Super Powereds: Year 2 (80 page)

“-no casualties being reported so far. For those of you just tuning in, again the breaking story today is the jailbreak that happened at the Sanderson Maximum Security Prison for Supers. One incarcerated man, being identified as the former Hero Relentless Steel, was pulled free by a group of three Supers intent on his extrication.”

Eyes widened and nerves tightened at this announcement. Although the media was not allowed to release the names of even disgraced Heroes, it was common knowledge that the man once called Relentless Steel had the ability to transform into a living robot, a power most had observed was strikingly similar to another man they all knew, one who had also been stuck in prison after kidnapping a student last year.

The reporter blurred for a moment, the signal from her location clearly not stable. They could all see waves in the background, which made sense. Sanderson was an island penitentiary; she was probably reporting from the shoreline. The image became crisp again moments later, and she continued her report.

“Normally this would be the most shocking turn of event, given Sanderson’s reputation for being inescapable; however, we’ve gotten confirmation that not only were two of the three criminals former Heroes Raze and Mood Swing, both already with warrants out for their arrest, but it seems they were being led by another former Hero, this one believed to be to deceased.”

Vince felt a very heavy sinking sensation somewhere in his gut.

“We’ve just received security footage taken of their escape,” the reporter said, her face vanishing as four people floating on what appeared to be a giant rock filled the screen. Two of them were familiar: despite the costume and mask, Persephone’s figure would have stood out clearly in a burlap sack. George didn’t have any concealment as he kneeled on the floating piece of earth, only a threadbare prison jumpsuit. The other two men wore Hero masks as well. Even without the facial coverings, they would have still been unrecognizable to most of the students. Most, but not all.

“As you can clearly see, the man known as Globe is leading their attack and coordinating their escape. Inquiries to his former teammates who reported his death have so far been met only with silence.”

The screen zoomed in on the man; he was saying something to George that couldn’t be recorded from the camera’s distance. He wore a long red coat, tattered with time but still highly recognizable. One student would have known it anywhere, just as he would have known the line of the man’s jaw or the way he stood when he was trying to protect someone.

“Father,” Vince whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. It might have traveled further than he realized, because a mass of eyes turned to stare at him. Vince didn’t notice, couldn’t even see them. All he could see was the face on the screen, all he could hear was the strange ringing that filled his ears. He did notice a curious orange tint that seemed to be coloring the edge of his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t have told you what it was. Vince didn’t see anything other than the man on the screen, his face superimposed over a half-decade old memory of a burning boxcar that Vince had looked down on from a cliff. He could hear his own screams from that day, or maybe someone else was screaming. Maybe a lot of people were; it was so hard to tell.

His line of sight to the screen was cut short as a pair of fleetingly familiar eyes appeared in front of his own. That was the last image Vince got before his body fell limply to the floor.

159.

“Put him down!”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I stopped us all from being burned to death. Some of us aren’t fucking flame retardant!”

“Roy, put him down right now.”

“I will when he lets Vince go.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Rich is right; he was having a mental breakdown. He didn’t even seem to notice the fire.”

“Then what do you suggest? He’s got to deal with it when he wakes up, and he can’t stay out forever.”

“Can you still craft fake situations after you’ve already put someone under?”

“Sure, I just have to look in their eyes again. Why?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

Vince’s eyes snapped open as he jerked upright in his bed. He could still hear the voices bickering somewhere in the depths of his mind, but he couldn’t really remember what they were saying. His brain felt groggy, like he’d barely slept a wink last night. It wasn’t really surprising; that had been one hell of a detailed dream. He swung his feet out of the covers and hopped onto the floor, officially beginning his day.

The sunlight streamed through his window. Outside the neighborhood was just waking up. It was a quiet little cul-de-sac, mostly full of three bedroom houses cut from the same set of design templates. The exception was the Adairs’ house down the street, which had been custom-made and easily dwarfed the rest of the abodes surrounding it. Vince never understood why Charles Adair wanted to live in a neighborhood like theirs when he clearly belonged in a higher income area. His mind slid over the question, unable to even conceive of it as something he should dwell on.

The clock was blinking seven thirty, which meant he’d managed to oversleep again. Hurriedly brushing his teeth and throwing on clean clothes, Vince paused briefly to shave in the mirror and style his light-chocolate-colored hair. It was so dull and ordinary, no wonder he’d given himself a mane of silver in his dream.

A ritualistic hunt for his sneakers, the modern manifestation of killing a buffalo, wasted five more minutes, so by the time he stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, Vince was beginning to be on the cusp of truly being late. Coach was going to be pissed.

“Morning, champ,” his father greeted him, currently poised at the stove whipping a spatula through some recently cracked eggs. There was also the distinctive sizzle of bacon and the unmistakable scent of coffee filling the air. Father took all his meals seriously; he believed that the fall of modern society would come from lack of home-cooking rather than gangs or violence. The red apron that was draped across his torso was worn and threadbare, not to mention a bit frilly around the edges. Vince had told him for years he needed a new one, but it had been a gift from Vince’s mother before she passed, so Father was loathe to give it up.

As he took a seat at the table Vince’s head throbbed, images from his dream rising unbidden from the depths of his subconscious. His father, faking his own death, only to emerge years later as some legendary criminal. It was so ridiculous, yet for some reason Vince felt a pang of queasiness in his stomach.

“How you feeling today? Any new symptoms?”

“Symptoms?” Vince said uncertainly.

“Well, there’s the memory loss they warned us about,” his father said with a sigh. “You got cracked on the head during practice yesterday. Minor concussion, and given that you were taken down by the Daniels boy I’d say that was getting off light.”

“Right... right,” Vince said, new memories rising up to take the place of the ones from his dream. “Roy tackled me when I intercepted that pass, and I knocked my head on the ground.”

“Whew, glad that mind of yours is still working. We Reynolds men can’t afford to lose too many brain cells.” His father gave him a wink at the joke, and then slid a steaming pile of fluffy eggs onto a pair of plates. Bacon joined the former future fowls, followed by a cup of coffee on the side. He sat the plate in front of his son then sat across from Vince with his own.

The Reynolds men... but only Vince’s last name was Reynolds, wasn’t it?

A throb came from his temple and Vince shook his head. Whatever thought had been perched at the edge of his mind was lost in the impromptu head-banging, so Vince turned his attention to breakfast. The food was crisp and delicious, as always. For a police officer, Vince’s dad had a surprising amount of hidden culinary talent.

“You’d better hurry,” his father said. “Nick will be here any minute, and I hate the way that boy drives when he’s running late.”

“Nick?”

“Nick Campbell. Son, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve known Nick since you were kids, and he’s been driving you to school since he got his license. If you forgot him then maybe we need to go back to the doctor for more tests.”

“Right, no, I know Nick,” Vince said, his brain catching up to his dad’s description. “I just forgot he was picking me up. I’m fine: a little slow on the uptake, but fine.” He was, too. The concern and care in his father’s voice had banished the uneasy feeling that had been lingering in his gut. It was a stupid dream. His father was the best man he knew, whatever reason his subconscious had possessed for casting him in the role of villain was irrelevant. It wasn’t real.

Vince gobbled his food hurriedly while his father slowly turned his own attention back to breakfast. The man kept a wary eye on his boy, checking for any further symptoms that indicated a serious issue.

“So, you nervous about your upcoming finals?” It was a blatant topic change, and Vince accepted the spirit with which it was intended.

“I guess I am. More than I realized, anyway. I had a stress dream last night that was unbelievable.”

“Oh yeah? What happened in it?”

“Well, the first part is the weirdest. It was set in a world where people actually had super powers.”

160.

Nick’s ancient VW Bug protested his attempts to turn maneuvering simple neighborhood streets into a smash ‘em up video game, but the grinding cries from its engine went unheeded as its owner jerked the wheel and sent his passenger bouncing against a door that miraculously held closed.

“Fucking shitty drivers,” Nick mumbled, revving past the blue Ford that had committed the unforgivable sin of slowing down to take a right turn. The Bug gave out a weary sputter and lurched into a higher gear, sounding as if the effort had taken several years off its already dwindling lifespan.

“Are you sure you should be going so fast on these streets?”

“Hey, I don’t want to hear shit from you. I pull up and honk and it takes you five minutes to get to the car. You know damn well I run on a very efficient schedule with no wasted time. That five minutes has got to come out of something else now, but we both know morning practice shouldn’t be that spot. I doubt twenty laps for every minute late are good for someone recovering from a head injury.”

“Right... maybe I shouldn’t be practicing in the first place,” Vince pointed out.

“Of course you’re not practicing. Jesus, even your coach isn’t that big of a dickbag. He just requires everyone be present, even the injured. Thinks even the act of watching your team helps you get better at assessing strengths and weaknesses,” Nick reminded him. “I’d call bullshit, but the man produces results.”

“I guess so.” Vince was having trouble keeping the memories straight in his head. He knew their undefeated football team had won a championship that year, he could even remember holding the trophy with the rest of the team. What he couldn’t remember were the small details, like what plays they’d used to pull off their come-from-behind victory. Shouldn’t he remember something like that? Meanwhile his dream memories kept popping up, making him wonder why Nick wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He’d opened his mouth to ask several times, only to realize how insane that question was since the real Nick only wore them when he was driving and it was bright out.

The Bug gave one final burst of speed as Nick maneuvered it into the east Lander parking lot. It was a sizable university, and much of the student body lived off campus, so there were parking facilities set up all over the place. With the approach of finals, many were choosing to use their daytime hours holed up at home and buried in books, which meant Nick was able to score a spot near the front of the lot, drastically cutting down on their walking time.

“All right, Cinderella, this is as far as the carriage takes you,” Nick said, snapping up his backpack from the rear seat and killing the sputtering engine. “I’ll meet you at the cafeteria in Hoffman Hall for lunch at eleven. Try not to go all mentally-deficient boy and get lost before then.”

“I’ll do my best,” Vince said, a little more honesty in the statement than he would have preferred. He was having real issues with keeping everything straight, so it was seeming increasingly possible that he could get mixed up and go to the wrong place. At least his next destination had been laid out for him. The Lander Stadium loomed before them, just a few minutes’ walk from the east parking lot. He needed to get to practice. Hopefully a little time to just sit and watch people play would give him a chance to clear his head.

* * *

“How’s it going?”

“How the hell should I know? All I do is provide the framework, their mind usually fills in the rest. I did what she told me, but if I had to guess it’s probably not much fun to be him right now.”

“Why not?”

“I usually put them in a place without any doubt. The world they see is the real one. They just accept it since the assurance is coming from their own brain. She made me keep some doubts in there this time, so I’d guess it feels a little bit like he’s losing his mind.”

“Damn. Is Mary almost ready to go in?”

“Yeah, we’re about to start.”

“Good. Fucking hell, I really hope this works.”

* * *

“Nice hit, Daniels!” Coach George’s voice boomed across the field; somehow the barely-above-average-height man produced enough sound in his body to fill an entire stadium with his usually critical shouts. “But keep that shit confined to the big guys. I can’t have you cripple my whole fucking team before next season.”

“You got it, Coach,” Roy called back, helping Thomas Castillo back onto to his feet. The tan boy accepted the gesture wordlessly; holding grudges for being tackled in football made as much as sense as getting angry at a waiter for bringing you the food you ordered. Both lined up on opposing sides; in this scrimmage, Thomas was acting as quarterback for the jersey wearing team, who were currently on offense. It seemed a little unfair that Coach George would put Chad, their first string quarterback, on the same team as Roy, who led their league in sacks, but he was a man who believed you forged a better blade by putting it in a hotter fire. He was demanding, unpleasant, and at least halfway insane. People fought like drunken weasels for the chance to play under him.