Super Powereds: Year 4

by Hayes, Drew

  “Casper, good to see you again,” Graham greeted him.

  “And you, sir. It’s always an honor.” He’d have expected the thrill of meeting a living legend to wear off after the first time, yet his hands insisted on being sweaty from nerves all the same. With a discreet wipe on his jacket, Casper shook the man’s hand firmly. “I also appreciate you using my real name. Some of the others insist on sticking to the old terms.”

  “Nothing to worry about there. I’m a firm believer that those names are more than just fake identities we create to mask ourselves; they’re terms of respect. I’d never call a man who flies around selling his services by a Hero’s name.”

  That was… not quite the reply Casper had expected, but he nodded anyway. It wasn’t as though Graham had said anything false. Casper knew what he was and what he did for a living, and he had no qualms about it.

  “Since you’re clearly aware of how highly I regard my time, perhaps we can jump to the heart of the matter. What did you need from me? I can take you down a few more years if required.”

  “Appreciate it, but I’m good as is. If I start getting younger at regular intervals, people will accuse me of trying to hold this position indefinitely, and that’s bound to get some folks riled up.” Graham dropped his phone into his pocket and then pulled out a slip of paper. “No, I asked you here because we’ve got a prisoner with no idea how he was captured because his brain was messed with. The popular theory is that it can’t be healed, but I figured I’d call in the best to try anyway, just in case.”

  Casper had been wondering if this was related to the fall of the Sons of Progress, and with that one statement from Graham he could make a good guess as to who he was here to treat. “If I can’t heal them, they probably can’t be healed.”

  “Probably?”

  “There are always new Supers getting abilities; I’m not going to assume I’ll always be the best,” Caspar replied. “But for right now, I seem to be, so there is the matter of my fee. Reversing your age is one thing – I consider than an honor. However, I am running a business and I can’t come in for every person who needs a patch job.”

  With a nod, Graham handed the slip of paper from his jacket to Hallow. “We’d never get approval to pay your fees directly; you know how governments are. So I’ve got another proposition. I called some friends who work for the IRS now and negotiated a tax break for you. Every time you heal for us, it counts as donating your time to charity, and you gain a healthy write-off. That work for you?”

  There wasn’t much to read on the paper, but Casper scanned it twice anyway. It was less than he’d normally charge, but the fact that it would be coming as a write-off meant he obviously wouldn’t pay taxes for it. That made the offer more tempting. With enough healing, he might get his tax bill down to five digits.

  “I’ll want to negotiate a standard amount before the next one, probably a little higher than this. For today, though, I have a question: am I about to go work on Crispin?”

  “Technically I think I’m supposed to run you through a bunch of forms before disclosing that, but screw it. Yeah. He doesn’t know who caught him, and a lot of people are really keen on getting that information,” Graham said.

  “And you?”

  There was a slight pause while Graham DeSoto stared at him. “I think we just got a huge win, one that we desperately needed, and I’d really like to put it away. But we’ve got to at least try, so I figured it made sense to call in the best. If you healing him stirs up another bee hive, then it is what it is.”

  Casper rose from the chair and set the paper on Graham’s desk. “I’m ready to see the prisoner when you are. Although I have to say, if his brain has been thoroughly wiped by someone who knew what they were doing, I’m not that confident about my chances of repairing the memories. So no charge for today. This one is on me.”

  Something in Graham’s expression shifted. “A freebie? That’s pretty unlike you, Casper.”

  “Maybe so,” Casper said. “But once, I went by a different name. A name that I earned at Lander, the place that bastard attacked. If I can do something to put an end to all of his antics, even just prove that he can’t be healed, then I will. I’ll do it for the pleasure of getting to see him caught and chained with my own eyes. That’s payment enough for this round.”

  “Careful. You keep talking like that, I might slip up and use your other name.”

  231.

  It wasn’t often Roy heard from Professor Fletcher outside of class, so he was surprised to receive an email with instructions to head down to the training cells that morning. Things had been hectic since the final capture of the Sons of Progress, but normality was slowly reestablishing itself. Stirring an event as that had been, it didn’t change the fact that the students had new hurdles to climb and required constant training to stay on top of their game. Still, coming in on a Saturday was odd, and it wasn’t until Roy was in the hallway leading to the specified training cell that he finally got an inkling of what was going on.

  That was because Roy could hear the explosions before he ever set foot in the cell, which was no small feat given how dense and insulated the walls were. From there it wasn’t hard to put together. There were few Supers in the Lander HCP who could cause that kind of ruckus, and only one that Professor Fletcher would want Roy to check in on.

  He pulled the door open carefully, wary of potential debris, and paused to marvel at the utter destruction that lay before him. It looked less like someone was training in the cell and more like someone was trying to burrow out of it. Huge chunks were torn from the walls, cracks ran up and down every surface, and the floor was coated in chips of broken concrete. What made it all the more impressive was the fact that Roy knew they repaired these cells regularly, so odds were all of this destruction had been caused just that morning. Standing in the middle of the chaos, panting for breath even as her arms glowed with a fresh charge, stood Ashley Beck, so focused that she didn’t even notice the door open.

  Before he could get her attention, Ashley launched herself at a wall. Her fists flew into the concrete, generating blasts as fast as she could summon them. Blow after blow rained down, carving out new divots, but there was something wrong. This wasn’t the controlled, focused sort of work he’d taught her to do. This was raw, primal, nothing but a torrent of fury being poured onto an innocent wall. When she finally stopped, she was gasping for breath, yet there was still a slight glow in both her fists.

  “If this was a sparring session, you’d be in deep shit. Can’t afford to get so focused you stop paying attention to your surroundings, not even in training.” Roy closed the door behind him despite the nearly empty halls. Whatever this was, Ashley wasn’t going to want to talk about it in public, if he could even get her to talk at all.

  Ashley’s head whipped around, and for a split-second Roy saw her shift her weight for a charge. When she realized who’d come in, the aggression slipped away. “What are you doing here? Did we have training scheduled?”

  “No, you’ve had things pretty well in hand since Christmas,” Roy replied, walking around and surveying the remains of the room. “But someone tipped me off about a hooligan destroying school property, so I decided to come see what the fuss was. Turns out, it was you.”

  She watched him for a long moment before offering a half-hearted shrug. “The cells are here to use for training, so that’s what I’ve been doing. Am I supposed to work on my power somewhere else?”

  “No, you’re right; these cells are exactly the place for training. Problem is, I don’t see anyone here doing any training. All you’re doing is beating the ever-loving shit out of a wall. And while that would be fine if you were gauging your output or trying to experiment with a new technique, we both know that’s not what this is.” Roy arrived at the section of the wall she’d been battering when he walked in, running his hands over the craters. “Now I’m not the smartest guy in the HCP, but I know a thing or two about bottled up anger. Anything you might want t
o talk about?”

  “With you?”

  “Sure, if you like,” Roy said. “Or you can talk to Dr. Moran. Haven’t had a lot of need for her myself, but she’s helped a couple of my friends here and there, and she did a world of good for one buddy. Hell, I’m sure Professor Fletcher would listen if you wanted him to. Maybe even Dean Blaine, if he’s got the time. You get the point: there’re plenty of folks willing to listen, all you have to do is talk.”

  There was a moment where he thought she was going to take him up on the offer, but then her eyes hardened and she shook her head. “Pass. I’m fine doing it this way.”

  Roy found himself at a crossroads. He could keep being gentle and try to prod her into talking, or he could accept the answer and leave. There wasn’t much else in the way of options. Roy knew better than most how futile it was to try and make someone who didn’t want to open up talk about their feelings. It had taken years with his friends – and a few ass-whippings – before he finally understood that blind anger wasn’t enough to get by. Not in life, and certainly not in the HCP. At that thought, a new option popped into his head. It was, technically speaking, probably not an approved therapy method, but it had the possibility of working. That made it far and away better than either of the first two ideas.

  “You think so? Well, I think you’re fighting like shit. Those movements were sloppy, and you’re so mad that you can barely keep your aggression in check. I saw you move for me when I walked in; that ain’t the kind of shit you can afford to give away. Now this is the part where you tell me how wrong I am, which is bullshit, and I’ve got things to do today. Why don’t we skip it? Instead, I’ll give you the chance to prove if you’re really as ‘fine’ as you think.” Roy shrugged off the HCP uniform jacket and tossed it into the nearest corner of the cell.

  “Am I supposed to beat you to prove myself or some crap?” Ashley asked. “Because that’s crazy. You’re a senior in the Class of Nightmares. Confident as I might feel about my skills, there’s no way I’m going to be able to close that gap.”

  “Never assume a fight is lost before you go into it, otherwise it will be. And no, I’m not asking you to beat me. I want you to hit me. Once. One solid blow on the face or torso, and I’ll leave you to your so-called training.”

  Despite shifting her weight into a more offensive stance, Ashley didn’t look sold on the idea. “And let me guess, if I lose I have to agree to go talk to Dr. Moran?”

  “Do whatever the fuck you want. Talk, don’t talk. Fight, don’t fight. I’m not your dad, it ain’t my job to guide you along to what I think is right. All I’m looking to prove is that you’re not doing yourself any favors by staying like this. After that, it’s on you to decide what comes next.”

  Roy lifted his arms and gave the nod to signal that he was ready. “Now quit with the jawing, it’s a beautiful Saturday and I don’t want to spend all of it beating the piss out of you.”

  232.

  “It’s a little… aggressive… at least for anyone who catches the meaning.” Professor Fletcher lowered the page, looking over it to Camille, who was seated across the desk from him. Originally his plan for the morning had been to check in on how Roy was doing with Ashley, hoping the strongman could direct some of the fire burning in that woman’s belly. Fury certainly had its place in battle, but only when it was well-focused. That idea had been interrupted when Camille arrived in his office, form in hand, to submit her code name for official consideration.

  “Good. I want aggressive.” Lifting her arms slightly, Camille motioned to her own body. “Given my size, I’m probably never going to be physically imposing to anyone. Not at first, anyway. But I decided that if I took a name with a clear capacity for violence, I could put people on edge. Make them uncertain of why such a small lady would have such a fierce name. And once I get into the field and start working, hopefully I can build a reputation of something to be feared, the kind of Hero that makes people surrender before a fight ever breaks out. I’m uniquely suited to hurting my enemies with enough precision to cripple them without ever quite crossing the line. Sooner or later, I think word of that will get around between criminals.”

  “I can’t say you haven’t thought this through,” Professor Fletcher admitted. “But it’s also worth noting that as someone with healing powers, you have a built-in avenue to positive public perception. Everyone likes a Hero who can show up at hospitals and clear out the ER when time permits. You could make a persona that’s comforting to countless people.”

  He was spot on. Camille had done her homework in the months leading up to this choice, researching the various healing Heroes through the years. And with a few exceptions, like Hallow’s move to the private sector, they were generally all looked upon favorably by the public. True, they never became big names like Globe, Titan, or Captain Starlight, but all of them held positive images that were treated well and moved merchandise. It was the smart, business-savvy direction to take her Hero identity. There was just one critical flaw.

  “I don’t want to be loved. I want to be feared. Not by the people I heal, but by the ones who hurt them. I want the sound of my name to make the guilty sprint as fast as they can in the other direction. I want them to know, as soon as they see me, that all is lost. And I want the people they’re hurting to know that they’re going to be okay. While I get that this is an unusual path for a healer to take, it’s the kind of Hero I want to be.”

  Part of Camille would always be that bullied child, harassed and hurt for the sin of being born different. No matter how much she grew, it was a part of her, one that she was slowly learning to draw strength from rather than regret. Because horrible as those times had been, they’d taught her an important lesson. Plenty of people tried to make her feel better, to heal her heart, but none of them had actually improved her situation. The only one who had was the silver-haired, wide-eyed boy who showed up out of nowhere and beat the hell out of her attackers. Comfort was important, kindness was vital, and showing empathy for those in pain was what made humans… human.

  Still, sometimes the only way to make things better was to stand up and swing, to fight back until there was no one left standing. She knew firsthand what it was like to have a hero swoop in during the darkest moments, and that was a feeling she wanted to give to others. Camille was not training to give support or gentle comfort. She’d worked all these years to be an ungodly terror in the eyes of those poor souls who called down the wrath of a Hero. This was just one more step along that path.

  “If that’s what you’re after, then this is certainly a good choice,” Professor Fletcher said. “Adrestia: she who cannot be escaped, goddess of retribution. A little obscure, which is probably why the name is still available, but it shouldn’t take a decent agent long to get the meaning out there. Before we make it official, I should ask: have you talked this over with your potential mentors yet? It’s the sort of image decision that might make a few teams wary of taking you on, especially if they’re trying to project a more family-friendly appearance.”

  “I’ve only got two mentors I’m considering right now, and I made it clear to both of them when we talked that I wasn’t looking to go the usual healer route. Not everyone supported that decision, which is why I’ve narrowed it down to two. Both of them will be fine with this choice. And if they’re not, I can find a new mentor. On-team healers are never in short demand, especially ones who can fully negate injuries like me.”

  Camille’s parents, both regular people with mundane careers, had never been able to help her much on the path to being a Hero, although they’d both tried. But there was one bit of advice they’d given that had proven valuable during her senior year: know your worth and don’t settle for less. Healers were always useful in the field. She’d held out until she found mentors who were willing to deal with an odd image choice in exchange for having someone on their team who could remove injuries almost instantaneously. Truth be told, there had been plenty willing to see past it, so she’d focused on
picking ones that would give her the best education.

  “That’s fine then, just wanted to be sure you’d considered all the ramifications.” Professor Fletcher read a few more lines on the page before finally setting it down. “I will add this much: if your goal is to be seen as terrifying to the wicked, then I think you’ll have ample success. When I first took over this position and saw that you were in Close Combat, I’ll admit I had my doubts. Good as you were at hand-to-hand fighting, your size and power seemed like they’d be difficult gaps to close. Then I saw you let loose on Hector and Allen during the capture the flag team trial, and you know what I thought? I thought that I was going to fight tooth and nail to keep you in Close Combat, because the potential you had was utterly terrifying. Not just the power itself, but how well you unnerved your opponents. Being hit is one thing; having your bones suddenly snap within your skin is fundamentally disturbing on a whole other level. While I didn’t imagine you’d go so bold with your Hero name, I’m glad you did. I think it will be a fine fit for you, eventually.”

  “Thank you, professor.” Camille was blushing, though for once she didn’t feel bothered by the blood in her cheeks. She’d just received the kindest comment she’d ever heard from Professor Fletcher, and embarrassing as it was, she also knew this was a moment she would hold close to her heart for years to come. “I’ll do my best to make Lander proud.”