead, he swallowed the cinder and kept his words even. “Chad Taylor is, quite literally, the model of control. He has worked through his issues with Vince, and neither feels any animosity toward the other. They understand that the actions of their fathers do not have to dictate their own relationship.”

Ralph Chapman snorted. “Sure, every kid with a dead dad is that gracious when they meet the killer's son. What about Vince? How would he handle this?”

“Vince is well-adjusted enough to easily cope with a new addition to his household. If anything, I think it would be good for him. He thrives in large, family-like settings. Adding one to the bunch, especially one like Chad, will have several positive effects,” Dr. Moran informed them.

Ralph Chapman flipped back through the file and furrowed his brow in concentration. He didn’t like this. It made their investigation look weak and stupid. If even Intra’s son was so certain Reynolds was a good kid that he’d share a roof with him, then how much could there be to worry about? That was the argument that would get made down the line, and Ralph didn’t think he had a counter for it yet.

“If you have any more questions, come by my office,” Dean Blaine said, rising from the table. “We’ll be dealing with everything next week, once the juniors’ first trials are complete. You have until then to bring forth concerns.”

The other three followed him out of the room, leaving the file in Ralph Chapman’s slightly sweaty hands. It didn’t matter if it got damp, it was bullshit anyway. The staff was stone-walling him; it was the only explanation for how Vince Reynolds, admitted son of Globe, kept coming up looking so squeaky clean. They were coaching him, lying for him, and covering his mistakes. Sure, they’d left one or two to keep Ralph off the trail, but he wasn’t fooled. No one with that pedigree came out clean. He just needed to find Vince’s sins.

Ralph knew he wouldn’t uncover much in just a week, but that was okay. The move didn’t matter, it was when the dean tried to use it as evidence that it would truly be in play. Ralph just had to find something good enough by then, and he could undo the sham that was Vince Reynolds.

53.

“. . . and after that, it was mostly just wandering around, trying not to hurt anyone, until I got selected for the process,” Vince said.

He was resting in a chair, tilted at a half-incline, eyes skimming the top shelf of Dr. Moran’s bookcase. She didn’t keep the iconic piece of furniture known as a “therapist’s couch” for the same reason she didn’t open each session asking about the patient’s mother: aside from serving little purpose, it actively put some patients on the defensive. Instead, she had a few different pieces of furniture, positioned at different angles in the room, all with the capacity to recline. She’d found that some people wanted to watch her as they spoke, while others avoided eye-contact like it would give them the fits. There was no wrong way to talk, so she endeavored to provide an environment where anyone could find a position that was comfortable.

Vince’s own habit was to take a chair across from her, but slightly angled away, so that he could shift from looking at her to looking at the room. His gaze altered with the subject matter. Happy stories about his father or his friends usually came with eye-contact, but the sadder recollections caused his gaze to stray. Today, they’d finished going over the last of his years with his father, however, there was still a bit of time left.

“That’s quite a gap of wandering,” Dr. Moran prompted. “In the five years between losing your father and being found for the program, nothing of note occurred?”

Vince adjusted his position in the chair, eyes locked on a volume with a title he couldn’t have pronounced with an hour of practice. “I mean, things happened, sure. It was five years. Just, nothing to do with my dad. Isn’t that what we’re here to talk about?”

“No, Vince, we’re here to talk about you,” Dr. Moran reminded him. “Clearly, your father was a large part of shaping who you are, but I refuse to believe he was the only influence. Thirteen to eighteen are still formative years; surely you must have met some people who left a mark.”

“On occasion, I guess,” Vince admitted. “There was a small town in Maine where a bunch of locals chased me away as soon as they saw my hair. In Washington, a street gang tried to recruit me until I accidentally electrocuted half of them. More than once, people offered me money to do experiments on me.”

Dr. Moran pointedly resisted asking if he’d accepted; the tone in his voice made it clear this wasn’t a memory he wanted to dwell on. “That sounds like quite a cruel world to live in.”

“Sometimes. Other people were nice, though. In Texas, I was sleeping in someone’s deerstand, and I heard hunters walk underneath. I was sure I’d be caught; thankfully, none of them seemed to notice. I fell back asleep, thinking I’d gone undetected, but in the morning, there was a backpack full of food and some old clothes at the base of the stand. There was a diner in Florida where they let me work as a busboy, even when some of the customers complained about my accidental flare-ups.”