Super Powereds: Year 3 (41 page)

“If I leave it to Roy, he’ll show up shirtless and smothered in baby oil.”

“That sounds like an exaggeration.”

“It’s what he did freshman year,” Hershel informed him. “He wore a lazy barbarian outfit, oiled up, and called it a day. Roy’s never been very shy about his physique.”

“I can see that,” Alex said, flipping through more comics. “Then again, big as Roy is, in a room of people from our class, it won’t be quite as impressive.” As he moved, his “Han Shot First” shirt was pulled tight against his shoulders. While Alex wouldn’t pass for a body-builder, he could easily be mistaken for a devoted athlete. Two years in the HCP had sculpted even the leanest of them into well-built physical specimens. Hershel was behind, but he was slowly gaining ground.

“Which is why I want to get him something less douchey,” Hershel said. “Holy crap, is that an old Captain Starlight?”

“Yeah, but it’s a reprint,” Alex noted. “And there’s a lot of damage to the cover. It looks like someone spilled coffee on it.”

“I realize it’s not worth much, I just liked Captain Starlight,” Hershel said, plucking the weathered piece from the bin. “He was my favorite for a long time.”

“Captain Starlight was everyone’s favorite at some point,” Alex pointed out. “When you’re the first, you get that kind of love.”

Hershel set the comic book down at his side, and continued perusing the bin’s contents. Most of the other works were about Heroes who had never particularly held Hershel’s interest. Strange as it was, he hadn’t grown up all that into Heroes. They’d reminded him too much of the Titan-shaped hole in his life, and the uncontrollable alternate personality that made day-to-day living so hectic. These books had never been much of an escape for Hershel, which was why he’d turned to sci-fi, fantasy, and LARPing with such vigor. In those worlds—at least, the ones he liked—power could be gained by anyone with enough grit and willpower. People weren’t handed a lottery at birth declaring them Super, Powered, or human. They could forge their own greatness; genetics had little to do with it.

Alex, on the other hand, was simply an unapologetic geek. He loved all of it, every bit of magic or wonder an under-paid mind could produce, and absorbed each bit with unwavering enthusiasm. Had he been born a human, Alex certainly would have suffered at the hands of brawnier youths for this inclination. In his case, the genetic variation that gave him his ability also provided a childhood in which he went unpunished, at least physically, for daring to step from the bounds of socially acceptable hobbies.

After a few more minutes of searching, they’d turned up nothing else of value or intrigue, and were preparing to move on when a frayed edge at the bottom of the box caught Hershel’s eye.

“Hang on,” he said, lifting up a large section of books to reveal one that had slipped to a horizontal position, becoming hidden under the weight of all the vertical comics. There, blazoned on the cover, was a masked man with a warm smile, lifting up an entire bus while the children inside cheered him on.

“Holy shit,” Alex said, eyes widening. “I thought they recalled these things like a decade ago.”

“They probably did,” Hershel agreed. “I can’t imagine anyone was buying them.” He carefully lifted the comic to confirm what he already knew. The title on the cover blew away all lingering doubts as to what he’d uncovered:

The Adventures of Globe! This issue: Globe vs. Mechnomass

“Think it’s worth anything?” Alex wondered aloud.

“Not monetarily,” Hershel said. “I know enough about disgraced Heroes to know their merchandise plummets in value. I think it might be worth something to Vince, though.”

“You sure it’s a good idea to give him something like that? We know what happened last year when he saw the news report.”

“I’m sure,” Hershel said, adding the Globe book to his current stack of purchases. “Vince has never stopped believing in his father. With everyone tearing him down in the news, I think it will be nice to remind him that, once upon a time, Globe helped a lot of people.”

“You make a fine point,” Alex agreed. “But don’t go to the counter yet. I still want to look at the new role-playing books. I heard Wizards is finally putting out a new version.”

“About time,” Hershel said as he and Alex hustled over to a different section of the store.

76.

Nicholas took one look around the foggy, ill-defined landscape, and swore. “Not this shit again.”

“Oh, come now, you can’t really be all that surprised.” Nick’s voice was strange for Nicholas to hear. It came from the same vocal cords as his own, yet it was different, lighter, filled with a playfully teasing edge. Perhaps . . . happier?

“Surprised, no. Just inconvenienced,” Nicholas said, turning around and walking over to where his past self was sitting. This time, the table between the two chairs was slightly larger, and there was an unmarked brown box sitting on top of it.

“I can see how a weird dream might very well take time out of your busy day. No, wait, you’re already asleep.”

“The memory you gave me was inconvenient,” Nicholas snapped, a momentary lapse in composure that he quickly remedied. “I didn’t need to know about possible previous feelings for Alice.”

“See, that’s the thing. You sort of did,” Nick countered.

“Why? All it did was make my evening with her all the more uncomfortable. And considering the fact that Nathaniel almost killed me, that says quite a bit.”

“Please, with Alice there, he never had a shot,” Nick said. “Don’t let the sweet smile and the designer clothes fool you, that girl has a crockpot of pissed-off ready to boil over when there’s good reason.”

“She was . . . ferocious,” Nicholas admitted, remembering the terrified look on Nathaniel’s face as he’d come plummeting into a dumpster.

“She’s a lot of things,” Nick replied. “However, today isn’t about Alice.” He opened the box and produced a black and white checkered board. Beneath the board were two identical set of figures, different only in their color.

“Chess.” Nicholas allowed his mouth to turn downward in a visible frown. “I loathe chess.”

“Me too,” Nick agreed. “So rigid and straightforward. I like games with a little more fluidity.”

“You mean, with more creative ways to cheat,” Nicholas said.

“Same thing. Remember when Gerry tried to make us learn chess?”

“He was adamant that the key to winning was to cheat the player, not the board,” Nicholas recalled, with perhaps a bit of fondness in his voice. “It was his way of teaching us to manipulate people, rather than just read them.”

“We learned it, we just never liked it as much as the sleight-of-hand tactics,” Nick finished. “But Mary, on the other hand, loves chess. She and Mr. Numbers play it every Saturday.”

“So your notes indicated.”

“Do you find that strange?” Nick asked. “Knowing what Gerry taught us about chess, why would a telepath need to learn it? And play it against a master, without her powers, at that?”

“She’s learning to manipulate,” Nicholas theorized. “Her power lets her read people; however, she recognized that it was not the same as making them do what she wanted, so she undertook a training regimen to correct such an oversight.”

“You’re close,” Nick said. “Really, only off by a few degrees. That said, they’re pretty crucial degrees.” He finished setting up the board, each piece in its proper starting position. “Black or white?”

“Neither,” Nicholas replied. “I have no intention of playing this game with you.”

“Someone is a spoilsport,” Nick grumbled. “I didn’t even tell you the stakes. We’re playing for another memory.”

“I assumed as much. That’s why I’m electing not to play. The last one caused me nothing but ill-timed awkwardness. I don’t need your memories, or your emotional encounters. I prefer my interactions with people to be clean and simple.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Nick said. “Here’s the thing though, this is not a make-you-feel-gooey-in-the-aorta kind of memory. It’s a memory regarding some deeply personal shit that Mary knows about. The sort of thing you definitely want to be aware of.”

“And of course, you can’t just tell me what it is,” Nicholas complained. He looked up from the board to his past-self and nearly let an expression slip in surprise. All of Nick’s levity had evaporated away, leaving him with the sort of look a man about to pass down a death sentence would wear.

“I can’t.” Nick’s voice matched his expression in severity. “But you need to know this.”

It could be a ploy; no one knew better than Nicholas how good an actor he could be. Still, this was himself he was dealing with. He had to believe that such seriousness stemmed from genuine concern.

“Fine,” Nicholas yielded. “I choose black.”

“Leaving me to make the first move,” Nick pointed out. “Thinking you can get a read on me?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. We are the same person, after all.”

“That is one of the many things you are shockingly incorrect about,” Nick replied, making his first move. “We’re not as distinct as Hershel and Roy, but we are different. Two years of memories can change a lot about a person. In fact, meeting you like this, I have a hard time believing I was ever really entirely like you.”

“Says the one of us who went soft and grew feelings,” Nicholas countered, choosing a conservative move that would hopefully draw Nick out.

“We always had feelings,” Nick sighed. “Despite what we tried to convince others of, we’ve never been empty inside. I just actually dealt with a few of mine, rather than hiding them all away behind the too-cool-for-this-shit facade.” He moved once more.

“No, you used sunglasses and an idiotic attitude.”

“Did it ever occur to you, in the two years I was putting on a show being Nick, that I actually started having fun?” Nick asked. “Not just from the challenge of staying a step ahead of ridiculously powerful beings, but just from being able to say stupid things and not worry about being watched by people the Family had dealings with.”

“No, it didn’t occur to me,” Nicholas replied. “You just got comfortable playing a character. Gerry warned us it could happen in long assignments.”

“Maybe you're right,” Nick conceded. “Or maybe Gerry just didn’t want us to spook when we finally starting cutting loose a little, so he gave us a plausible lie to use as a mental shield.”

“That does sound like something he would do,” Nicholas agreed. “Anyway, it’s your move.”

“Thanks,” Nick said.

They played in silence for some time after that, no sound heard through the dream-world save for the clacking of pieces moving into place. The next word spoken by either of them had no relation to their previous argument, though it certainly had the potential to incite another one.

“Checkmate,” Nick declared, moving his knight into position.

Nicholas studied the board carefully. Nick was right. He’d set a careful trap and sprung it flawlessly. The game was his.

“Well played,” Nicholas said. “But I have to admit, I’m surprised. I thought you’d let me win so you could give me the memory.”

Nick shook his head. “You seem to be under some misimpressions about my motivations. I’m not cooling my heels in the hidden parts of your brain because it’s fun. I want back out. The more memories you get back, the more I exist in our outer self. I’m not playing to keep them from you, I’m playing to give them to you.” Another golden orb was produced from his hand and set on the table, next to the chessboard.

“You’re a sneaky bastard,” Nicholas accused.

“Thank you,” Nick replied.

“And what’s your plan if I don’t pick it up?”

“The orb is a symbol,” Nick informed him. “You don’t have to touch it. You’re getting the memory whether you want it or not.”

“Fine,” Nicholas said. “But you might find me far more reluctant to play your next game.”

“Feel free to refuse,” Nick graciously offered. “But I’ll take that as a forfeit.”

“This is not what I’d expected from my past self.”

“Really?” Nick asked. “Because, if anyone should have seen it coming, it’s you.”

Nicholas had no ready counter for that, so instead, he picked up the orb. The world faded around him, swirling into a memory of coffins, revelations, and an emotional battle in the depths of his subconscious.

When he awoke, the barest remains of tears were in his eyes.

77.

Angela was nearly to the lifts, class having let out roughly ten minutes prior, when she became aware of a gray-uniformed male approaching her. With most of the younger classmen, she had trouble keeping them straight. She, like nearly every other HCP student, cared predominantly about the people she was directly competing with. The exception was this year’s junior class, which she had more than cursory awareness of due to Shane and Chad. The young man coming up to her was neither of those people, but she still knew his name. After all, around this time last year, she’d been the one coming up to him without warning.

“Thomas, right?”

Thomas gave a small nod of confirmation. “Thomas Castillo. I was wondering if you could spare a few moments of your time.”