Sensation: A Superhero Novel (8 page)

He closed his eyes, and one of the symbols on his forehead began to glow with a bright, yellow light.  Rune began chanting in a language I didn’t understand, but with words that intoned power with each syllable.  Almost imperceptibly, the room began to vibrate, starting out as a dull hum.  Rune’s chant continued, but I was surprised to discover that I could now understand the words:

Universe and cosmos, bend to my will;

Make distance between here and there nil;

Time and space rip apart without scar,

May the distant be near, and the near far!

            As he spoke, the yellow glow became blinding.  The room’s trembling grew more violent, and I heard empty chairs vibrating slowly across the floor.  I felt an odd sensation, a tugging at my being, as if my body was trying to be two places at once.  It wasn’t like teleporting; with that, I was simply either here or there, in one place or another.  With Rune’s spell, and I somehow knew that to be what it was, it was as if I were ubiquitous to a certain extent, and in several places simultaneously. 

            Then, without preamble, everything came to a halt, and the world normalized again.

            “We’re here,” Rune announced, and then turned and left out the door without further explanation.

            Within a few minutes we had all followed him out of the room.  Rune had obviously performed some type of trickery, because we certainly weren’t at the League’s HQ any more.         

We were in a gigantic room, with hardwood floors, stone walls, and high arches.  Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of a large domed stadium, lush well-manicured lawns, and hundreds of acres of forest.  Looking around, I could see that the room was filled with all kinds of games:  pool tables, air hockey, table tennis, etc.

 Someone tapped me on the shoulder and pointed up.  Above the arches was a large sign:

WELCOME TO THE ALL-LEAGUES ACADEMY

            Now I knew where we were: the Academy, where heroes-in-waiting got their training - if they were lucky enough to be selected by a superhero team.  

“Yes, you are at the Academy,” Rune spoke in response to unasked questions.  “You will stay here for the next three days while participating in the trials.  We have made room for you in the dorms – at opposite ends of the campus, based on gender – and will provide you with a change of clothing for each day’s events.”

He waved his arm to take in the entire room.  “This is the student break room.  Whenever you are not being tested, you are free to be in here, or participate in some of the outdoor activities.  Tennis, anyone?”

We laughed at this as a glowing blue racket appeared out of nowhere in his hands, and he took a few swings at an imaginary ball.

“Anyway,” he continued, as the tennis racket vanished, “you’ve had a long day, so the rest of the evening is yours.  We’re fortunate enough to have some student volunteers – who took time out of their own summer break – help us this year.”

At this, a number of older teens filed into the room from a nearby hallway. 

“These volunteers will show you to your rooms.”  As he spoke, he began fading, like a ghost winking out of existence.  “As I said, you’re free to make use of this break room, but I would advise getting a good night’s sleep.”

And with that, he was gone.  I took his advice and, allowing a student volunteer to show me the way, went to my room and went to bed.

**********************************

The trials were basically assessments of our powers.  On the first day, they separated us based on our abilities.  Out of two hundred of us, there were only seven flyers. 

Unless you had another superpower (like super strength), a flyer could usually expect to have a recon role on most super teams.  Fly here, scope out this area, report what you see. Your primary role wouldn’t be to mix it up with the bad guys (although that happened just as often as not).  Thus, the flying trials would be pretty straightforward attempts to gauge qualities such as speed and perception.

            The first part of the test involved flying up to a comfortable height (whatever that was for each individual flyer) and then staying there as long as possible.  I flew up to what I judged to be about a thousand feet, then stayed there for four hours (or more specifically, until they called me back down).  I was proud to see them label my ability to remain aloft as “indefinite.”

Next, I had to chase down an aerial drone and manually tag it with a homing beacon.  It led me on a merry chase for almost thirty minutes, through wooded areas, around abandoned buildings, and all over the testing grounds. It had been an effort not to display too much speed, but I’d had fun all the same.  I had assumed that they were judging my speed, so it was a bit of a shock when, after I was done, the test administrator - a flyer known as Sky High - began asking me odd questions.

            “Did you see the bear?” he asked.

            “Huh?”

            “When you were chasing the drone through the woods, did you see a bear?”

            Of course!  Being recon, flyers were expected to observe what was going on around them.  I went back over the flight in my mind, thinking furiously.

            “Yes,” I finally answered.  “I actually saw two bears - a mother and her cub.”

            Sky High grunted, apparently surprised, then went on with a barrage of questions that I believe I answered correctly:  “Did you see a mailbox…?  How many blue cars…?  What was the color of…?”  

            There were other assessments as well, but nothing I found too difficult.  In short, over a two-day period, I passed all the tests they put me through.  (Or at least I believed I did.)

            The third day was just for winding down.  The superheroes would discuss and assess the merits of each participant - maybe even meet with a few of them one last time - and let us know at the end of the day if we made the cut.  Someone mentioned that there was a paintball range on campus, so a few of us decided to play while we waited.

The Academy’s paintball range, although in a well-forested area, was fairly high-tech.  Each player could be tagged out by getting hit with a certain number of paintballs.  The number of paintballs it took to tag someone out varied based on a computerized assessment of their abilities.  For example, the computer would tag me out with seven registered paintball hits.  For someone like Paramount, the number was one hundred hits, which was as high as the system would go.

            There was a break area set up where teams could rest between rounds.  It had lots of refreshments, as well as video screens that carried live broadcasts of teams currently competing.  There was lots of good-natured betting on which team would win each faceoff.

            There were six of us who decided to play together, three to a team;  it was a good match per the computer, which assessed our abilities as being comparable and pegged us all at the same tag-out level.  We were in the process of putting on our pads - my team was in blue, the other team was in red - and getting our gear when the prior combatants came into the equipment room.  One of the teams included Paramount, who was cheering in obvious victory.

            “That was great!” he screamed.  “I love it!”  I tuned him out as he kept shouting, thinking instead about getting out on the range and discussing strategy with my teammates.  We were just getting ready to start our round when the members of the red team approached.

            One of them, a telepath called Mindburst, spoke.  “We, uh, we, we’re going to let those guys take our place this round.”  He nodded in the direction of Paramount and his team, who stood on the other side of the room, glaring at us.

            “Why is that?” I asked.

            “Well, they really seem to like it, and we’re not really big paintball fans anyway.”

            This was in direct contradiction to what they had previously said, but it seemed impolitic to mention that at the moment.  He and his teammates were clearly nervous and feeling anxious.  And that’s when I realized the truth:  other teens weren’t in awe of Paramount.  They were afraid of him.

            “Suit yourself,” I said, shrugging.  “But you’re missing out on big fun.”

            With that, I marched out to the paintball range.  It didn’t occur to me until later that I had never asked my teammates for their opinion on the subject.

            The paintball game itself was a serious mismatch.  The discrepancy between the tag-out numbers for my team and Paramount’s was just too great.  There was no way we could win.  Nevertheless, we devised the best strategy possible under the circumstances.

            The paintball course had several hunting blinds set up in random spots.  Each of us would take one, then - using the blind as cover - attempt to shoot the other team whenever they got close.  It wouldn’t even come close to getting us a victory (we wouldn’t be able to shoot them enough times before they got to us), but it was all we had. 

            I chose an elevated blind, which was basically a little wooden shed sitting on a stand about twelve feet off the ground.  A ladder led up to a door cut into the floor of the shed.  The door was already open, and when I peeked inside, I saw a family of skunks - a mother and her three young.

            I’m no skunk whisperer by any means, and I find it more difficult to interpret the emotions of animals than people.  Nevertheless, I could feel the agitation of the mother, whose maternal instincts were kicking into overdrive.  I tried to direct feelings of friendship and non-aggression towards her.  After a few moments, she seemed to calm a bit - at least enough for me to have a look around.

            Inside the blind, rough-hewn, squared-shaped windows had been cut into all four walls.  The windows were covered by sheets of plywood hanging down on horizontal hinges.  Peeking out, I had clear lines of sight of the other hunting blinds, where my two teammates were hidden. 

            I telescoped my vision.  In short order, things did not go well for either of my teammates.  They had each chosen hunting blinds on the ground, and Paramount and his team used the same basic tactic for both of them.  They would rush the hunting blind from three sides at once, then fire inside indiscriminately until the person was tagged out.

            After my second teammate was tagged out, I started thinking that maybe the hunting blinds weren’t such a great idea.  One of the baby skunks made a mewling sound, which brought my attention back to them. The skunks were obviously using the place as a den; in fact, the mother may even have given birth here.  An idea started taking form in my brain.

            Paramount’s team was heading my way, having obviously figured out Team Blue’s plan to use the hunting blinds.  I waited until I was sure they were looking in my direction, then - in a very open and notorious fashion - I lifted the plywood and looked out the window.  One of Paramount’s teammates saw me and pointed at my hiding place.  I quickly lowered the plywood, acting like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

            Turning to the skunks, I spent a few seconds sending a lot of negative emotions towards the mother, who began to make angry noises.  Then I slipped out the door in the floor, leaving her riled up.

            The foliage around the hunting blind was tall and dense enough that I was sure I couldn’t have been seen slipping out.  I headed to a nearby bush, away from the direction Paramount’s team was coming from, and hid behind it.  What occurred next was absolutely classic.

            Peeking out from my hiding spot, I saw Paramount and his crew emerge from the trees on the other side of the hunting blind.  Paramount held a finger up to his lips, calling for quiet.  Then he tapped his thumb to his chest and pointed to the ladder leading up to the shed.  His teammates nodded and fanned out as he approached.

            I have to admit, for a big guy, Paramount moved with catlike silence and grace.  He got to the ladder quickly and slowly climbed up.  However, he’d barely had time to stick his head through the door when he suddenly shouted and fell off the ladder.  The mother skunk had sprayed him full in the face.  The only way it could have been better would have been if his mouth had been open.

            Paramount got up screaming and rubbing his face.  “A skunk!  A skunk!”

            His teammates ran to his aid, but began laughing uncontrollably as soon as they understood what had happened.  I was in stitches myself, so much so that I didn’t even try to run when they closed in on me (my laughter was a dead giveaway) and tagged me out.

            Word got out pretty quickly about what had happened.  I had completely forgotten that the matches were broadcast back to the break area, so everyone had seen what had happened.  (Someone even found the controls and put it on replay.)

            I didn’t realize it then, but I had done the unforgivable.  I hadn’t beaten Paramount, which would have been bad enough because the guy really was a sore loser. I had done something far worse:  I had embarrassed and humiliated him - made him a laughingstock.  And nobody laughs at Paramount.     In retrospect, had I known what was to result from that paintball game, I never would have played.

**********************************

That evening, they announced which of us were deemed worthy of entering the Academy.  I felt a great sense of relief when my name was called as one of the lucky ones. (Even more, the Alpha League was sponsoring me, so I’d be part of their team of super teens.)  Naturally, they called Paramount’s name as well.  However, he didn’t seem to care for the news.  He was apparently still fuming about the skunk incident; he gave me the stinkeye (no pun intended) every time he looked my way.  And it didn’t help that people were still talking about it.  (Some kids were even calling him
Polecat
-Mount behind his back.)  I slept uneasily that last night.