Super Powereds: Year 3 (43 page)

“Transport,” he said quickly.

“We have a situation. Numbers with you?”

“No, he’s at the grocery store,” Mr. Transport replied.

“Come get us, then we’ll circle back for Numbers. We’re at a café in Lisbon, two blocks down from where you lived a few years back. Need an address?”

“No, I remember it well.” Mr. Transport hung up the phone and removed the napkin he’d had tucked into his white button-down. With practiced grace, he grabbed his black suit jacket from the nearby hanger and slipped it across his lean shoulders. With a moment of visualization and a minor application of effort, the world dissolved around him, reforming in the shape of a muggy day outside a small café—one that served truly great pastries. Sitting on the patio, both with coffee cups in front of them and clad in black suits, were a very large, muscular African American male and a dainty brunette. Mr. Transport walked over to them hurriedly.

As soon as he reached the table, the large man put a powerful hand on Mr. Transport’s forearm, then did the same to the hand of the girl sitting across from him. Just like that, the world around them froze, all life becoming a living sculpture, save for the three people at a single café in Lisbon.

“Glad you could make it,” Mr. Stop said, releasing his grip. He only needed to touch them when he did the freeze; afterward, they could function independently. This was what made him such a rare and powerful Super. That, and the fact that the ability to slow or halt time on such a large scale was so uncommon it had manifested in less than five total cases since Supers were discovered.

“I was about to eat,” Mr. Transport grumbled.

“This shouldn’t take long. I bet I can have you back before your dish cools,” Mr. Stop replied. “It’s a standard snatch and grab. Daughter of a Hero named Bilge. Made enemies with people smart enough to figure out who he was. The girl was taken approximately thirty minutes ago. As soon as Bilge realized she was gone, he called Dispatch. Good news is she’s still alive.”

“Alive, and in a building a few miles south of downtown Detroit,” Mrs. Tracking added in. Mr. Transport took her at her word. Mrs. Tracking could find almost any person in the world with just a picture. Her limitation was that they had to be alive, so if she had a location, it meant the girl was still breathing, for now.

“Any intel on the kidnappers? Powers we need to be aware of?”

“One is a baseline strongman,” Mr. Stop responded. “The Heroes would rank him as a Standard Class. We don’t know anything about the others.”

“Understood. Go in expecting the worst,” Mr. Transport said. “Anything else I need to know before we get Mr. Numbers?”

“Yes. Bilge is really pissed off, and from his history, we don’t think he’ll let logic dissuade him from vengeance, if given the chance,” Mr. Stop informed the team.

“Shit,” Mr. Transport said. “I hate these.”

“Nobody likes them,” Mrs. Tracking agreed. “But it’s gotta get done.” She tried to take a sip from her coffee cup, but it remained frozen. Objects outside Mr. Stop’s touch were locked in place just as much as they were in time.

“On that note, let’s go get Numbers,” Mr. Stop said.

Mr. Transport put a hand on Mr. Stop and Mrs. Tracking. Usually, just proximity was enough to bring people with him, but when operating in Mr. Stop’s time freeze, he needed physical contact to teleport others.

Moments later, the three appeared in front of a grocery store. It only took half a second of real-time for Mr. Stop to unfreeze the world, grab Mr. Numbers (along with the other two), and bring them back into frozen-time. Once that was done, Mr. Numbers was brought up to speed. Then, the work began.

*              *              *

Bertram, or Bonecrusher as he was known among his colleagues, had no idea what had happened. One minute, he and the boys were sitting around, discussing the first thing they’d make that asshole Bilge do once they told him they’d taken his daughter. Bonecrusher was in favor of having them make him show his face on live television, but Maggot pointed out that the station would probably just blur it. Maggot was oddly smart for a grunt-level criminal. The only thing that held him back from climbing higher in some gang’s ranks was his inability to deal with any kind of authority. Flick, who didn’t totally seem to get the concept of street names, was bringing up a point about having Bilge do some robbing for them.

Then, in the span of a blink, Bonecrusher was shoved backward, into a chair that hadn’t been there before, and locked down with some really tough manacles. He knew they were tough because they didn’t give way when he used his considerable strength to buck against them.

“You’re wasting your time,” said a calm voice from behind him. Maggot and Flick were gone; he couldn't see or hear either of them. The voice’s owner stepped in front of him—a short man with frozen blue eyes and a tailored black suit. “The chair and manacles were designed by a tech-genius. It would hold up to a Manhattan Class, or at least one with just strength. Someone like you will never break free.”

Bonecrusher didn’t like the way this man said “never.” There was an air of finality to it that Bonecrusher was accustomed to hearing when 
he
 was the one giving the threats.

“Who are you?”

“I’m no one,” the man replied. “I barely exist. You and I have that in common. For now. So, Bertram, who told you about Bilge’s identity?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Quite a coincidence, seeing as the girl you had tied up was his daughter. She’s gone, by the way. Reunited with her father, who is currently being told that all of you were killed in the extraction process. Viciously, too; we really laid on the gore. Had to, or he’d have come after you himself. Can’t very well have a Hero engaging in cold-blooded murder.”

“So that’s your threat, I talk or you tell him the truth?”

“The truth? That implies that what we told him earlier was a lie,” the man replied. “Which, I suppose, it might have been. A lie, or a prediction. That all sort of depends.”

“Fuck you,” Bonecrusher said, working up a good wad of phlegm and spitting it at the man. He dodged it perfectly, as though he knew exactly when and how it would be coming. The man leaned over Bonecrusher, his arctic eyes boring into the bald, tattoo-covered man’s mind. Not since becoming a Super had Bertram felt the kind of deep-down, brain-numbing fear that washed over him in that moment.

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know, Bertram. We can’t have people leaking the identities of Heroes, because then, someone might do something really stupid, like you did. Honestly, did you never think to wonder why there’s never been a reported case of hostages being used against a Hero? We’re very good at this, Bertram; we’ve been doing it a long time. That’s how I know you’ll talk. With enough time and motivation, everyone talks. It’s simple math.” The man flashed Bonecrusher a wide smile, one that felt like it was pushing an ice pick of fear right through his eye.

“Trust me, Bertram, you’re going to talk. It’s all just a game of numbers.”

80.

“Vince, can we talk?”

Vince was surprised to see Thomas waiting for him, the caramel-skinned student patiently positioned outside the gym. Despite his claims that he held no ill-will toward Vince from their earlier encounters, the two hadn’t spoken as much during the semester’s first weeks. It could have been time constraints—with training, and a new job, Vince certainly had less time available—but something told him there was more to it.

“Sure,” Vince said.

Thomas nodded, then motioned for Vince to follow him. They began walking down the hallway, two gray-uniform-clad young men traversing the concrete tunnels woven beneath the school. It wasn’t until no other students could be seen that Thomas finally spoke.

“I have a problem,” he said, his usually stoic voice coming out several shades softer.

“Can I help?” Vince asked immediately.

“If anyone can, I believe it would be you,” Thomas replied. “The issue I am facing is one that I’m deeply ashamed to admit, even to myself. That’s why it has taken me so long to come to terms with its existence. Yet, even now, when I’m trying to find a way to solve it, I find myself hesitant to say the words aloud.”

“Thomas, we’re friends. You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Thomas did know that. Vince wasn’t a perfect person, but his loyalty was an aspect that no one could call into question. No, the problem was not saying the words to Vince, it was saying them at all. To speak them aloud would make them real, would mean there was no path but forward. If Thomas admitted his problem, then he had to either face it, or be consumed by it. With only a small quiver of hesitation, Thomas made his choice.

“I’m afraid of you,” he said, words barely stronger than a whisper. “I’m afraid of you stealing my power again. What it felt like, last year, was just . . . . I’ve been injured many times. Pain is not a thing I’m scared of. But that sensation of having a piece of me torn away . . . it haunts me. I lost in our combat trial because I was too scared to attack you, too afraid of you draining me again.”

“Thomas, I . . . I’m sorry. I wish I could undo what happened.”

“I know, but you cannot. You cannot make it so that I will forget what happened, and even if it were in your power, I would refuse. That is not the way a Hero should defeat such a problem. But, I must ask you to make recompense for your actions. I need your help, if I am going to break through this barrier of fear.”

“Anything,” Vince said. “Name it, and I’ll do it.”

“I’d hoped you would say as much.” Thomas ceased walking, stopping in front of one of the many combat cells that dotted the Lander underground. He hefted the door open with a mighty wrench and gestured for Vince to enter. Vince complied, and Thomas pulled the door shut behind them.

“There is only one way I can see for me to overcome this fear,” Thomas announced, his body beginning to glow orange as he summoned his energy. “I need you to drain me again.”

“I understand.” Vince was not the smartest person on campus, and he was lacking in many standard social educations, but this was something well within his wheelhouse. It made perfect sense—at least, it made perfect sense to the kinds of irregular minds that could endure HCP training and still yearn for Hero careers. If Thomas was afraid of being drained, then he needed to experience the pain of it over and over, until it no longer held any power over him.

“One thing,” Vince said. “I don’t know how I did a lot of the stuff on the tape. When I’m amped up, it’s like when I was a Powered—everything just seems to happen. I run on pure instinct. Replicating those actions requires me to develop control and understanding of how it all works. It’s basically like training myself to release adrenaline on command, instead of when it comes as a reaction.”

“You’re saying you don’t know how to drain my energy?”

“I’m saying it might take me a while to get the hang of it,” Vince corrected. “Energy that flows outward is easiest, that’s the stuff that is already trying to get in, I just open the door. It’s why fire was always my easiest. Other times, though, it’s harder. Kinetic energy took me a lot of practice to nail down, since I had to pull it in during the brief moment I was getting hit. I’m not sure where yours will be on the hard-to-absorb scale. All I can say is that I promise I’ll keep at it, no matter how long it takes.”

“I greatly appreciate the sentiment,” Thomas said. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking his body was already trying to give into. Just the idea of manifesting energy in front of Vince was enough to induce quivering. Strangely, Thomas didn’t feel the expected wave of shame at this realization.

The room seemed brighter as Thomas conjured a large, orange hand made from his energy. He directed it across the room, connecting it to his body by means of a long, thick tendril. With great care, Thomas wrapped Vince in the energy hand’s fingers. The goal was to be drained, not to accidentally crush Vince.

“I’m going to start trying,” Vince announced.

Thomas nodded his understanding, but deep down, he wished Vince hadn’t told him that. Knowing it was coming made the fear worse. Still, Thomas persevered, keeping his energy grip on Vince despite the part of his mind screaming for him to run.

At first, nothing happened. Thomas held his grip, while Vince’s face grew still as his concentration deepened. After a few minutes, Thomas began to wonder if he should have made the energy hand a bit smaller. He was nowhere near his breaking point, but holding a conjuration like this would eventually wear him out. He was just about to start shrinking the hand when he felt it start. Unlike before, his power wasn’t ripped away in a single rush; this time, it was more like someone had put a hole in a water balloon. The energy was slowly trickling out, but the longer it went on, the faster it started to flow. The hand that had held Vince was now a shapeless blob, a series of orange rivers rushing into him with increasing speed.

Then, just when it started to get unbearable, the whole thing stopped.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked this earlier,” Vince said, skin glowing a faint orange. “Did you want me to take all of it, or only some? I don’t know how much training you have left today.”

“Take . . . take it all,” Thomas said, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold on to his mental control. “Do what you did to me last time. It’s the only way.”