Super Powereds: Year 1 (75 page)

Alice and Mary had set up shop earlier in the day, staking out a table and leaving only in shifts while the remaining girl gave death glares to anyone approaching the empty chair. They’d been working together as finals drew closer, keeping the other accountable for the amount of effort they had to put in for each class. It was, of course, tempting to slack off, but with the other always at hand, giving the guilt eyes, they’d managed to stay on track for all their tests so far.

“Shouldn’t we be devoting more time to training?” Alice asked a few minutes later.

“Think it will make a difference?” Mary asked.

“Honestly... no. Not really. I think I’ll just need to warm up for a few days before. I don’t see me getting much better than where I’m at, though,” Alice admitted.

“Same here. Think another few hours figuring out this math will help?”

“Eeeeeerrrrrmmmmmmm... probably,” Alice yielded.

“Then back to it,” Mary replied. “Only another two hours and we can break for dinner.”

“That’ll be nice,” Alice said.

“Yeah. Plus we can use flash cards to drill each other while we eat,” Mary pointed out.

The thump of Alice’s head slamming into her books was loud enough to draw a chorus of shushes from the nearby tables.

* * *

Alex turned the page in his book and let out a deep breath. Unlike the girls, he was doing his study time alone in his dorm room. His roommate was off training his body for the exam, so Alex had the place to himself. That was a good thing; he functioned best in peace and quiet.

Alex sat cross-legged on his bed, a biology book resting comfortably in his lap. All around the small room various objects were floating in the air. Pencils, books, toothpaste, and a pillow were just some of the levitated furnishings. About once an hour Alex would add another object to the fray, splitting his concentration into yet another new direction. He’d been at this for a few days, and he’d successfully raised the maximum he could handle while studying from fourteen to nineteen. His goal was to hit twenty-five before the exam.

On that note, Alex realized it had been an hour. He mentally scooped up his alarm clock a few feet from the ground and turned the page in his book. Alex felt really bad for the people who had to pick between working on their academics and their HCP material. For his money there was no strategy quite like multi-tasking.

* * *

To the untrained eye it would look like Nick was watching television in the middle of the afternoon when he should have been studying. To the trained eye it would look the same, except they might notice the depression on the couch and the lines on his face that indicated he had been there all day. Nick let out a yawn and switched the channel.

He’d have to go out with Bubbles tonight - she was proving to be too excellent an excuse and shield to let go of anytime soon - but for now he was just relaxing. He’d browsed through his class materials on the first day off and decided he had an A- to C-grade understanding of everything he would be tested on. That meant he was free to use his study time to sit in front of the television while mind-numbing schlock flickered across the screen. It would have been a terrible strategy to employ... if he’d actually been watching it.

The problem with both the trained and untrained eye is that they wouldn’t see the cogs whizzing about in Nick’s brain. They wouldn’t know that he was going back through his entire year, day by day, interaction by interaction, and scanning each minute for information about the people he’d be coming up against. No set of eyes, regardless of training, could discern that the boy lounging lazily was in fact readying himself for his upcoming trials by searching out every weak point and emotional lever he could find in his opponents.

Which, of course, was exactly the reason Nick’s body told the story of a boy blowing off his academic responsibilities.

* * *

Thomas fought the urge to vomit while struggling to gulp down some air. His entire body was slick with sweat as he pressed his hand against the cold concrete of the training cell for support. He’d been down here for hours, and he would be here for hours more.

Thomas had used his week off of training to think long and hard about new ways to apply his power in combat. He’d been unable to think of anything entirely new, but he had recalled a technique he’d tried and failed at when he was younger. Deciding to give it the old college try, Thomas had spent his first several days back in the gym making it work. He’d eventually succeeded, leaving him less than a week and a half to get this new strategy to a point where it was viable in combat.

Coach George would have undoubtedly encouraged him to use his time more wisely, and Thomas would in no way have listened. He’d been beaten in the first trials of the year by being ill-prepared for what his fellow students would bring to bear. Now things were different. Now they’d had months upon months to see the capabilities of each person’s power. Now there were no surprises left.

No surprises, except for what one could conjure in the scant two weeks afforded to them. Thomas finished catching his breath and stood up straight. A vibrant orange glow emanated from his hands. His days were short.

It was time to train.

136.

Roy caught the fist aimed at his head and twisted it to the right. Stella let out a muffled groan of pain as her shoulder was jerked and her body sent sprawling. Roy turned to intercept the next attacker and received a kick in the ribs from a highly-dense foot. The only sound he could manage was a muffled cough as he doubled over, trying to catching his breath.

“Gotta be quicker than that,” Violet scolded as she stepped back so he could recover.

“And here... I thought... chicks... dug... lasting power,” Roy wheezed out as his lungs did their best to recuperate.

“Real women need speed and longevity,” Violet said, flashing him a smarmy grin of her own. “Speaking of, how you holding up, Stella?”

“Arm is sore,” Stella growled. “No worries, though, I’ll get him back.”

“Good,” Violet said. “Because in twenty minutes it’s your turn.”

“Fuck to the yes,” Stella said, stretching her limbs as she finished standing up.

The three of them had been going for a few days like this, doing one-on-one fights at first, then progressing to two against one. They were each doing some exercises in their own time as well. At the end of the day, however, they all subscribed to the same mentality: the only way to prep for a fight is to fight. A lot.

“That’s enough girl talk,”’ Roy said, rearing up to his full height. “I’ve still got twenty minutes left, and I want to see just how well you two can double team a man.”

“I swear, it’s like he wants us to aim for the balls,” Violet sighed, taking a stance and bracing herself.

“Well, let’s be honest,” Roy said. “With ones as big as mine, it’d harder not to hit them.”

Stella and Violet exchanged glances. After several days of Roy’s banter, they were getting used to his thinly-veiled attempts to rile them up so they’d come at him harder. That said, they were also very much beginning to enjoy when it was his turn to get attacked.

* * *

Camille exhaled and shifted her position. The sun was just cresting over the horizon as she sat on the hill, knees situated on a soft yet durable blue mat. She was doing yoga, as she did most mornings, though this time she was doing it outside. She was near the edge of the campus, away from where most people traveled, but still within range of being discovered. That was the real point of today: to risk people seeing her.

She wasn’t indecent; she wore a baggy shirt over a sports bra and some cloth pants. She was just making strange motions with her body and that was a little embarrassing. Camille didn’t particularly like to be watched; she didn’t like to stand out in the crowd. It was undoubtedly a survival mechanism left over from her years of abuse at the hands of neighborhood bullies who hated her for being different.

Camille inhaled and rotated her legs. None of that mattered anymore. She wasn’t the weirdo of her school, she wasn’t the outcast cowering behind the bushes, willing her pursuers to not find her. She wasn’t helpless. Camille was a Super. She’d owned that term for years now, and if she wanted to take it to the next level, that meant keeping her concentration in the face of distractions.

A set of voices reached her ears from some distance away. They were getting closer; soon they’d come upon her doing her morning exercise. Her breath tried to catch in her throat, but Camille refused to let it. It was fine if people saw her. It was okay to be noticed. There was nothing wrong with being seen. She had to come to terms with that, because if it came to a point where she had to use her full potential in this test, people were going to notice the living crap out of her. And she had to push through that. She had to be strong. No matter what, she had to advance to the next year.

She knew that He would advance. He would undoubtedly be here next year, fighting and training and laughing and growing. He would be one step closer toward being a Hero. And He would need someone to heal him.

Camille exhaled as she lowered her hips and raised her shoulders. She heard the people walking by her, felt their eyes as they noticed the small, pale-haired girl stretching in the sunrise. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, but otherwise showed no response. Soon the voices passed and Camille changed position again.

He would be here next year, and He would unavoidably get himself into trouble. He would get hurt. So Camille and her power would be here, too. That’s all there was to it.

137.

Shane knocked on Michael’s door again. He and Chad waited patiently for a few moments before Shane turned around.

“Still no answer.”

“I’m aware,” Chad said.

“That’s weird, though, right? Michael has his crap, but the guy never flakes on training.”

Chad shrugged with the casual apathy Shane had grown accustomed to. “Pressure makes some people better, it makes some people break. Maybe he couldn’t take it.”

“I guess. That just doesn’t seem like him,” Shane said.

“Yes, because Michael has shown such excellent coping mechanisms throughout the year,” Chad replied.

“Never this bad, though,” Shane pointed out.

“That’s why it is called escalation,” Chad told him. “Look, he isn’t picking up his cell and I can hear through the walls that he isn’t in there. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s off doing some special training on his own. In the meantime, you and I have only a few days left.”

Shane started to protest, then thought better of it. Michael had barely shown up for three days of training throughout the two weeks, and he’d been distracted each time. Shane considered Michael a friend, but whatever was going on, it was apparent Michael wasn’t going to share. So Shane needed to focus on making sure he was at his peak when test time came.

“Okay,” Shane agreed. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

* * *

Vince released a blast of heat into the concrete wall, creating a focused pillar of flame between himself and the boundary. In the corner of the training room was an ever growing pile of Sterno cans, adding an even more decrepit ambiance to the seared room. Vince had been training down here for most of his two weeks, stopping only for study, tests, food, and more fire. He’d worked hard with his heat, trying new blast patterns and ranged techniques. He’d focused on close combat as well, driving up the temperature around him to near intolerable levels for any human who passed through it. His body was sore, sweat poured from him constantly, and some of his muscles felt like a bat had been taken to them.

Vince couldn’t remember a time he’d felt better. He released the bolt of flame from the wall and cupped his hands. Between his palms a fireball formed, swirled about until he threw his arms forward. The fireball launched into the wall and spread across it, leaving a swath of fresh scorches in its path.

Vince paused to pick a new target area and realized that he was more or less out of clean space to hit. They were going to have to do a hell of a job fixing up this combat room. Then again, Vince had faith there was an efficient process in place for such things; otherwise there was no way this school could function with people like himself in it. He picked up a water bottle at his feet and took a deep drink.

Tomorrow was his down day, the night of the festivities. The day after that was the exam. He still didn’t feel ready, not completely, but Vince had been around the block enough times to know that he never would. He would do the best he could to prepare and then things would just play out. He wouldn’t know if he was ready or not or until it was all over, because that’s when the results would dictate the answer.

In the meantime, Vince still had a few hours before dinner with Sasha. The air around him seemed to be rippling as the temperature was strong-armed upward. The water bottle at his feet began to melt into the grey stone floor. Vince trained his eyes on a heavily scorched section of wall. Well, if he couldn’t measure his progress by marking, he’d have to measure it by melting.

Vince stepped forward and let fly with everything he had.

138.

Vince wandered into the common room to find Hershel and Alice already watching television on the couch. All three were clad in pajamas, though Alice’s were a pink silk set and Vince’s were composed of a tank top and sweats. Hershel, on the other hand, was sporting an enormous t-shirt and a pair of work-out shorts. It was definitely dead day, a day in which lounging was not only encouraged, it was downright mandatory.

“Morning,” Vince said.

“Hey,” Hershel replied.

“Hi, Vince,” Alice said.

“Anything good on the tube?”

“Nah,” Hershel said, changing the channel. “Just some wildfires out in southern California they’re trying to get under control. Interesting story, but once you’ve seen one clip of trees on fire you’ve kind of seen them all.”

“Too bad,” Vince said. “I know the HCP carnival thing doesn’t start until around six tonight. I’ve been spending so much time training I’m not sure how to kill a day off.”