The Other Eight (8 page)

“Oh, well, in your case the O is for
Other.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Other is distinct from Oddity in that there
is no obvious evidence of your power when it is in effect.”

“Well, how is that any better?!”

“Now come on, fellas, miss. No need to fight
about this,” Phosphor said, slapping a massive hand onto Gracias’s
back and another on Nonsensica’s shoulder. “Lots of folks who came
here got told they didn’t have powers at all. Seems to me if you
got this far, Uncle Sam thinks you’ve got something to add to the
team.”

“That’s correct, Phosphor, thank you. Now
please listen up, everyone. If you are still standing here, you are
among the final selections for the second stage of recruitment.
There are only eight spots available on the army team. Today we
will be taking sixteen of you to the boot camp to see just what you
can do.”

“Sixteen of us?” remarked FM after a quick
tally. “But there’s nineteen of us here.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. Please step
forward when I call your name: Litmus.” A woman, dressed rather
plainly aside from alternating red and blue fingernails, moved up.
“I’m sorry, but your ability to tell an acid from a base by dipping
your finger into it, while impressive, hasn’t been found to have a
place in an active-duty combat unit.”

“Fair enough,” she said with a shrug.

“Next: Herbivore.” A bleary-eyed young man
with ratty hair and a distinctive odor about him, after some
prodding, stepped forward. “Herbivore, while it is unquestionable
that being able to lift three times your own weight is useful, the
fact that you must be under the influence of marijuana in order to
do it—in addition to being illegal—violates the substance abuse
policies of the US military.”

“Whatever, dude,” he said, waving off Aiken
and wandering vaguely away.

“Cactus Commando—”

“
You’ve got to be kidding me!”
objected a man near the back of the group whose hair was literally
spiked.

“Your—”

“No! You know what? I don’t care. This is a
worthless team anyway. Everyone knows the marines are the real team
to be on. This was a waste of my valuable time, and the rest of you
losers can just bite me,” he ranted. “The army. HA!”

“What a prick,” Chloroplast observed.

“As for the rest of you, I would like to
congratulate you for making it this far. If you’ll please line up
by the troop carrier, once your bags have been screened for
anything deemed too dangerous to bring along, we’ll head off to
boot camp. Once there we can discuss what arrangements need to be
made. Welcome to the finals.”

A cheer went up from the crowd, the
excitement of advancing momentarily wiping away any perceived
slights against their powers. High fives were exchanged, and some
of the more enthusiastic of the group hugged.

“I realize that, as you were interviewed
separately, you may not have been introduced to your fellow
finalists, so I encourage you to acquaint yourselves with one
another during the trip. Once you are there, you will be split into
pairs, and the tests will begin.”

“Oh, and one or two more things,” Private
Summers added, glancing at St. John’s packet. “From this point
forward, we would appreciate it if you referred to each other
exclusively by your codenames. Also, though you may find that you
get along with or do not get along with certain members of the
group, please keep in mind that when teams are formed you will not
be able to choose your partner, so don’t get your hopes up.
Finally, the camera and sound technicians will be accompanying you,
and they will be present every step of the way. Please ignore them,
and behave as though they are not there, thank you.”

The lucky finalists subjected their bags to
the screeners and climbed onto the troop transport. Once it was
fully loaded, it pulled away. Private Summers and Dr. Aiken
remained behind, checking the time every few minutes. Finally Dr.
Aiken scribbled something on the remaining envelope and pinned it
to the door of what remained of the temporary structure. With that,
they left. A full hour later, a taxi arrived, and out stumbled a
man in a brown sweat suit with the letter
B
emblazoned on
the front.

“I’m here, I’m here!” he cried desperately.
He looked around to find no one but workers on hand.
“
Every time!”

He marched up to the envelope pinned to the
door.

“Inside is your assessment. I’m afraid your
power is Class H, Handicap. You have not moved to the next round of
screening,” he read aloud. He gritted his teeth and crumpled the
paper. “They’ll pay for this! They will pay! They will forever
curse the day they passed up the chance to join forces with
me,
Bottleneck!”

He turned viciously back to the taxi—just in
time to see it drive away. His shoulders slumped. “Every. Single.
Time…” he muttered with a shake of his head.

The
meta-human condition tends to take three basic forms with regard to
working with others. I’ve classified these as Lone Wolf, Dynamic
Duo, and Team Player. Team Players believe that they should unite
with other heroes (or villains), and each member has a crucial role
to play. Dynamic Duos gravitate toward a pairing, with one-half of
the pair typically having more substantial powers and a greater
amount of experience, while the other half has low-level or
undeveloped powers, and youth. This is the standard hero/sidekick
pairing, and it is notable that most frequently the sidekick is the
one that initiates the partnership, essentially aspiring to a
secondary role. The Lone Wolf is, as the name suggests, much more
interested in working solo. This is by far the most common mindset
in the meta-human world.

Excerpt from The Psychology of the Meta-human
Condition by Dr. Richard Liefeld

After the jubilation of advancing to the next
round of selection had worn off, the bus ride to the boot camp
became remarkably silent. Not entirely silent, as the open-topped
troop carrier made for a very windy ride, but there was little in
the way of conversation. Many members of the group found their eyes
wandering to Nonsensica, no doubt due to the colorful “uniform” she
wore. The green-skinned Chloroplast caught his share of sideways
glances as well. The real star of the ride, though, wore a badge
marked “Primadonna.” She had attempted to make a similar fashion
statement as Nonsensica, but in many ways had been a good deal more
successful. She was wearing a snug pink and black spandex leotard
with matching tights. Around her waist she wore a tutu-like
micro-skirt, and a silver headband with the markings of a swan
perched on her head of lustrous blonde hair. Unlike the rather
meagerly proportioned Nonsensica, however, Primadonna had the hips,
chest, and legs that comic-book artists typically crafted such an
outfit to showcase. She was clearly well aware of it, too, because
rather than the utilitarian boots that Nonsensica wore, she had
selected sleek high-heeled boots that reached her knee, and the
chest of the leotard sported a rather immodestly plunging neckline.
Somewhat spoiling the look was the purse she had clutched at her
side, and the wheeled pink suitcase she’d brought along. Nonsensica
eyed her with sizzling anger.

“No sense us just sitting around quietly. You
heard the doctor. We should get to know each other,” recommended
Phosphor. “What say we go around and say our names, powers, and
where we’re all from. I’ll start. My name’s Phosphor, I can pull
endless fluorescent bulbs from my bag, and I’m from just outside
Carmel, Indiana.”

He turned expectantly to Chloroplast. The
young man was dressed in a way that likely would have drawn
attention even if he didn’t have green skin. His head was shaved
completely bald, and at first it seemed that he had no eyebrows,
but in reality they were just the same green color as his skin. He
wore a leather jacket, open in the front, with no shirt underneath.
His body didn’t have an ounce of fat on it, though there wasn’t
much in the way of muscle, either. The result was an oddly
stretched-out greyhound-like physique. He wore tattered jeans with
numerous holes, and black boots that he had neglected to tie.
Glancing around to see that he was now the undivided center of
attention, he rolled his eyes.

“My name is Chloroplast. I’m from Venice
Beach, and I have the power of photosynthesis,” he said, as though
he was doing everyone a tiresome favor by doing so. Without being
asked, he went on to clarify in an educational tone,
“Photosynthesis is how plants make light into energy. So I don’t
have to eat as long as I get plenty of sunlight.”

With that, he leaned back, opened his jacket
a bit more, and closed his eyes. Next in line was a young Latino
man. He’d made a halfhearted attempt to assemble a costume, which
was comprised of a green T-shirt with an iron-on patch in the shape
of a
G
on the center of the chest. He had a black duffel bag
at his feet and wore heavy canvas work pants of a dark tan
color.

“Funny us two sitting together,” he said with
a slight Spanish accent, elbowing Chloroplast. “I’ve got plant
powers, too.”

Chloroplast opened one eye and looked him
over. “I thought you were just a fan of the Packers.”

“Ha haa!” he laughed, genuinely. “Nope. My
name is Gracias. I’m from San Antonio, and I have the power to
give
people a grassy ass. I just have to thank them first.
Get it? Gracias,
grassy
ass
.”

“Yeah. I got that. It wasn’t exactly subtle.
Your powers are a pun. You must be so proud,” Chloroplast
remarked.

Gracias laughed again. “This guy is such a
kidder! We should team up!”

“Not gonna happen,” Chloroplast said.

“Wait now. I’m confused. What exactly do you
mean by giving someone a grassy ass?” asked Nonsensica.

“They do something for me, I thank them, and
then
POOF
, grass all over their butt. Very distracting.”

“I can imagine,” she said.

“Well, you’re next. What’s your deal?”

“Nonsensica, I’m from Parts Unknown, and I
have the power to short-circuit brains with laser-guided
gibberish.”

“Parts Unknown. That’s a good one. I should
have said that. Hey, maybe I should be teaming up with
you.
We think the same way.”

“Yeah, I’m not really into the whole
hero/sidekick thing. I like the idea of a team, then eventually a
solo gig, once I’ve got some experience under my belt. Fully
sanctioned experience,” she added quickly. “I’m extremely
experienced when it comes to the ways of crime-fighting. Just need
a legit organization to sign off on it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m after, too,”
Chloroplast said. “I figure a few years with the army and I’ll have
a few missions behind me, learn a few tricks, learn a few skills,
then when my tour of duty is up, break out on my own.”

There was a sequence of nods from the vast
majority of the other passengers. Next in line was a chubby girl
who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was dressed in dark
colors, wore sunglasses, and had a total of seven adhesive bandages
on her rather beat-up hands. She held a silver Zippo lighter, and
had been flipping it open, flicking it on, then clapping it shut
periodically in an absentminded manner since she’d boarded the
bus.

“My name’s Bomb Sniffer. I can smell
explosives from
wa-a-a-a-ay
far away, and I’m from Topeka,
Kansas, where there is absolutely squat to do,” she said. She
delivered her introduction in a manner that attempted to match
Chloroplast’s laid-back, indifferent attitude, but it was clear
that she was beyond excited.

“How old are you, miss?” asked Phosphor, a
bit of fatherly concern in his voice.

“Twenty-three,” she said, eyes darting a
bit.

“In what, dog years?” scoffed
Chloroplast.

“Whatever. Age is just a number,” she said.
She turned to Phosphor. “And who are you to question it? You’re
like a hundred.”

“May as well be, I suppose,” he said with a
light chuckle.

“You’re up,” Sniffer said to the man beside
her.

“I’m FM, I’m from Idaho, and I can transmit
my thoughts—”

“Over the radio! I know that voice! You’re
the guy who let the cat out of the bag about this team to begin
with!” Nonsensica said. “I could seriously kiss you, FM. We all owe
you a drink for creating this opportunity.”

“Yeah, the, uh, the folks in charge don’t
really see it that way. At first they told me I was rejected as a
security risk, but then I got a call from a major. He said people
‘associated’ me with the project, and that it would be good to let
the people see that I was still a part of it.”

“Hopefully you learn to keep a lid on that
power of yours, or covert missions are pretty much out for us,”
said the next man in line. He had a gap-toothed smile and an easy
drawl to his voice. He was also chewing on a wad of tobacco and
spitting over the side of the troop carrier wall from time to time.
“I’m Retcon, I’m from Alabama, and I’ve got about three years of
experience in just about anything I feel like having it in.”

“I don’t follow,” FM remarked.

“About once a day I can sorta change my mind
about what happened to me between the ages of seventeen and twenty,
so long as I end up in the same place at the end of it. Whatever I
decide is what really happened, or may as well have.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one. What is it right
now?” Nonsensica asked.

“I was getting good at shootin’ a rifle.
We’ll see what it’ll be come boot camp. I figure I may as well do
the talkin’ for this here fella next to me, since I know he’s not
much of a talker hisself. Him and me both almost got recruited last
time they did one of these. He’s, uh, what is it? Undo? And he’s
got the ability to undo whatever he last did. Oh, and he’s from
Sturgis. That about right, Zed?”