Super Powereds: Year 3 (13 page)

“Point taken. We can’t dismiss anything as impossible,” Dean Blaine yielded. “But while I grant you that this does finally give us a stepping off place on their motive, I fail to see how it informs us about our leak in security.”

“Because George made the download at eleven that night. Or rather, he connected at eleven and finished his business at one the next morning. Seems it took him some time to access what he was looking for,” Mr. Numbers explained. “And we know with certainty that that is . . .”

“Impossible,” Dean Blaine finished, comprehension dawning at last. “Because, at that time, he was already involved in a kidnapping.”

“Correct,” Mr. Numbers confirmed.

“And we were using Mrs. Tracking at the time, so if he were using a teleporter to hop back and forth between locations, we’d have known about it,” Mr. Transport added.

“Which can only mean someone else was using his credentials. Someone he would have had to give them to, because our security is top-notch. Someone who was here, using a terminal in the school while our entire staff was in an uproar over a pair of suddenly-missing students,” Dean Blaine deduced.

“The whole thing was a shell game,” Mr. Transport said simply. “While we were chasing George and Persephone, someone was here doing the real job.”

“Hence why I feel I can stop looking for a hole in the security system,” Mr. Numbers said. “What we have here is not a hole, it’s a mole.”

20.

Camille was very thankful this was a family-friendly restaurant. Hero work, while officially sanctioned by a government salary like policemen or firefighters, was also supplemented by the large demand for merchandise relating to the more popular ones. Though a large percentage of the profits were—by tradition and expectation, if not law—set aside by the Heroes for various charitable enterprises, the Supers wearing the mask were able to increase their standard of living if they became popular enough. This had the desirable effect of making most Heroes maintain a wholesome image in order to keep their popularity high; however, in some instances, it led to the female Heroes opting for skimpy costumes in an effort to be seen as sex symbols. A few male Heroes tried that strategy as well, but they were neither as frequent nor as successful in the endeavor.

All of this had gone through Camille’s mind when she was told her new job required employees to wear costumes. But evidently (and thankfully), Supper with Supers didn’t go in for that kind of appeal, as none of the clothing choices had been particularly sexualized. Now that she was standing in the employee dressing room, eyeing her white and pink outfit critically, she felt relief from a worry she hadn’t even known she was holding on to. The costume wasn’t spandex; rather, it was sturdy pants and boots on the bottom, with a long-sleeved shirt on top. They were both a bit more form-fitting than Camille might normally prefer, but the thickness of the material kept her from feeling as though her body was overtly on display. She carefully put on the gloves and faux utility belt, then did a quick spin to watch her pink cape swirl behind her. When it settled, the cape hung down a few inches below her buttocks, which she suspected was by design rather than coincidence.

“You look adorable,” said a voice from behind her. Camille spun around to find Mary stepping out from behind one of the dressing curtains. The small room had four stalls, each with a curtain in front, and the large platform-and-mirrored area where Camille was currently standing. Privacy on top of privacy, an aspect which had made her feel much more comfortable about the idea of changing her clothes here daily.

Mary’s own outfit was composed of medium browns and hunter greens. The basic structure of the costume was much the same as Camille’s, except Mary wore a long, flowing coat rather than a cape, and her gloves stopped at the wrist, while Camille’s extended practically to her elbows.

“You look very nice too,” Camille eventually replied. “The earth tones really suit you.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, stepping up onto the platform to admire herself. “When I saw they had this outfit, I knew it was what I wanted.”

Camille noticed Mary’s coat had a hood hanging from the back, and that it was inside out. Without thinking, she adjusted the minor problem, giving her friend a smile in the process.

“I have to admit, I was really skeptical at first, but I kind of like these outfits,” she confessed.

“Ditto,” Mary said. “Sort of makes me excited for when we get to design our own one day.”

“I thought they had people to do that for us?”

“I’m sure we get input,” Mary said. “Our Hero identity is a part of us. What we wear is just as important as the name we use; it’s part of the image we project. I’m sure you wouldn’t want some enthusiastic designer putting you in a skimpy leotard without your permission.”

Camille’s face reddened all the way to the tips of her ears, and Mary let out a small tinkle of laughter.

“Sorry, I guess that was a bit much. You get the point, though.”

“Yes, yes, I very much do.”

They might have talked more, but they were interrupted as Brenda gave a small knock and walked in.

“Oh my goodness, you two are so cute!” Brenda declared, immediately walking over to them to check the costumes. “We’ll need to do a little hemming here and there, and probably have to have the chest let out a bit for you, Camille. No, don’t worry about it. All of our costumes are designed specifically so that they’re easily tailored in practically every aspect. I’ll take measurements on all of you in a little bit, so that everything will be perfect for your first day. How do you feel in them, though? Anything you specifically need changed?”

Finally given the opportunity to speak, neither girl really had much to say.

“I’m pretty happy with mine,” Mary told her new boss.

“Same here,” Camille concurred.

“Good, glad to hear it. If I could make one suggestion though, Camille, we have a pink wig no one is using that matches the color scheme of your costume perfectly. Mary and Vince have natural features that mark them as Supers; you might want to consider adding it on, just to complete your look.”

Camille looked in the mirror once more. Now that she looked at it, her own pale blonde hair was washed out by the bright white of her costume. She squinted and tried to imagine a pink mop of hair atop her head. She wasn’t sure she got it right, however, she did know it looked good in her mind’s eye.

“I think I’d like to give that a try,” Camille said.

“Wonderful!” Brenda clapped her hands in excitement. “I’ll go rummage that up while I get the sewing tools and measuring tape. Any objection if I let Vince in so we can do the whole thing in one go?”

Both girls shook their head, and Brenda bounded out of the room. A few minutes later, there was a tentative knock on the door.

“Hello?” Vince’s voice called through the wooden barrier. “Brenda told me to come in here for the rest of the fitting. Is everyone decent?”

“You can come in,” Mary called, raising her voice so it could be heard through the door. It must have worked, because Vince stepped into the dressing room.

Camille bit her lip to stifle a gasp; there was no hope that her face wasn’t flushing again, though, and even worse than it had over the embarrassing mental image Mary had given her earlier. She and Mary had looked cute in their costumes, but it didn’t change the fact that they still looked like costumes to her. They were employees wearing an odd uniform, nothing more, and that was how they appeared. Not Vince.

To Camille, Vince looked like a Hero. This was always at least somewhat true, but on this occasion, it was not only her feelings and memories that created such an impression.

His costume was styled similarly to hers, however, instead of white and pink, he wore light blues similar to his irises and a hue of silver that matched his hair. The shirt also seemed to be thinner in some places than the girls’, showing off the lean, muscular body that two years at Lander had crafted. Standing with his back straight, Vince seemed taller than normal, which was especially curious since he didn’t usually slouch. The boyish good looks she knew by heart were framed differently by the absence of a t-shirt. Today, he looked downright handsome. His own cape hung lower than hers, wafting behind him as he walked purposely through the room. It all coalesced to just look . . . right. Even his shy half-grin gave the impression of a powerful man still capable of small humilities.

“You guys look great,” he said, reaching the platform and stepping atop it.

Camille wondered if she had gone and lost her mind. Even his voice seemed stronger and deeper, which was logically impossible.

“I have to say, you cut a nice figure yourself,” Mary replied. “Better be careful, or all the old ladies will be slipping you their number with the check.”

“Real funny,” Vince said. “I don’t look silly though, right? I was thinking about trying something less flashy.”

“No,” Camille said, with far more control than she would have ever expected to be capable of mustering right then. “I think that costume suits you nicely.”

Vince gave her a warm smile. “Okay then. If you say it's good, then this is what I’ll wear.”

This time, she only nodded. At the idea of seeing him like this on a daily basis, she no longer trusted her mouth not to betray her.

21.

Roy’s interview had gone very different than Chad's. Not having a perfect memory or anywhere near the level of dexterity his blond competitor possessed, Roy had been forced to lean on what he considered his two largest selling points: his looks and his charm. Oh, it helped that he had a working knowledge of cocktails and shots, and not the kind acquired from a book, but rather learned through honed experience. He knew that adding a twist of lime here, or two drops of sweet and sour there could bring out the flavors in regular drinks. Roy also had the experience to make recommendations based on what a person liked, something textbook knowledge could never effectively replicate. All of this made him a decent candidate to bartend; however, he knew it would have to be his capacity to pitch woo and make sales that made him a standout.

Fortunately for Roy, Roger Brown was an experienced bar owner, and he understood that one needed different types to maximize a bar’s appeal. Some of his female clientele would doubtlessly respond to Chad’s straightforward manner, his professional demeanor, and his slightly aloof nature. Others would much rather be served by a cocky cowboy with an easy smile and a ready compliment.

This understanding was why Roy currently stood behind the bar at Six-Shooter, with Chad to his left and Roger on a stool in front of them. Both of the Lander students wore tight black t-shirts and jeans—Roger liked a certain amount of uniformity in his bartenders. Roy was glad he’d at least been allowed to keep his cowboy hat, since it was country bar and Roger felt it added some flavor to the strapping young man.

“Domestic cooler?” Roger asked.

Roy and Chad both pointed to a large silver tub on their left.

“At what point do you call for a barback?”

“When we have three of any type remaining in the cooler,” Chad snapped off automatically.

“Unless it’s a hot item that night,” Roy added. “Like, if a group is ordering rounds of it. Then we should probably keep it at least five, or enough to serve the next round of that particular group.”

Roger nodded his head and smiled inwardly. He felt this had worked out nicely. Chad’s memory meant it was possible for them to create any standard cocktail without having to look it up first, and his organizational skills had already shown themselves to be top notch. Roy’s affable nature would draw in customers, and his veteran drinking knowledge would help when situations didn’t go by the book. Together, these two could make an excellent bartending combination. At least, in theory. The real test would come later in the night, when they opened for customers. Roger had done this job long enough to know that even promising prospects could go down in flames once they had a crowd screaming for drinks. That was why he was starting them on one of the smaller bars in the club; if something went to hell, then at least it wouldn’t make a significant impact on business. Still, Roger let himself feel a touch of optimism. These HCP kids were usually made of tough stuff; he gave them better odds than most at surviving the night.

“I think you’ve both got the bar’s layout and procedures down. I’m going to go talk with the other bartenders and make sure they’re set for tonight. You two do pouring drills until I get back,” Roger instructed.

He’d barely made it off the stool before Chad had reached under a nearby shelf and produced six plastic bottles with different colored liquids. Each bore a simple label, such as “Whiskey” or “Vodka.” In truth, they were nothing more than water with food coloring added to make distinction easier. Chad lined them up on the bar while Roy set down a large cluster of shot glasses.

“Would you like to start?” Chad offered.

“Sure,” Roy said. “Call it out.”

“Kamikaze.”

Roy snatched up three bottles and flipped them outside down simultaneously, letting the trio of liquid come together inside the confines of a single shot glass. An instant later, he made a quick motion and righted them, ceasing the colorful flow just as the water threatened to run over the shot glass’s limited area.