by Drew Hayes
“Begin!”
Roy took off charging. There was no need to draw this out: he was going to crush this blond pansy and take that number one rank as soon as possible. In a way he felt a touch of gratitude to Mary. If she hadn’t given him the idea, he might have forgotten all about the rankings in lieu of the fine tail that was wandering the campus. This was good, though. He’d win the fight, show everyone he was the best, and let Coach George know he could shove that smug concern right up his ass.
Roy didn’t even slow down as he neared Chad, rearing back and clocking him with a right hook that would knock a train off course.
At least, that was what he’d planned to do.
Roy’s fist whistled powerfully through the air, connecting with nothing and jerking Roy slightly off balance. Before he could recover, an open palm crashed into his jaw, sending him stumbling back and leaving stars in his eyes.
“Fuck,” Roy swore. That had hurt. It had been a long time since anything had hurt, which meant that Chad wasn’t all apathy and confidence. That kid had to be swinging with some significant power to make Roy feel his blows.
“This is pointless,” Chad said, seemingly unmoved from the position he’d been in when Roy charged him. That was impossible, though; Roy knew he’d been dead on with his punch. Unless Chad had an ability that let them pass through him. “I’m sorry, but you aren’t strong enough for me to waste time fighting. I won’t learn anything from beating you.”
“Giving up already?” Roy asked as he drew himself to his feet.
“Walk away, Mr. Daniels,” Chad said. “You’ve stepped into a league you’re not ready for.”
“Fuck you I’m not!” Roy yelled, swinging his huge fists for Chad’s midsection as he rushed forward once more. Roy missed again, but this time he saw what happened. Chad wasn’t teleporting or going insubstantial: he simply avoided the blows by a fraction of an inch, gauging the punches perfectly and placing his body in the areas where they were not. Another palm struck Roy’s ear and he felt his vision blur for a moment.
“You are a mess. You telegraph your movements so clearly that anyone with a bit of training can read them. You swing wild, focusing on power instead of precision, and you have literally no guard nor reflexes designed to block. You fight like what you are: an overly-strong fool who never learned how to focus his power,” Chad said as Roy blinked and cleared his eyes.
“I don’t need to guard from sissy shit like that,” Roy spat back. “Or didn’t you know? I’m tougher than a three dollar steak, Blondie.”
“Spoken like a true idiot,” Chad sighed. “I’ll bet you didn’t even bother to research my power before challenging me, did you?”
“Yeah, I know what it is,” Roy responded. “You suck dick like a Hoover.”
“I’m afraid not. My power is total control of my body, from the muscles that I move all the way down to my cells and the chemical composition of my skin,” Chad explained.
“That’s a pretty weak-ass power,” Roy chuckled.
Chad’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Most people would agree. Of course, most people wouldn’t think of ingesting carbon and other minerals daily to make their muscles as strong as interwoven steel cables and their bones harder than diamonds. Most people underestimate how useful full control of one’s mind is, of the power in being able to instantly train reflexes and increase the speed of one’s perception. I assure you, it is not a weak power, and if you come at me one more time, I’ll illustrate that to you personally.”
Roy pulled himself up and blinked one last time to clear his eyes. “Bring it on, babycakes.” Roy charged forward once more, but this time didn’t get a chance to swing his fists. Roy had barely realized it when Chad was suddenly beneath him, driving his own fist into Roy’s stomach. Before the pain could fully register, Chad had taken Roy’s left arm and spun it around behind him, cracking and breaking the arm loudly. Roy’s feet went out from under him as Chad’s hand wrapped around Roy’s head and drove it crashing into the concrete. The snap of a kick was all the warning he had before he felt impact and the sensation of broken ribs. In what seemed like less than a second, Chad had utterly destroyed him.
“One last thing about my ‘weak’ power,” Chad hissed down at Roy. “It is an inheritance from my father.” Chad raised his leg until his foot was over his shoulder, then brought it crashing down on Roy’s head.
32.
“I must admit, I did not see this coming,” Mr. Transport remarked.
“I did, eventually,” Mr. Numbers admitted. “Though this is far sooner than I expected.”
The duo was standing outside of the recovery ward where Roy was asleep. Mr. Transport had gone and fetched Mr. Numbers while Roy was being tended to by the healer on duty. Thanks to Roy’s natural toughness and swift healing, he would be fine. Truthfully, this was, to someone with his power, the equivalent of stubbing a toe. It hurt badly when it happened, but there was relatively little actual damage done. The only concern anyone had was a fear that he would revert back to Hershel before the wounds could be treated fully.
“So Mary coaxed him into it somehow,” Mr. Transport said in curiosity. Mr. Numbers had filled in Mr. Transport on the game of chess they had played during Roy’s fight and the conversation that had occurred within it.
“It would appear that way,” Mr. Numbers confirmed. “In all fairness, Roy is hardly the most difficult member of our dormitory to manipulate.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Transport said. “Still, she did an excellent job of tearing down his pride. She talked him into fighting one of the few students in the class who could utterly trounce him.”
Mr. Numbers nodded his agreement. “Roy would never accept his loss in the ranking matches as a genuine failure on his part, since his opponent used mental abilities and dealt no actual damage to him. This time, though... this time he lost on his home turf, in the area where he was certain he reigned supreme.”
“I imagine there is another stage to this plan,” Mr. Transport speculated.
“Certainly,” Mr. Numbers confirmed. “But it’s time for us to start moving proactively on our own. Contact the dean and humbly request to put our new idea into action. Much as I may dislike the way she did it, Mary was correct in what she told me. Right now we’re dealing with pieces that don’t yet see their full potential; they’re reined in by their own perceived limitations.”
“How do we help them with those?” Mr. Transport asked.
“For now we delegate and see how the telepath does at handling it. If she proves unable, we will step in as needed. Our concern is not to help them with their personal demons right now; it’s to get them to start looking at each other as a team, or at least as mutual assets,” Mr. Numbers answered. “We need them to have a group mentality, and the sooner we achieve that, the more effective it will be.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Transport agreed. “I do wonder if this incident will sow any dissent in the group, though. After all, Mary did essentially trick one of the team into being mercilessly beaten.”
“Yes, but it was the member no one liked,” Mr. Numbers pointed out. “How this is perceived by the group depends on her actions and their effects from this point on. Hopefully she has a good plan in place.”
* * *
“I feel achy,” Hershel said as he stirred in one of the oh-so-very uncomfortable recovery room beds.
“Roy was beaten pretty severely,” Mary said from her vigilant perch on a stool next to the bed. She had never left Roy’s side since he was brought here, and when he shifted back into Hershel she had stayed by his side as well.
“I remember,” Hershel said, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “That last kick was a doozy.”
“Yes indeed,” Mary agreed. “They removed all the physical damage, though. What you’re feeling now is essentially residual impulses from the nerves that know there should be pain and recovery in a certain area, even though there isn’t.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Hershel s
aid quickly. “Compared to what he did to Roy, this is some pretty minor soreness.”
“Yes... well... I’m sorry about that,” Mary said slowly. “I knew it would be rough, but it was the only way.”
Hershel leaned forward a bit, wishing he was the sort of person who was confident enough to rest a hand on her shoulder when trying to assure her. “None of that. You gave both Roy and me ample warning about what would happen. Roy was too stubborn to listen, and this is what I was hoping for. I mean, he was pretty groggy at the end, but I could already feel the hammer blow to his pride from that fight. Plus, he lost the bet. You did the right thing.”
“I know,” Mary said with a small nod of the head. “That doesn’t always make it the easy thing though. I hate seeing people get hurt.”
“Well then, let’s make sure it wasn’t in vain,” Hershel replied. “I assume you have some sort of plan now that Roy has to listen to you?”
“Oh yes, indeed I do,” Mary said, a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Roy will remember this conversation, correct?”
“Yup; we share memories of when the other is in control,” Hershel confirmed.
“Good,” Mary said. “Then listen well, you arrogant moron, because as of now you belong to me. So let’s go over just what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.”
Even though Hershel knew she was no longer speaking directly to him, the tone of her voice and the glint in her eye compelled him to gulp. Later on, when Roy woke up and remembered the conversation, he would reflect that for once he and Hershel were in agreement.
33.
"Welcome, class. If you would take your seats quickly; today we have much to cover," Dean Blaine said as the students filed into Tuesday's Ethics of Heroism class. Nick moved briskly, taking his seat and sliding into his usual defensive posture. It said that he was bored, but not so much so that he wasn't paying attention. It conveyed respect without conveying interest, and all in all served the purpose of making him blend into the sea of faces. Nick might have been considered lacking by some in the power department, but the skills he did possess were honed and polished.
Sitting comfortably in his cocoon of apathetic camouflage, Nick allowed his eyes to wander around the room. He hadn't seen much of his dorm mates this weekend, but then again, he'd spent a lot of time working on a business model for one of his real life classes. Of course he had heard about Roy's sounding defeat at Chad's hands - that one had spread like wildfire - but he hadn't had a chance to catch up on the nitty-gritty details with Hershel. As for Vince, he hadn't come home until Sunday night, and despite Nick's respectable arsenal of wheedling techniques had refused to divulge any details of his weekend. Not that Nick couldn't string things together on his own, but it was always so much more satisfying to coax a secret from someone's lips.
"Class," Dean Blaine said once everyone was sitting in their chairs. "Today I introduce you to what will ultimately culminate in the grade for your mid-term exam." Nick could actually hear necks pop as they swiveled forward in a sudden burst of attention. "You will all be participating in research projects, and in one month you will make a presentation to the class as well as turning in a twenty-page paper."
"I thought we weren't going to have papers in this class?" The speaker was the girl with tightly pulled back braids, or Stella Hawkins as Nick had learned since the first day of class. In all the weeks since then, she had never raised her hand once when asking a question, driving Alice to grind her teeth but not even denting Dean Blaine's plastered-on grin.
Well, that was usually the case at any rate. Today Stella's question triggered a slight twitch in Dean Blaine's right cheek. Nick was confident no one else would have noticed it, but to him it was plain as day. That meant he wasn't as sure-footed on the topic of this project, or that there was something about it that made him uncomfortable. It wasn't much, and Nick wasn't sure what to do with it, but it was something and something didn't mean nothing. Nick trained his complete attention on the now-speaking dean.
"That is usually the case," Dean Blaine replied, no trace of the tremor from his face audible in his voice. "However, this is something of a special project. It will be a team project, one to help you all branch out and better get to know your fellow classmates. It will be on the full career of a Hero from the list I'll be hanging on the board. I want you to trace them from their training, their career path, and their retirement. Yes, Miss Adair?"
Alice's hand had been up since halfway through the dean's explanation, and it seemed she was a few seconds short of waving it around like an elementary school student to demand his attention. "How is this applicable from an ethics standpoint? This seems more like a history project."
"As I was explaining before you put your hand up," Dean Blaine replied curtly, "this project will trace the life of a famous Hero. While I do want you to spend some time discussing the major events in their life, the real purpose of this project is to look over some of their exploits from a more personal level. Look at some of the foes they dealt with and some of the battles they lost. Your goal is to help me, and the rest of your class, understand the motivations and complications of the person behind the mask."
"How does that help us with ethics?" Stella belted from the back of the room once more.
"Think of it as advanced preparation. I want you to see what these people went through, because a Hero's life is often fraught with hard choices and living with the consequences of them. By digging deep and understanding choices that past Heroes have made, I hope you will ask yourself what decisions you would have made in similar circumstances," Dean Blaine explained. "Because one day, those life and death decisions could be on your shoulders, and it is best to start preparing for them sooner rather than later."
Dean Blaine braced himself for more questions as his explanation finished, but the somber subject matter seemed to have cowed even Stella. It wasn't surprising; after all, when one thought about becoming a Hero, one usually focused on the glory and pride that came with defending the innocent. Rarely did people stop and consider the responsibility that came along with the job when deciding the direction into which to punch a villain could result in a building full of people losing their lives.
"Okay then," Dean Blaine said, making a snap judgment to steer the thoughts of his class toward less chilling waters. "I'll now announce the pairs for the projects. You will have the rest of the class to discuss possible Heroes from the list I'll be posting in a minute, and the two of you have until the end of the week to let me know your pick. Don't hesitate, though; they are first come, first serve, and each Hero may only be done by one team."
Dean Blaine produced a piece of paper and began calling out pairs of students. As each team was named the duo would rise from their seats and flag each other down from their respective positions, stopping only when one relocated to the other's area. Nick tried not to center too much on disappointment. If the list was already chosen then he couldn't use his power to affect the outcome. If he had known and had blasted out some luck during its creation the situation would have been different, but luck was only applicable to objects in motion. No amount of luck changed the dice roll once the results were written down. It would have been beneficial for Nick to land on Hershel or Vince's team and solidify the sense of friendship he had been crafting with them, but as Hershel was announced to be paired with someone named Alex and Vince was put with Will Murray, it became clear that Nick would be expanding his social circle. It could be worse, though; increased connections were rarely a bad thing.
"Next team," Dean Blaine announced. "Nicholas Campbell and Alice Adair."
"At least it's not the telepath," Nick mumbled under his breath. Humorously enough, Alice was muttering approximately the same thing from her own desk across the room. The two began the dance of waving, determining who would move over to the other's area, neither one particularly excited about their partner but each confident they hadn't gotten the shortest stick in the room.
Many might ha
ve believed that dubious honor went to Hershel, who drew up a seat next to his new partner.
"Hi," Hershel said. "I'm Hershel Daniels."
"Oh, I know," said the sandy-haired boy. "I heard all about the fight this weekend. I'm Alex, though. Alex Griffen."
"Nice to meet you, Alex," Hershel said. "So, I guess you already know about Roy then?"
"Totally," Alex said, nodding enthusiastically. "Seems like an awesome ability, turning into someone crazy strong and tough."
"It's... not as great as one might suspect," Hershel said delicately. He was hesitant to badmouth Roy at the moment. Roy had attended gym the day before, but he'd been different from usual: less proud, certainly, but less sure of himself as well. Hershel knew better than most what that was like, so the last thing he wanted to do was pile abuse onto his recovering alter ego. "It can be fun, though, and it's rarely boring. What about you, Alex? What's your power?"
"Nothing too exciting," Alex replied. "I'm basically a Jedi."
34.
"Looks like we got Everest," Vince said, striding into the library and depositing his books on a small table occupied by a short boy wearing glasses.
"That's great!" Will, also known as the short boy wearing glasses, exclaimed. "I thought for sure someone would have beaten us to him.”
"When I spoke with the dean he told me we were the third team to make our selection," Vince replied, taking his seat and spreading out the books. "I guess the others are taking their sweet time in picking a subject."
"Who else had been chosen?" Will asked as he unloaded the contents of his own backpack onto the table, cluttering it even further.
"Apparently Shane and some Amber girl took Captain Starlight, and Doc Nominal was chosen by guys named Gilbert and Adam," Vince recounted. Fortunately there hadn't been many names on the sign-up sheet, so the few that were present were easy to recall.
