Super Powereds: Year 3 (93 page)

                “Waaaaaait a minute.” Victor leaned forward in the chair, his bulk making it groan as he did. “Are you telling me that you already know Chad’s going all the way? That’s unlike you, Blaine. Usually, you keep it neutral until all the tests are done.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous. Chad Taylor is in good standing, but we both know that the senior year will test more than just fighting and tactics. He’s as capable as anyone else of washing out. But, if he does, then he’ll just apply to the program the next year, and the one after that, and the one after that. I didn’t bother bringing up Chad because there’s no offer you could make him at this point that would keep him from continuing to try and become a Hero.”

172.

               As the students walked in to their Wednesday gym session, they noticed a muscular man with a cleanly shaven head standing in the middle of the room. His uproarious laughter was echoing off the walls as he slapped Professor Pendleton on the back. Even the tall Subtlety instructor was smiling; a rare thing to see outside of when he was inflicting some fresh torture on his students, though Dean Blaine looked somewhat pained as he stood nearby. The HCP juniors fell into their usual half-circle for greeting a guest speaker, and after a few moments, Victor’s humor subsided, allowing Dean Blaine to be heard.

                “Several times this year, I’ve told you all that you would be hearing from a representative of the Super Athletics Association. Today, it is my pleasure to introduce you to that man. Many of you may recognize Victor Pakulski, as, in addition to serving as a chairman to the SAA’s board, he also coaches a football team known as the Fort Worth Juggernauts.”

                “Four-time Epic Bowl Champions, Fort Worth Juggernauts, if you want to be specific,” Victor interrupted.

                Dean Blaine shot his friend a long, hard stare, and then continued. “Anyway, Victor is here to talk to you about the SAA, how it works, and what sorts of options you can expect if you should opt to try and sign on with the organization.” With that, Dean Blaine stepped back and Victor bounded forward.

                “I’m sure most of you already know this, but I like to start off by going into the history of the SAA a little bit. We were founded in the early seventies, after the world became aware of Supers and the Hero Certification Program took hold. It was then that people decided that it wasn’t fair for a person who could break the sound barrier to be running down the same field as a bunch of humans. To their credit, that does make an unbalanced game. On the other hand, watching Supers play against one another was too popular to ban completely, and thus, the Super Athletics Association was born. Unlike single agencies, such as the NBA, we run all different kinds of sports, so if you want to play pro, you’ll be dealing with the SAA.”

                Victor looked around the room, noting that, while some students were politely interested, none were truly engrossed in the subject matter. He couldn’t blame them. At this point in his HCP career, he’d been just as certain that he was going all the way. Every class reacted this way, as though what he was talking about couldn’t possibly pertain to them. And yet, before graduation day came, at least half of them would be gone, and suddenly, what he was selling would seem a lot more enticing.

                “Now, most players on our various SAA teams are professional athletes and Supers who have trained their entire lives to enter their respective league. Most, but not all. As a rule, we do recruit some Supers with HCP experience. Even if they don’t know the game in particular, making it this far in the program speaks to a level of power and skill that can often be translated into success on a field. Sometimes, we get a bust, other times, we get a real monster, like Jade Norris.”

                A few students perked up at the name, recognition washing over their faces. Victor loved pulling that card out of his deck; it was always guaranteed to yank a few wandering minds into the discussion.

                “That’s right, Jade “The Comet” Norris was an HCP washout when she was first signed back in the early nineties. This was when co-ed teams were still a thing people fought about, as if a woman who could bench a truck was somehow inferior to a man with the same power. Any of you who are sports fans know Jade broke dozens of records, both as a receiver and, later on, a quarterback. In fact, a lot of her records still stand to this day, though I’ve seen a lot of people try to crack them. Fame, wealth, adoration, and last I checked, a standing sponsorship deal with no less than ten major brands; not bad for a backup plan.”

                Some of them were definitely listening now. Not many people had the mental fortitude to tune out a discussion about piles of money and easy living that might just be theirs for the taking. Of course, Jade was a legend for a reason—not everyone had talent for a sport just because they were good at fighting. True, there were things like boxing or MMA that they could easily fit into, but the big money lived in America’s largest loves: Basketball, Baseball, and, at the top of the heap, Football. That was why coaches like Victor had to cast a wide net in recruiting. It took roughly ten disappointments to find one unpolished jewel.

                “That’s just an example of someone who didn’t finish the HCP. We also have a lot of former Heroes on our rosters as well. Hanging up the cape is a damned hard thing to do, and I should know. Once upon a time, I wore one myself. Metaphorically, anyway—actually wearing capes is long out of fashion. Point is, I spent the better part of a decade out there, up to my knees in action every day, until one day, I couldn’t do it anymore. I was getting too slow, the close-calls getting too close. I realized that if I didn’t walk away from the life, I’d be carried out of it in a box.”

                Victor’s gregariousness fell away, a solemn expression taking the place of his beaming smile. “I won’t sugarcoat this for you: making that choice was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. To stop living in that world, to see people you know and love still entering the fray while you sit on the sidelines . . . personally, I think it’s the hardest part of being a Hero. The only way I could keep from going crazy was to find some action, somewhere, and that’s why I signed on with the SAA. It isn’t quite the same, nothing replicates being a Hero, but my worst injury days didn’t involve severed limbs or ruptured organs, and there’s something to be said for that. Then, I began to really enjoy what I was doing. Of course, the five-star hotels and ability to afford fine dining didn’t hurt either, if you know what I mean.”

                The seriousness began to melt as Victor turned the conversation back to a positive note. Explaining what the SAA was, and what they did, was so simple that it didn’t really necessitate a speaker. Victor didn’t come out to get them amped about playing football instead of saving lives, nor did he show up just to bug Blaine for insider info. No, Victor Pakulski made this pilgrimage every year to make sure the kids knew what no one had told him and his peers: there was life after being a Hero.

                They didn’t all have to die with their capes on.

173.

               While Victor was speaking to Hero hopefuls, Ralph Chapman was getting lunch. Much as he liked to keep an eye on things in the Hero Certification Program, it was simply logistically unsound to watch over the whole program day after day. Dropping in infrequently, at key times, that was how one kept people on their toes and still found time to get one’s own work done. As for Victor, the Super once known as Bullrush, Ralph Chapman had no desire to hear that loud man’s brash voice. Though he’d left the Hero world with a clean record, Ralph had simply never enjoyed that Hero on a personal level. Too much destructive potential; really, destruction was all Bullrush could do. Seeing him filled Ralph with questions about what sins might have been covered up to protect that goofy Hero’s positive image. It was ire that he didn’t need before eating, so he skipped the speech altogether.

                Instead, he went to a nice diner near his office, one he’d discovered on his first week and still found to be scrumptious. Walking in, he greeted the hostess with a polite nod, settled into a booth with his laptop, and began to do some work after giving the waiter his order. It was just like every other time he’d come to the establishment . . .

                Right up until the young man slid into the opposite side of his booth. Chapman looked up from his computer screen, hoping it was simply a misunderstanding, but bracing for the possibility of an attempt on his life. He found neither confusion nor malice staring back at him. Rather, he was greeted by a friendly smile gleaming on a face that also hosted a pair of sunglasses. The young man had a small bag of chips open in his hand, which he turned and held up.

                “Spicy flavored. Want one?”

                “No, thank you.” This clearly wasn’t an accident, so this strange young man must know who he was. What remained a mystery was what he hoped to glean from ambushing a DVA agent in broad daylight.

                “Don’t blame you. Spicy isn’t really a flavor in the first place, you know? It’s supposed to be an addition to other flavors. Saying this is the spicy flavor is like having one where the description is just ‘salty.’ We’re really letting standards slide when it comes to junk food.” As he spoke, the young man popped a few more of the very chips he was denigrating into his mouth.

                “I’m certain the FDA is right on top of it. I can even pass along your complaint if you’d like, Mr. . . .”

                “Nick. Just call me Nick, though your last fellow knew me by the name Dig Bixby.”

                A hot coal of worry began burning at the lining of Chapman’s stomach. This was the man Smitt had tried, in vain, to pin down for weeks. Who was likely responsible for driving him out of town. Nick, if that was his name, likely knew about the nature of Smitt and Chapman’s relationship. Suddenly, the intrusion shifted from an annoyance to a problem.

                “I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about.”

                “Really? That’s a little disrespectful. I mean, I offered you my chips, I even gave you my real name, and you’re going to try and bluff me with a flat-denial lie. That hurts, Ralph. It really does. And here, I came to you with the truest hopes of friendship.”

                Ralph Chapman considered the young man carefully. He was college-aged, though likely on the downhill side of the experience. Despite the frame he tried to hide under winter clothing, there were still telltale signs of impressive fitness. All of that, plus the ties to Vince Reynolds Smitt had uncovered, significantly narrowed down the possibilities of who he was.

                “So then, Nick. You’ll be Nick Campbell, last year’s expulsion case.”

                “Somebody has been looking at the ‘no-no’ files.” If Nick was surprised to have his identity deduced so quickly, it didn’t show on his face. “But yes, you got it in a single guess. I’d shake your hand, but, you know, chip dust.” He raised his orange-colored fingers to illustrate the point.

                “Given the situation surrounding a certain student, I felt it proper to read all files about his associates, regardless of their classification level.”

                “Hey, I’m not here to judge,” Nick replied. “In fact, I’m glad you’re the snooping type. Saves me the trouble of telling you, having you doubt me, and then you digging it up and finally believing me. This way, we can have a worthwhile discussion.  And really, who has time for all that, anyway?”

                “You should, technically speaking. You’re out of the program, in a very permanent fashion, and should have no memory of the entire experience. Given the circumstances, it seems that’s not the case.”

                “With all due respect to the professor, she did a hell of a job popping my top and scrambling my memories. But she, and really all of you in that process, forgot a very important rule about the world.”

                “Do tell.” Chapman didn’t like this young man. He didn’t trust the glib way Nick was admitting to things that should have been hidden away with every ounce of cunning he had. Telling a DVA agent that you’d regained sealed memories made no sense; which meant that either Nick was an idiot, or Chapman didn’t yet know what game they were actually playing.

                Nick leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There are millions of Supers out there, and with enough money, you can always find one with the talent you need. If you can break it, someone else can fix it, Ralph.”

                “Perhaps so, but now that I’m aware of you breaking protocol, what makes you think there won’t be a warrant out for you by the time my food gets here?” Chapman shot back.

                “Because we’re friends.” Nick leaned back, all air of seriousness gone, replaced with another wide smile. “And friends don’t do things like tattle on each other. It’s why I didn’t send that massive pile of evidence, including some choice Smitt recordings, off to the DVA’s Internal Affairs division as soon as I got them. Friends protect each other; we don’t narc the other out.”

                “Can you cut to the quick of this?” Chapman said. He felt uneasy talking to Nick, as though the longer he spoke, the more he was giving the failed Hero exactly what he wanted.