No Heroes
Part 4: A definition of stress

Friday afternoon, January 13, 2017,
Theory and Practice of the Escape.

Morgana Jones once again drifted into having second thoughts about taking The Imp's escape class. Nearly charbroiling the TA on their first day of class can't have improved her grade. She couldn't imagine that needing a fire extinguisher to quench the remains of a perfectly good set of handcuffs had helped. Today's exercise had been simple for everyone else. Have one person put the other in handcuffs so they can get acclimated to the challenges they posed. No problem!

Rather, it wasn't a problem for those who hadn't been chained up and tortured for weeks.

Belfry wasn't Abraxus's thug, not by several centimeters and many more kilos. She still shivered at the sight of handcuffs in his hand. They were cold. So was the pit of Morgana's stomach. Unbalanced by having her feet kicked apart, she gasped at the sudden spike of panic through her chest.

I'm at school. This is all a drill. It's going to be okay. Don't burn!

"Relax," Belfry said. As if. "Try rotating your forearms. Get a feel for how much you can move when you have these on."

"Fat lot of good it ever did."

"Doing nothing gets you less. Are you just going to kneel down—"

How did the floor get up in her face?

Why was there a knee in the small of her back?

Someone behind her said, "And that is why struggling at this point is bad. You're a visible mutant, so there's no way in hell a cop is going to relax their guard so soon. Pick your battles better."

That wasn't Abraxus's voice. This one's voice was way too young and soft-spoken.

"Are you ready for me to help you up, or do you need a few minutes? A little disorientation is normal."

A few hours wouldn't be enough to look less like a prat. Morgana nodded.

The pressure on her back eased. Instead of hauling her up by her wrists, the person behind her rolled her over by her shoulder and hip. Belfry! He walked her through getting her feet under her and balancing against his pull, never raising his voice. After a short eternity, he unlocked her handcuffs and walked her back to her seat. Thank God, no one said anything.

After the class ended for the day, Morgana asked Laura and Bianca, "Could you wait outside for me? I want to have a quick chat with Belfry."

Bianca suppressed a smirk well enough to say, "Sure, but I don't know how he's going to take that kind of rejection."

"One humiliation at a time!"

Belfry kept himself busy organizing the many restraints that had been hauled out for class, even as Morgana walked up to him. Didn't he care what had happened?

The instant Morgana came within an arm's length, he said to her, "No one saw anything."

"What?"

"Exactly that. No one saw you start to lose it. No one saw the takedown."

"Why?"

"No need to see it, right?" He turned to fully face her with an 'I know something you don't know' smile, saying, "Besides, I'm pretty good at escaping notice."

"I, I appreciate that, I guess. I'm just not comfortable with handcuffs."

Benjamin shook his head slowly. "No. You're terrified of them." He held out his arms so the sleeves pulled back, exposing faint, jagged scars around his wrists. Scars like she'd still have without exemplar regeneration and magical healing.

"You could say I know some of the signs of past struggles."

"What got you past it?"

"Learning how to escape." Benjamin paused to choose his words and banish bad memories, before settling on "...bad situations, among other things. I'll admit that learning not to blame myself for all that took longer."

She gave him a measuring look as he waited patiently. Was it that simple a decision?

"Let me buy you a coffee."

Outside the Imp lair, Morgana shooed her friends away with an implied – and thoroughly disbelieved – promise to be careful and kind. Instead of buying time, the change of venue only extended the wait. Most guys would have already outlined their hobbies and employment prospects before they got their coffees. Belfry? Not a word. What could he be waiting for? A deserted coffee shop on this campus?

Morgana broke first.

"You do realize the risk you were taking in class? No one told me you were fireproof."

"I'm not." Benjamin shrugged and said, "I'm a manifestor. I can protect my hands."

"Oh? With, say, asbestos?" She couldn't help the trace of amusement in her voice that people who knew her would have found worrying.

"Yeah, stuff like that. A carbon fiber welding blanket might be easier."

She shook her head. "Not nearly fireproof enough. If I lose it, get clear, I wouldn't want to burn you."

1,650C wasn't enough? He had to be wondering what kind of fire she controls.

Something in Benjamin's blank expression blinked: "Does Not Compute."

Morgana took a sip of coffee and sighed. "Look, since you are willing to risk helping me in class, I should be honest with you. I had some very bad experiences after I manifested."

Benjamin finally recognized the look in her eyes. He'd seen that before in mirrors, and it never got any better.

Taking silence for encouragement, Morgan continued, "I was chained up and handcuffed. So, if you use either on me, be very careful and very ready to move away. Oh, and shock prods. NEVER come near me with one of them."

He nodded. "No amateur ECT. Got it!"

Her mouth smiled, but her eyes pleaded, "Please take this seriously! I don't want to burn you. Dr. Bellows told me this class would help with my PTSD, but if I start hurting people, I'll quit."

She stopped what she was going to say and gave him another measuring look. "Was that a Psi trick you used so no one noticed? Or something else?"

"Yes."

"Don't."

"Sorry, my life isn't that interesting. I've got a gimmick for making me and one or two others completely disinteresting or nonexistent to an observer. Works on psychics, wizards, and droids, so maybe? Not so much on those who've mastered their chi, or the dead who lack it, but that's life. I've got powers testing scheduled for next week."

"Your left eye?" Morgana asked. Whatever was going on with his eye both was and wasn't magic. So, maybe that was what counted as a 'yes'? "I can see magic, and that's not a normal prosthetic."

"I guess. It's not something I can yank out and play with. It seems to interact with chi, but that's not 'modern thinking'. Go figure..."

"Morgana? I've got a question for you."

She shrugged. "Sure, you can always ask?"

"Thulia Firedrake? Is she your cousin? Different names, but you two look a lot alike."

For some reason, the girl found that really amusing. Not a spit-take, but better than expected.

"She isn't my sister, Belfry. We aren't even related. We look similar because... well, let's just say my manifestation was complicated."

Now, that was odd. He would have bet legit money they were closely related. Too many common facial markers. And the guys in the class had casually mentioned that Thulia was a dragon. They had to be trolling him, because everyone knows that dragons don't need to go to school. Except, maybe a dragon would want to take accountancy?

Seeing the dawning puzzlement on his face, Morgana said, "She's my leman."

And?

The girl sighed as if she were working on Explanation Number One Hundred, "In modern language, my lover."

Oh. Well, that was rather honest and open.

"Benjamin?"

"Yeah?"

"My boobs are down here."

"So they are!"

"Fine. I'll ask. The scars you showed me..."

"It's easy to panic when you're eight years old and don't know if anyone's ever going to make them stop hurting you that way. Now I have people I can talk to. You ought to as well."

"Luckily, I do. I have friends, and I have Thulia."

Morgana gave him a considering look, head tilted slightly. "But if you ever want to talk to someone who's been there themselves, you know where to find me."

Next bunk over from the White Lady?

10 PM, Friday night,
Twain Cottage.

Benjamin liked to make the most of temporary quiet for dedicated study time. But sometimes, a person needs to take a break. He finally shoved his notebook, binder, and reading assignments off to the far side of his desk. English might be his native language, but spelling and vocabulary weren't his strongest points. Toss him syntax and grammar – the nuts and bolts of how the bloody beast works – and he'd be sorted. Fiddling details about how this word could mean something else in this or that context? Not so much. He gave his brain a chance to cool off with his copy of a scroll that might be referring to a Handmaid of the Tao. Interesting as the topic may be, he had a few thousand characters to learn before it could make sense.

Last term, Maintenance had installed sound-damping panels in the dorm room Max now shared with him. The goal wasn't to provide a soundproof study room. Instead, it was to keep the other residents on the floor from wringing Max's neck. Why? Because Max liked his life and his music turned up to eleven and a half. Benjamin knew that part of that had to do with Max's induced manifestation. The rest? He'd rather open a vein than tell anyone about that. What surprised everyone but Benjamin and Yuki was that Max's eleven and a half equally applied to studying. When Max went to a library, he often stayed until the lights were out and the doors locked.

Tonight, a gentle door slam announced the end of quiet time.

"Hey, roomie, how's it going?"

"Handbasket, meet Hell. One-way tickets only?"

"Could be. Could be. Guess what I read on one of my fan club sites?" asked Max.

"I'm almost afraid to ask. Some of your fans are completely devoted and, er, graphically imaginative."

That was an understatement. Some things, once seen, couldn't be easily unseen.

Max's words rode along an edged smile his roommate didn't see. "It seems that someone who will remain anonymous by the initials BXK told someone else that, once upon a time, I rescued them from a beatdown."

"That sounds about right, doesn't it?"

"It would. But somehow, they omitted the part where I was the one shaking them down for money. That is until my dirtbag associates got spooked and ran."

Benjamin turned away from the scroll and looked up. "Does it matter?"

"Yes!"

"You've been open about starting out from the gutters. What's changed? You're still my friend, right?"

"Yes, but..." But that's not the point! Not as Max saw it.

"But what? Who got me home when there was no way I could have managed on my own?"

"Me, but that's not the point. I could have left you there. I thought about it."

Max's heart dropped half a foot at Benjamin's tired, sad smile.

"See? I knew you had some common sense in you."

Luckily, Benjamin dropped the humor like a spent cartridge before going on. "It's what you did that matters to me. If I hadn't met Mom, Reg, you, Yuki? I would be haunting that cemetery today." Benjamin turned back away, staring at an open grave that only he could see. He knew better than to look for the closing date on that property.

Max didn't ask for or offer a choice. He bent down and held his friend in a bear hug across the chest until the shaking stopped.

"You never asked me what I get out of knowing you."

Benjamin asked, "A great discount on ammo?"

Max wondered, "How are those deflector shields working for you, Benjamin?" They clearly didn't work on the ghosts in the guy's head.

Max said instead, "I had contacts before meeting you, you know! The thing is — you were the first person in a long, long time to see me as a person, not a freak show, a mark, or a GSD case. Even here, dude. Serious."

Max straightened up.

"Now! While I have your... your broken earbuds? Oh, come on! How'd you swap them on me like that? Anyway, it's still a good time for some new K-pop!"

Shaggy allowed the room five urgent noise complaints before letting himself in (No one, but no one, inside could hear him knocking on the door over the noise) and shutting down Max's stereo system. Benjamin was already curled up with his head under a pillow and out for the night. One of these days, the RA might figure out how the two mismatched Brits could stand each other. Like most things, it was best to let it ride.

Saturday morning, January 14, 2017,
Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

Whateley Academy's school cafeteria was a yeoman's exercise in layout, functional capacity, and decor. It also looked much like it had the day before and the year before, so Peter 'Icejack' Raiford was used to it. Instead, he set his mind to ignore the morning crowd as much as he could. He had breakfast in front of him and code to juggle for a drone command and control system in his head. Across the table from him, freshman, somehow friend, and sometimes irritant, Benjamin 'Belfry' Keeling poked a fork into rice and shredded chicken arranged to look like something he could eat.

At least, Peter thought they were friends. It was hard to be sure when it takes this long for a person to answer "How was your week?"

"So... one of the big topics in Psycho Intro was ethics and some of the many, many ways to piss people off."

Spoken like an expert in pissing people off.

Peter replied, "It could just be me, but I don't think that was the intent. I'm sure that that's something I'd remember from Powers Theory."

"Good. I don't think I want to go over that stuff twice. We've got the Xavier Act for homework. Things like 'exerting subtle mental control' and all that."

"I didn't know 'subtle' was in your repertoire."

Benjamin scoffed, "That's why I keep it hidden in a dictionary, chained and buried out in the backyard!"

"I've got a pro tip, in case you ever have a conversation with normal people. Don't joke about what's buried in your backyard."

"Actually, 'Mind Control Occasioning Rape' sounded a whole lot creepier to me."

Peter put his fork down. "You know what? Don't tell anyone about your Esper class, ever! What time do you need to catch the bus going into Dunwich?"

"My appointment is around one, so half past noon or so. I've got a reservation for the tactics range that goes to noon. So, we've got plenty of time for practice."

"How do you have a reservation for any of the ranges?"

"I asked Menehune if he could hook me up with an out-of-the-way area for testing gear. Just a heads-up, he might be interested if your C&C suite can work with naval drones."

"Hm. Maybe. A surface skimmer would have signal issues."

"I guess we'll have to think of a way around that later."

That was a tiny white lie. Benjamin had an idea, but letting Peter disappear into the tunnels to go work on it wasn't on his to-do list.

Annaliese Effingham froze halfway from the check-out lane to the Whitman tables. Felicia 'Crescent' Lincoln followed her roommate's gaze and said, "You need to stop avoiding him."

Annaliese looked up to the ceiling. "I know. I know." I figured that part out the third or fourth time I was told. "It hurts just being reminded of what I saw. It's like my head knows that it was all in the past, but I just can't find a way to fit then-him and now-him together."

"Maybe he can't either?"

"What?"

"Has he asked about what you picked up?"

"No."

"Have you abused his trust by starting rumors about it?"

"No!"

"Then go over, hang out for a while, make nice. Last I heard, boys still like that."

"...just need to make time to practice."

"Sounds fun, do you have room for one more?" Annaliese asked. The becroggled looks the boys gave her were priceless. Maybe Felicia had the right idea after all?

Benjamin managed to get his mouth in gear first. "Um. I mean, I wasn't planning on roping in more people..."

"At the table here," Annaliese reminded him. She tried to ignore the multiple meanings he'd put into "roping". They could be hot, but not so much with present company.

"Oh! Right. Sure. We do, don't we?" So smooth. The guy sitting with Benjamin blushed brick red behind his facepalm.

Annaliese sat down with her tray. "What's with this breakfast no one's eating. Did someone get sick?"

Benjamin said to Peter, "She's right. You should eat."

"Who the hell are you to complain?"

"A concerned party who doesn't want to drag you all the way back after you bonk from low blood sugar or something."

"Boys, you could take glucose tablets with you."

"On second thought, it might be more fun to drag him," said Benjamin, smiling evilly.

Peter said, "That's it! Who are you, and how do you know him?" And why are you trying to horn in on us? Back off!

"Annaliese Effingham. Serenella. Me and The Jock here started school this week. You?"

"Peter Raiford. Icejack. Sophomore. Believe it or not, my parents hired him to keep me safe these past two summers." Too safe. Not that it didn't work out.

Benjamin pointed out, "It worked, didn't it?"

"The working presumption was that there would be no dragging anyone to the hospital." You could have died!

"Nope. That was not stipulated in the contract."

"Just remember that you said that in front of a witness." One of these days, someone is going to abuse that. See how you like it.

At least the distraction got the two eating. The 'bodyguard' in question was inches shorter and pounds lighter than his client. Moreover, said client wasn't even close to heavy-set. There must be more to their shared history than Belfry being paid to intimidate, well, anyone, to be honest. Icejack was the hostile one? Territorial?

"What were you guys planning to do after breakfast?" Annaliese speared some pancake and honest-to-god real maple syrup with her fork, letting the question sink in through the haze of male hormones.

"Drone tag."

Benjamin's off-handed delivery made it sound easy enough. Annaliese's telepathy picked up 'full-contact drone tag'. She'd played laser tag with the others in her JROTC unit back home, so she knew that was part of the game. That and an unspoken rule to 'make sure there are guys on both teams, so it only gets rough, not violent.' Weirdly enough, girls' teams were freaking cut-throat when playing against each other.

Peter explained further, "Drone tag. On one of the tactics ranges, with obstacles and toys enabled."

"It's kind of pointless otherwise."

"Duh. I've been tweaking a new command and control framework that needs testing."

That... wasn't the only reason Icejack was doing the work. Some of the intent here was very personal.

"Did I mention that Serenella's a telepath?"

How had that not come up before?

"No. Effingham, right? Her brother's in Emerson. I'm surprised she's even speaking to us."

Annaliese huffed at the idea. "My little brother's old enough to have his own friends."

Benjamin shrugged and went back to eating. Peter said nothing but went back to finishing his meal as well.

Boys.

A couple of hours later,
Tactics Range.

The range was too quiet. Peter could hear snow crunching underfoot but little else. It was as if the wildlife was hiding from something on the prowl. Smart wildlife. Who wouldn't want to avoid getting tagged by a paintball or ten? Next time, he'd wear arctic or urban camo. Polarized lenses cut some of the glare off trampled ice and snow. However, the low contrast between black and green trees and brush washed out visual details.

Sixty kilos collided with his back.

Laying there, sprawled half on the snow and half on Peter, felt more comfortable than Benjamin had planned for. His face was only inches from the back of Peter's head, letting him breathe in the warm air rolling up past the boy's collar. Something about Peter's struggle to get enough leverage to escape from under him also felt a little too good. Benjamin filed that memory under 'things to not think too hard about in public'.

He whispered into Peter's ear, "I could do this all day."

Hearing his friend's husky whisper so close that Peter could identify his cologne was frustrating. Worse, mental images of ice and snow were failing to help him regain his composure.

"You could try." Preferably long enough for Peter to stand up without embarrassing himself.

All the hormonal bluster and posturing were wasted on Colombine. She counted to ten million, then ordered the drone they'd forgotten about to shoot both wankers in the head.

Over the drone's speakers, she announced, "That concludes today's exercise. Score: pathetic to just sad. Belfry, your ride to Dunwich is waiting at Twain Cottage. On the bright side, Icejack had positive drone control until Belfry's last move. By the way, I agree with Benjamin. We should look into whether using a relay transceiver will beat ground proximity effects."

Peter would need time to think about that. The first hurdle would be, "If a mage or a jammer targets that, we'd know ECM is in play."

He'd probably just signed himself up for more tackles, but he kind of enjoyed being out here.

"Hang on a minute. Have you and Benjamin already talked about that?"

This was supposed to be their time! That sounded wrong, even for him.

Benjamin said, "We wanted to see how the field exercise went before going forward."

"Oh. I guess that's okay, then. Maybe. Hang on. Your ride? I thought you were taking the bus to town after lunch?"

"Me too. I guess we'll have to roll with the surprise and finish up next weekend."

"Still planning to start going to morning Tai Chi?"

"Still spending all day tomorrow in the Workshop?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Peter shook his head and admitted, "I'm still hoping the team's sim suits come in soon so we can book a shakedown run."

"I've got a suit. Let me know if you need an intro and pointers."

"Someone told me you did. When did that happen?"

Benjamin gestured 'kind of/sort of' as he hedged on "October, November, thereabouts. Lady Sally's establishment includes facilities for high-end simulations."

"I don't know how well that'll work, but there's a school app to use for uploading powers data and gear."

"One lab rat, no wheel, no waiting!"

Twain Cottage.

Tabitha Turner didn't miss the old days, nor Twain's traditional "Girl on the floor!" warning. Even back then, the mix of male bravado and boyish anxiety only reminded her of things she'd buried on the road to today. Best to get on with this and be on her way. She hadn't made her reputation as Tabby Cat for her patience. One thing she could say for the unlucky lout who'd drawn Saturday desk duty, he didn't waste much of her time fetching the Twain House Parent.

"Dare I ask who's in trouble this time?" Conrad Filbert asked.

"One of your charges, Benjamin Keeling, has a follow-up appointment in town," Tabitha said. "I've been asked to make sure he gets there and back before his detention assignment."

She heard heavy footsteps from one of the stairways. How much information could they squeeze from whoever had been listening in?

"But if he's not here, should I start by asking around for where he is?"

"Hey, Mr. F, what's up?" With any good fortune, the eight-foot-tall ork was just playing stupid.

"Mrs. Turner was just asking about your roommate's location, Max. Maybe you could help?"

"Yeah! He's testing out some drone pilot software that Icejack's been working on. After that, he's got an appointment with Miss Rogers. Why?"

"Max," Filbert calmly said, "Would you happen to know where those two are busily violating doctor's orders?"

"The doctors didn't say he couldn't practice! Besides, he's rock solid when piloting, and he's not alone."

"*Ahem*"

"Hang on." Max pulled out his phone and speed-dialed a number.

"He'll be here in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Please wait by the entrance and direct your roommate to my office. Mrs. Turner, if you'll follow me? I believe I still have some coffee remaining from this morning's pot."

Tabitha almost regretted agreeing to this morning's chore. Her assignment arrived looking like he'd plowed through a snowbank face-first, repeatedly. In fact, he smelled like he'd spent his morning playing snowplow over the river and through the woods.

Belfry said from the door, "Mr. Filbert! I was told my ride's here, but I signed up for the bus?"

Tabitha said, "I'm Tabitha Turner. I was asked to take you with me into town. We don't want this trip to get in the way of your later appointment."

"That's at five. I appreciate the offer, but checking how some clothes fit shouldn't take that long."

"It also shouldn't be done without a recent shower. And for the record, I'm not asking."

Belfry shrugged it off, "Back in five!"

Second Floor, Twain Cottage.

"Cee, what do we have on a Tabitha Turner, Whateley staff, exemplar, dresses like a cougar, good but finite budget," Benjamin prompted on his way up the stairs.

Colombine said, "Tabitha Turner neé Allen, a.k.a. Tabby Cat, is the wife of the Assistant Headmaster and works in the Physical Education Department. She specializes in powered combat classes and tutoring students who think they're the next Big Damn Heroes. Former STAR League member. Rated exemplar two, energizer two internal type, suspected of having a luck manipulation ability. She's forty-seven and has one daughter. Lily Declan, a.k.a. Wallflower, is also a Poe Cottage alumna and ten years older than you."

"Poe? That's interesting."

"We don't have time for a rundown on the whole dorm. Disregarding Lapin and Calliope, there is a correlation between the public members of the Whateley Transgender Support Alliance that Mrs. Turner co-sponsors and Poe Cottage."

"Hold that thought for a moment. Shower time."

A quick soap and rinse later, Benjamin towel-dried his hair enough to put his earpiece back in. It was so tempting to try out one of the jokes that came to mind. Not that he had time, not with a teacher waiting on him.

Oh, well.

Instead, he asked Colombine, "What have you seen our p— Kitty Cat do so far?"

"Want to find out what she can do to you if you call her a pussy cat? She's getting enhanced speed and boosted reflexes from that energizer trait. Super-fast metabolism as well. Her uniform has claws, so you're looking at a close-in fighter."

"Can she climb like a cat? Asking, not joking."

"There's video of it. So, yes."

"Hm. Speed and reflexes would make it hard to get out and stay out of her reach. With luck going her way, a sniper or a long-range blaster would hit me or the nearest cover instead. But luck isn't everything, no matter how many punters claim otherwise."

"Remember that she has exemplar senses."

"I live with Max! They're more sensitive, but they require valid physical inputs. Faster nerve transmission and boosted neurons? If the signals are missing, noisy, disinfo, or arriving in the wrong part of the brain, it's all garbage in, bullshit out. Around here, she's got to be using something to prevent overload."

"She should. And, you should, just like you should be wearing your vest."

"I swapped base layers, what more do you want? Best to let it air out while we're in a low-risk zone."

"Speaking of risk zones," Colombine said, "I can't find any data indicating that she's any better protected from area-of-effect multi-sensory scrambled synesthesia than Kodiak or Caduceus."

"I like the way Max puts it better."

"Noted. I'm filing that under See If I Care."

"Odds on TB Cat being a blind fighter?"

"One hundred percent. Vertigo and loss of proprioception, hearing, scent, esper senses, et cetera, translates to more disorientation, not less, when such fighters fall back onto senses that are failing them for the first time. That's bad when they're Blue Team."

Benjamin blew out a breath, then said, "I've been warned against over-using that anyway."

"By who?"

"Pfft. Can't say and you know why, so you know who. But, if anything does go down, taking the Cat out would be a hostile's top priority. I'd just get in the way. Our job is to evade, call for backup, and then evaluate. Ready to go?"

"Don't forget your meds!"

"Already in my shirt pocket."

"Oh, by the way, you were supposed to be downstairs three minutes ago."

En route to Dunwich.

Keeling ended up taking a good ten minutes. He smelled cleaner, but that didn't bode well for the boy's ability to take or follow up with teachers' directions.

Mrs. Turner pointed out, "You're late."

Benjamin shrugged, "Red flag's out now. Otherwise, I'd have finished up on the way."

What was there to say to a kid so determined to act out? Bad enough that he already had detention from Day One, but how was he barred from taking the school's scheduled bus to Dunwich? He didn't seem as bothered as the usual suspects were once they discovered that the school had seen all their tricks before. That made him either smarter or more oblivious than usual.

Tabitha stifled her sigh and said, "By the way. While you are in my care today, I expect you to behave and follow my instructions as if I were your parent. In case you didn't know, the admissions package includes a form authorizing Academy officials to act in loco parentis."

Benjamin kept looking out the passenger window.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am. I did. However, I think you're mistaken."

Was this one another Loophole, Phase, or worse? Just what no one needs.

"I've been teaching would-be superheroes for several years now. Before that, I was a member in good standing of STAR League for over a decade. That includes being duly deputized as an officer of the law in Providence and Boston. What, exactly, in your extensive legal experience, do you think I'm missing?"

"Ma'am," Benjamin said as evenly as he could, "As I recall from in-chamber discussions, the judge who signed my emancipation order was of the opinion that the world would be better off if both my birth parents were burning in Hell on a slow-turning spit. If you wish to go on record as their agent, based on a signature on forged paperwork, I should point out that this conversation is being recorded. By now, I would not be surprised if my employer's legal department is already taking an interest."

"Now you listen here! Don't expect me to just fall for whatever fairy tale you're spinning."

"I expect you to be presented with a valid legal opinion by cee-oh-bee Monday. How about we table the pissing match for now?"

"Listen up, kid. Lie to me more than you have, and you'll find yourself in far more trouble than you already are."

"So long as I'm back on-campus in time for my detention assignment it's all good," Benjamin said before going back to staring out the door window.

One of the many drawbacks to being a Hero was that one couldn't bitch-slap a mouthy kid when they're asking for it.

Par for the day, Tabitha's phone started ringing as they entered Dunwich. Caller ID flagged the call as coming from the Whateley Security Chief's office.

She expertly pulled her car into a slushy downtown parking spot close to Miss Rogers' Boutique.

"Benjamin, where exactly were you four weeks ago?"

"Working. Why?"

"What gear are you carrying now?"

"A slash-resistant base layer doubling as light body armor."

"Weapons?"

"I can improvise."

Was I ever this much of an idiotic pain in the ass back when I was that age? Lily wasn't!

After hanging up and counting to ten, Tabitha asked, "You came out unarmed?"

Benjamin shrugged the concern off. "'Five minutes,' I was told. Besides, a pistol won't stop a well-aimed Boom-Headshot."

Tabitha could have done without the mimed sniper shot.

Rogers Fabric Boutique, Dunwich, NH.

"... paint, mud, grass, two kinds of blood, pine tar, sweat, skin, other proteins, lip balm." Cecilia Rogers turned to Benjamin and said, "When I called this a rugby shirt, I didn't mean for you to immediately go out and play rugby. At least there isn't enough blood here to declare your side the losers."

Benjamin tried explaining, "We were just practicing drone, ehm, piloting." Nervously underscoring the innocence of his point by adjusting his collar might have worked better if he were twenty years older.

"Have you gotten to the part of the course where they teach you it's the drone that's supposed to make three-point landings?"

"We're working up to that! Mind if I step out for a head call?"

"I think we can manage."

Cece watched him walk off, then asked Tabitha, "Why did you drag my client in early? Are you here to protect Benjamin, me, or the school?"

"All of the above. Apparently, there have been a couple of incidents on campus that no one wants to repeat with a bus full of children. By the time that decision was made, it was too late to ask you to come up to the campus for one student who's a bit full of himself. Furthermore, every other faculty member was suspiciously busy this morning, making him only the closest of the several rats I can smell."

"I can see how you'd get that impression. Mr. Keeling has a nasty habit of underselling himself. Speaking of which, I think we'll start with a casual ensemble."

Huh. When did he sneak back?

Had she been asked, Tabitha had her doubts about Cece's color choices. Her own preference ran to black leather and black and white fur. However, taupe trousers worked well with a burgundy and navy rugby shirt worn over an icy-pale gray dress shirt. It helped that the rugby shirt could hide a utility belt and concealed armor without adding bulk. The dress boots were coffee brown, almost black. If she'd had to bet, she'd put her money down on high-density polymer toe caps and built-in metatarsal protection. The tan ball cap that Cece'd added to the mix looked stiff.

Yet, everything fit well. The boy even managed to look as presentable as any baseline teen.

Cece explained to Benjamin, "Originally, we'd discussed using a treated cotton for the shirts. This shirt is a silver- and titanium dioxide-impregnated Teflon and aramid fiber. You'll find that it's warmer and more durable than the cotton. The other uniform shirts are made of the same material and color because, with your blood chemistry, you need every trick we've got for getting blood stains out. They aren't a pure white because the contrast against your skin would remind too many people of rigor mortis."

"My coworkers say the same thing."

Of course, they do.

"You should listen to them. Moving on, then. I've used a treated wool, blended with silver- and copper-treated aramid fiber, for the trousers and jackets. With normal wear, you'll want to rotate through each set a couple of times before washing them. Spot treat stains, of course, and don't forget to practice with the pocket placements before trying anything that could get me charged as an accomplice. Any questions?"

"Hm," Benjamin said, biting the side of his bottom lip. "Mind if I recommend you to some people I know?"

"I'm always happy for new prospects, so long as they conduct themselves accordingly."

"Just..."

Cece raised an eyebrow. When Benjamin missed the hint to elaborate, she said, "And, if a student with GSD needs a discount, I thank them for the design challenge and leave it off the books."

"I, um, might need a set or two of tac blacks: ripstop, knee pad pockets, fireproof. Sort of like stagehand gear? If that's not on the contract, please charge it to my personal account. Other than that, no questions?"

Tabitha said, "That may be for the best. Now, let's get loaded up and out of Miss Rogers's hair."

"Not so fast, folks! I want to get your reactions to some of my new pieces! Starting with," Miss Rogers handed over a large square of soft fabric dyed in a complex pattern of indigo and off-white. "Last time, Benjamin mentioned that he's been learning silat, so this is one of the ikat kapalas I've constructed for practice. The carbon nanotube resin is dyed on-demand before going through the spinnerets. What we get out of that is a technical fabric that's a true ikat but more fire-, stain-, and shock-resistant than silk. Even some Exemplar-4s will find tearing it difficult. Benjamin, your joints might give way first. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Benjamin's eyes widened as he inspected the obverse side of the cloth. Double ikats were expensive!

His low whistle was cut off by Mrs. Turner asking, "How practical is it?"

"According to some people, the New Hampshire winters alone are cold enough to justify that in a scarf."

"Why not go with stronger materials like titan wire?"

"They're not as much fun as reproducing top-shelf traditional silks without a nanoforge or a Star Trek replicator. Don't forget I'm in competition with Jermyn Street, Hong Kong..."

Cece watched Benjamin pull a stiff waistcoat from the stack. "... and Margilan. The Whateley dress code doesn't prohibit vests for obvious reasons, so for that piece, the black-on-black brocade is reinforced kevra fiber, and the back is another double ikat with Zylor woven in as a rip-stop. Inside the lining are a dozen ballistic plates."

"I'd say that's overkill for most freshmen."

While Cece was in 'Look at what I made!' mode, and the boy's body language saying 'Mine! Mine! Mine!'? Not a chance either one cared.

Scrutinizing the back, with its strikingly Uzbeki pattern, Benjamin said, "More of a calculated insult to certain parties. This is not something I would normally wear in certain parts of the world."

"My source advised me to say that the pattern might serve as an intelligence test for those who wish to curry favor."

"Remind me never to piss your source off."

Cece Rogers tsked, "Nice try, young man. You'll have to work harder than that to find them." Noticing Tabitha's arched brow, she added, "Since last weekend's rocky start, I've asked a few questions and found that young Mister Keeling's been quite the busy bee these past three years. If he weren't a close manifestor, I'd recommend sticking with Cordell's 'mage service' for his haircuts and laundry."

Benjamin said, "Close manifestor. That's the A and B modifiers, right?" He grinned at the phrasing he'd heard, "... also known as Don't get too attached to that comfy room in Emerson or Dickinson?"

"That's the impolite way of putting it. Benjamin, when was the last time you had a haircut or shaved?"

Benjamin rubbed his face. "Nothing to shave yet, really." He thought of something else he'd heard. "I thought you said you only use the fitting room cameras to get true skin tones?"

Cece sighed. Boys and men could be so dense. This one was dangerously slow today.

"You've heard of something called hair dye? It's rarely used on eyebrows or anything below the chin."

"You know that's an easy tell, right?"

"It's also an easy tell when darker blond or light brown hair doesn't bleach in Sub-Saharan sun. Your beret didn't shade the sides or back of your head, yet your hair was the exact shade it is now. The other tell was the lack of sunscreen stains on your shirt collars. You had to have worn it often enough to subconsciously start manifesting it before forgetting about it."

Benjamin had gone back to pawing through the stack of new threads. Now, he stopped short, pulling out a formal jacket sporting two miniature medals hanging from pale blue ribbons.

"No. No way. Who the... How? Why?"

"Why? Didn't you know the school has a Valentine's Day formal dance coming up? Black tie."

"I think I'll be sick that week or something," Benjamin swallowed a cold lump in his throat. "It's not like I know how to dance. No one around for me to dance with. As if."

Cecilia Rogers had a keen ear for teenagerisms. There was someone.

"Luckily for all concerned, I teach ballroom dance. That includes a noncredit crash course for the two-left-footed crowd. You've already got a suit that fits and two ties, no excuses."

Mrs. Turner pointed out that "most of them won't be pretending to have earned medals. You'll want to take those off."

"No. He won't."

Miss Rogers walked over to Benjamin and gently tipped his face up to meet her gaze.

"Whoever it is that you think you can't ask, you can. You never would have made it through those missions if you didn't have it in you. You wouldn't even be here. I think we both know that you owe that much to the people who trusted in you."

The boy's eyes glistened too much with hurt and expected rejection. On impulse, she ruffled Benjamin's hair, provoking a satisfying squawk of protest.

Shifting her own mental gears, Miss Rogers said, "Anyway. You know the drill. Send pictures of what hasn't been tried on here. Anything that needs altering or repair, you've got my mailers. Now, be a gentleman and take these out to Mrs. Turner's car. Scoot!"

Tabitha watched the laden pack person stumble out the door.

"Is there something your 'sources' have for me?" she asked. "Mine waited until we were on our way to suggest that he posed a danger to himself."

"Ophelia's going to be pissed off that he skipped lunch. I'm betting he cowboyed his meds in the bathroom. If he falls asleep, let him wake up on his own and wait for him to orient himself. That's all that I was warned about."

"Thanks, I think."

"Any time!"

The mean streets of Dunwich.

Benjamin had walked half the block back to Miss Rogers' Boutique when it happened. Locals stepped over or around meltwater-covered slush without a second thought. Just another part of the winter charm. Benjamin wasn't a local, so his first, second, and third thoughts ended up centering around pain. He should've called out for help. But he couldn't.

Mattie had never learned that anyone could help his pain.

When Mrs. Turner arrived at the scene of the accident, Benjamin was on the sidewalk, holding onto his knee.

Tabitha asked, "How long do you plan on staying there crying?"

"Forever. Because if I try standing, there's going to be a lot more noise to go with it."

Mrs. Turner reached out for Benjamin to take her hand or not. If he didn't need help, he'd already be walking, wouldn't he? Either way, she could afford to leave it to Doyle to greenlight his detention today. Enough of today was more than enough already.

Sunday morning, January 15, 2017,
Ground Floor, Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

The next morning, Benjamin tried to hide his limp as he picked his way to the Twain underclassmen tables with a tray of breakfast. His brain wasn't firing on all cylinders yet. Painkillers sucked like that, helping him overlook a foot stuck in his way from his blind side.

*thump - crash*

Several of the kids around him laughed at the spectacle. He asked himself, 'Normal people look back on school days fondly? Why?'

First step: get the uninjured leg under him.

"Let me help you up."

Maybe it was the canine ears and nose, but the guy reaching out to Benjamin looked trustworthy until proven otherwise. Familiar too. Dorm? Benjamin had only been here a week.

"I... sure. Thanks."

"No problem. Don't mind them. There's always some jerks who think that picking on others is funny."

"More my fault for letting it happen."

"Don't say that! There's no excuse for being mean to other folks."

Benjamin shook his head. "Easy to say. Harder to put into practice."

"So we agree to disagree. Y'all cool with that? I'm Bloodhound. Up the hall from you, if I remember right."

"Belfry. You've probably heard my roommate."

"Yeah. His idea of 'keeping it down' is kind of rough on folks like Playback and me. Let me show you where they keep the mops and cleaning supplies before stuff gets tracked all over the place."

It was humiliating, as intended, to clean up 'his' mess. However, Billy was right: letting it get to him would only make Benjamin more of a target. The remainder he was still wearing should rinse off. No, the real issue was having to go through the food lines again. Sure, he could afford the charge-back on the "wasted" food. Then there was the embarrassment of having to let Billy carry his tray for him to the Underdogs table so he could limp along with an improvised cane. It wasn't like he couldn't manage on his own without superpowers to ... Okay. Fine. Counting the one prop, it was exactly like superpowered help was needed. Still. Galling.

One of the Underdogs (Dody? No one would call themselves Dodo, would they?) that Benjamin had been introduced to asked to see the makeshift cane, just in time for it to fall to the floor and evaporate back into ectoplasm.

"Y'weren't kidding about the one-bee classification, were ye, bra?" one of the other girls said. "If I asked to see your knee, would it fall off too?"

"No. Still quite attached. Londoners charged extra for the show, though."

"Fair enough. I'm Homely, by the way."

Benjamin blinked. Twice. What were the odds? Still, Homely?

"What."

"That's my code name. My friends call me Tabitha. Fair cop on the London bit, by the way. My family lives in Marylebone, so I guess that makes us more professional than the famous cunts thinking they live on High Street." She paused to see Benjamin's reaction, "I so love watching the way you Americans twitch when I use that word."

"For the record, my passport's the same colours as yours."

"Yeah, sure. Let's see the leg, guvnor."

Benjamin turned in his chair and pulled up the trouser leg, exposing his wrists as his shirt cuff and jacket rose up. Tabitha did n't twitch half as much as Bloodhound at what she saw. The bruise was ugly. Dark blood pooling near-black under the skin made it look more necrotic than healthy.

Tabitha triaged the questions that came to mind, starting with: "How did that happen?"

"Had a slip-n-trip meeting between my knee and a sidewalk yesterday. I've got a follow-up summons to appear at Doyle later." After some cleanup on aisle nine and another shower. He added, "Looks like I'll have to swing back to Twain to get cleaned up before I check in there."

"Well then, if you're being honest about seeing a doctor today, I'll let you get on with it. Otherwise, I'd have to drag you over to Airys or Care-Bear. Except in a dire emergency, it's best to have medical procedures done before sending for a healer."

"What about a dire emergency?"

"Hit the deck and carry on, or so some mad lad of a guest once told me. You almost remind me of a younger version of him."

Twain Cottage.

According to the 2016 edition of Sara's Little Purple Book, "Dog people tend to be very affectionate, loyal, and protective." Benjamin found that to be an understatement with Bloodhound. Billy Hastings almost followed him into the shower stall.

"...No, seriously! Some dog breeds are trained as seizure alert dogs. It's completely scientific. I mean, I noticed last week that you normally smell a bit weird."

Benjamin replied from the shower, "Remind me to file a complaint with my doctors. My blood must be past its sell-by date."

"That could be it or the perfume oils you use."

A new voice rang out in the showers, "If you want some, he's got plenty. Like way too much."

"Thank. You. Max." Benjamin could picture his roommate's grin. No telling what his next suggestion might be. Air purifying sequins?

"Least I could do for the guy who shut off my alarms this morning. Anyway, I bet you could even use some of that stuff in place of VapoRub, next time you have to transport a body or something like that."

Billy asked, "How would VapoRub help with something like that?"

"You smear a bit of it inside each nostril. It kills some of the death smell. Also, blowflies are less likely to be getting up in your face."

"Sorry, guys. I think I need to get some fresh air. Excuse me!"

"What really happened this time?" asked Max.

"Turns out gravity works. Nothing to worry about."

"Bullshit. Try again."

"How would you know? You were finally getting some sleep when I went for breakfast." Benjamin considered that a good reason to sabotage an alarm clock or two.

"This is high school; everyone has a camera. Do you really think no one's passing around time-lapse pictures of the before, after, and during?"

Benjamin stepped out of the shower stall looking like a drowned rat: towel around his waist, clothes on hangers to drip dry. Max decided that he could withhold knowledge of comments about an adorkably cute British TA in the Get Out of Jail Free class for a while longer. Some of the messages described scenarios that called for lots of rope. If any of those daydreams did happen, he'd be the second to hear the grousing about sloppy knot-tying afterward.

"Fine. As long as they don't make it a habit, I'm just going to roll with it for now. I'm sure someone already knows the assailant's name and publicly-known social circle, just from the timing of the photos."

"Your funeral. Whatcha got going today?"

"Follow-up at Doyle Medical, then the Detention assignment. You?"

"Well, after we get you on a proper pair of crutches, same thing as every day. I've got quality time booked for the language lab."

"Japanese turning out to be a little tougher than you expected?"

"One of the language lab assistants is a fan. I can't let them down!"

Benjamin took some time to connect the obvious dots. "That explains how you knew about what I'd said on the plane."

Max grinned, "Yes, folks! We have a wiener!"

"Why can't people just keep stuff to themselves?"

"Welcome to the human race, bud!"

On their way to Doyle Medical, Colombine asked Benjamin, "I'm wondering if you're planning retaliation against the person who tripped you this morning? Or does that not scale in comparison to past operations?"

"Because between guys, it's seen as a harmless prank. Some food wasted, no biggie. Losing my cool makes me a loser who can't take a joke. Triple that if I complained to a school authority. In December, I was the authority and obligated to act decisively. It's not so much the scale that matters, but, I don't know, the scope?"

"That can't be all there is to it."

"Maybe, but let's break it down. If it was meant to get me mad enough to do something stupid, it failed. In that case, whoever wanted me to screw myself over will try again. My old school wasn't all spitshine and field days, either! Now, if it was random bullshit, then the jerk will figure he's gotten away with it and maybe not be so careful next time. That's a chance to score back on him."

"What if you're wrong?"

Benjamin stopped, leaning into his borrowed crutches. He blew his breath out, making a cloud in the cold air.

"In that case, I screwed up in front of the entire freshman class. That means I'll get dumped on for it for the rest of the term or until someone else screws up worse. Yay."

"Joining the Underdogs might encourage your classmates to underestimate you without descending to hostilities. How many times has that been suggested this week?" Colombine added into the growing silence, "I'm 'preaching to the choir' here, aren't I?"

"Have I told you how to coordinate perimeter surveillance with Kurenai?"

"I'm going to kill me a holographic ferret someday. Tavi's more annoying than you've ever managed to be."

"Is that a challenge, my sweet turtledove?"

"The life you save by not taking it on may be your own," Colombine said, ever so sweetly.

Minutes later, Colombine asked, "What would be an appropriate response?"

"Once I have the names and faces of those who were in on it, I'm sure I'll think of something. Maybe I'll be inspired on the spur of a moment!"

"So 'winging it', it is. Keep doing that, and someday you're going to start growing feathers."

"Baaawwk! Polly gimme cracker?"

"Ow!"

Why couldn't they have let the sabotaged AIPA terminal's neural inducer stay disabled? Cooked bait was worse than no bait.

Examination Room, Doyle Medical Center.

Dr. Gutierrez skipped over the traditional "How are we doing today" and "Okay" exchange. She'd already read Keeling's charts.

"I know we didn't send you home with a knee brace and crutches yesterday."

Benjamin said, "Super-Dance-Party and Bloodhound out-mass me. Then Mr. Filbert took their side."

"Their side?"

"To be fair, Bloodhound did see me go down at breakfast."

"Go down?"

"Not like that! I tripped. Doesn't that happen all the time at schools like this?"

"Like this? What other kinds of schools have you attended?"

"Hampton Forge Military Academy?"

Cute. Military brat, times teen, unimpressive powers, with a need to fit in. At least he hadn't sampled the devisor chocolate.

Benjamin let out a breath. What would the next question in the helpline tree be? "I wasn't half-blind back then and I didn't have to worry about seizures."

Not what Dr. Gutierrez had been thinking, but she could work with it. "Half-blind" might explain the bright Hawaiian shirt over the green long-sleeved tee in January.

"Right. Just when I think I've gotten used to this place... At least you're not planning on joining the military in the future!"

What she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?

"Mr. Keeling, the correct answer would have been a shocked expression and the words 'no, of course, I'm not', not a half-assed smirk. Now. The knee. Pull up your trouser leg and let me see what we have... Oh."

He must have slammed his knee full force into something hard to get that much new bruising. It didn't help appearances that the boy's swollen joint was blacker than any naturally dark brown skin. The barely suppressed, clenched teeth gasp when she lightly pressed on the patella spoke volumes. On examination, the surrounding bones didn't feel broken, but the patella and ligaments remained a primary concern.

Benjamin volunteered, "It looks worse than it really is."

"Is that your professional medical opinion?"

"What color is my blood in your textbooks? I've been living with this all my life. Wait until it turns really brown. Or, umber? I don't know."

"Your chart says you manifested three years ago."

"Outside, there's a whole world that doesn't revolve around mutant genes. It's useful to have them now, but otherwise?" Benjamin shrugged. He added, "Besides, it's fully documented in my MCO files."

"Fine. Do you have any religious issues against bringing in a mutant Healer? Your patella is almost certainly cracked and in danger of breaking if you wrench your knee again. If there's blood in the joint, based on the notes in your files, I'd be concerned that you could lose some mobility if and when it coagulates."

"Can't hurt, right? I've got detention assigned this afternoon, but I haven't heard what it is other than show up to Hawthorne."

Several minutes later, Dr. Gutierrez led a slender, white-haired girl – not albino, simply white-haired – into the examination room. Benjamin was tempted to adjust his glasses until he remembered his were zero-correction lenses. The ghost image of a unicorn accompanying the girl could be just that: an artifact of the school's weirdness. Right? The girl hesitated slightly at the doorway, but the definitely-not-a-unicorn didn't.

Screw this!

Benjamin would have scrambled back on the table. But, he was blinded by stabbing pain the instant he tried to use his injured leg. That horn was still Too Close!

Dr. Gutierrez rushed forward to stop the panicking boy from pushing himself off the examination table. In his state, he wasn't likely to succeed at anything but more injuries. She put the feeling of brushing past something large and old out of her mind.

"Benjamin! Stop! Look here, at me! Benjamin, look at me. Can you do that?"

Wild-eyed and gasping for air, he turned to look at her, then back away as something unseen moved in his field of vision. Pushing with his good leg, he slammed his back to the wall. Now, Dr. Gutierrez saw something immaterial push a dimple in his shirt for several long seconds before backing off.

The girl said, "I don't think my spirit trusts him."

Benjamin's voice cracked across a wide-eyed octave. "Ya think?"

"Benjamin. We need you to calm down. Take a deep breath or two, do whatever you need to, but you have to calm down so we can work on your knee, or I'm going to have to order an anxiolytic."

Benjamin swallowed and nodded frantically, "Good drugs good!"

"Okay. Samantha? Let's step out for a few minutes while I write up the order."

Once both the girl and the doctor were out of earshot, Colombine asked Benjamin, "What the Hell was that about? Your hearts are racing."

"I-I think. It l-looked like – I guess – a ghost unicorn or something? I d-don't know. It did NOT like me even if it wasn't there. But I've never hal-l-lucinat-ted something press against my chest b-before."

It didn't go in, did it? Oh, god. Internal bleeding?

"There goes the heart rate again. You're certain it was a hallucination?"

"A y-unicorn. Unicorns can't be real. What else could it be?"

Colombine asked, "What about a manifested spirit like Unique said?"

"That's her code name?"

"Yes. As in 'like a unicorn'. Mild GSD. Didn't you see the horn-like growth on her forehead?"

"I was paying more attention to three feet of long pokey ponykin death trying to skewer me. Unicorns eat virgins!"

"Since when are you a virgin?" Colombine's programming team had told her there would be days like this.

"Those teeth are sharp!"

Benjamin was already curling up into a protective fetal position despite the knee pain. Change tactics before he gets worse?

"Now it's a long pokey Tooth of Doom. Are you sure it wasn't attached to a flying narwhal? Maybe a bunny?"

"Gg-go ahead. Laugh at me. It'll be extra funny with a hole through my chest and my soul sucked out!"

"First, you're a virgin. Now, you have a soul?"

"I could, you know! Who'll be surprised then?"

"You and me both."

Sunday afternoon,
Assigned Detention, Hawthorne Cottage.

Given that it was a holiday weekend Sunday, there was no good way to defer or change up Benjamin's vague detention assignment. Doyle Medical Center's day shift did as much as they thought they could get away with to render him functional. That required them to pump him full of anti-misery fuel. In fact, that had been the only way to keep Belfry and Unique in the same room long enough to patch up his knee. It still looked gruesome, and he'd need to wear a fitted brace for a few days, but the strained cartilage would hold. Lunch from the hospital canteen landed in his stomach with a dull thud. Afterward, an orderly escorted him to Hawthorne Cottage.

The cottage's House Mother, Mrs. Bardue, wasn't known for assigning tasks beyond students' abilities. Most problems she'd encountered lay with the fact that the dorm housed students whose powers or conditions were a risk to themselves and others. Thus, there were hard limits to what the residents could do to maintain their residence. There were too few limits on the things they needed help with. That made "Hawthorne" one of the more frequent detention assignments. Any other problems were usually things the detainees brought on themselves.

Over many years of supervising student detentions, Debbie Bardue had opened the cottage's front doors to every possible teen attitude she could imagine and then some. Hostile, resigned, fearful, that Goodchild's "Of course We are here for Our detention"... Some few were even eager to help out. The detention students normally didn't arrive via the emergency tunnel between Hawthorne Cottage and Doyle Medical Center. Moreover, if they were being escorted to ensure they got to where they were going – a very bad sign – the escort was usually Security or an empowered teacher, not a hospital orderly.

The tow-headed student swaying before her braced and barked, "Benjamin Xiáng Keeling! Freshman! Whateley Academy! Reporting as ordered!"

That might have been more impressive if he hadn't locked an inflamed knee joint mid-salute... while looking up in the general direction of Mrs. Bardue's anti-grav float chair. The orderly caught him in time to avoid a concussion.

"Child, I'd bet good money that that sounded a whole lot better in your head. Harold, could you please explain to me what's going on here?"

Harold the Orderly replied, "Our Mr. Keeling required several cc's worth of psychopharmaceutical assistance to get him to allow us to heal his bodgered kneecap. By then, it was too late to get a deferral for his detention assignment."

"We'll have to make do then, as always."

"If that's it, Mrs. Bardue, I've got to be going. Remember to call if there are any problems..." Harold noticed the ongoing sway in Benjamin's stance, "... or if any current problems get worse."

"We'll be fine." Mrs. Bardue said to Benjamin, "We should take the elevator up to the ground floor and common room, where you can set your coat aside. Come along!"

Following Mrs. Bardue from the elevator, Benjamin noticed a green light. "Is the green flag up?"

"Yes, it is."

"Cool. Working up a sweat and wearing skin-tone makeup aren't much fun together."

Debbie turned and got a demonstration of why the boy wasn't in Emerson or Melville. Once the initial moment of surprise passed, she realized that, aside from Benjamin missing an eye or his complexion favoring olive-brown shades over melanin-based tints, there wasn't much to worry about. As Oscar would say, those count as famous last words. There was always something to worry about when it came to her charges! She pressed a button to engage her chair's psi-shielding. As a precaution, she pulled up Belfry's file again. The most recent updates included an acute case of monokerophobia. Other than that? Traumatic brain injury, seizures, PTSD, MATD, the issues already raised against housing him in Hawthorne now that Louise was gone, etc.

"Mrs. Bardue? Is there a problem?" the boy asked.

Hell, yes, there's a problem!

"No. No problem. Go sit down for now. I still need to figure out what I'm going to do with you."

Benjamin shrugged. Not his problem. He was just here to do... stuff. He didn't know that Mrs. Bardue had already fielded calls from his roommate, his RA, his House Father, and the Workshop? All had called to warn her against letting him get ahold of the cottage's jackhammers, flamethrowers, or other implements of cleansing and destruction. According to some sources, he couldn't be entrusted with a ball of string.

A quarter-hour later, Mrs. Bardue introduced Benjamin to one of the older residents. Friedrich Schnöring, code-named Thundrous. "Friedrich, this is Benjamin. He came here straight from Doyle for his detention shift. Let's start him off with something uncomplicated, like mopping. Some areas sure could use it."

Once they were on the third floor, Friedrich told Benjamin, "This wing's mostly empty, so it should be safe to start at the end and work your way back to the middle. Less chance of people walking on the wet floor with dirty shoes too." He took him to the supply closet. "In here, we've got your basic mop bucket, mop, worse mop, used-to-be-a-mop, spigot, stripper..." No comment about strippers? This guy is out of it! "Once the floor's clean and dry, you go back over it with clean water and a small amount of floor wax. Just enough to seal the tile from dirt being ground in. Got it?"

"Sure! Buff on. Buff off! Buffer go brrrrr!"

As he walked away, Friedrich thought, Mein Gott. I best make sure the clinic's still on speed dial.

Benjamin vaguely remembered seeing the housekeeper mopping, back in his childhood. He'd been too young to understand whether cursing out esa puta maldita was part of the deal or not. That set him up to score quite a few demerits the first time he'd been assigned to cleaning duty back in the day. Now he had an old Madonna song stuck in his head.

He'd gotten into the rhythm of things when he heard one of the Hawthorne girls speak up behind him.

"Excuse me. I don't think those are the original lyrics to La Isla Bonita."

"I'm sure you're right," he said as he turned around. The other student wore a badly stained robe that looked ready to fall apart, thrown on over a full-body scuba suit. Only her head and hands were uncovered. But, after spending two or three weeks getting a simsuit to work, who was he to judge?

"I know I'm right. It was my mother's favorite song."

"Oh! Sorry." Benjamin set down his mop and stepped over to extend his hand, "Benjamin. Nice to meet you...?"

"Celine. Sadly, people keep being reminded of Ms. Dion, but Mom liked it." She did not accept the handshake. "No handshakes. I chose Acid Queen for my code name because my sweat is literally acid. That's also why... " She waved a hand, pointing to her whole body.

"Not a problem. I was told yesterday mine might be imaginary." He looked down at his hands and concentrated until a shiny black material coated them both to mid-forearm. "I don't quite have nitrile down – that's what the big floppy green ones are made of – latex is usually good enough." Satisfied, he reached out to Celine again. This time, they shook hands.

"You still should wash your hands and be careful of your clothing. Couldn't you find something more... suitable for manual labor?"

"Any solvents mixed in?"

"None that I know of."

"Got it covered. We'll see if Miss Rogers was right about acid and stain resistance. So, what are the real lyrics?

For the benefit of those hiding behind their doors from the lunatic detainee, Benjamin announced, "An' now, for my greatest trick! Does this look like enough of the wax stuff?"

Celine said, "Pour about three-quarters of that back into the bucket. Use. A. Funnel! Here! That might be okay. Do I need to stand back?"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe you shouldn't be standing in or on whatever it is you're thinking of?"

"Could be. Where's the carpet again?"

Celine pointed until he got the point and dragged his bucket over to a possibly safe spot. He then noped and dragged it back to the edge of the area still to be shined. Benjamin reached into the mop bucket, which began filling with water. He stirred it with the other hand without falling into the bucket. So far, so good. Then he tipped the entire bucket out onto the tile floor, over one of his hands. Water went everywhere. Once it covered every square inch of the flooring, Benjamin stood up and wiped his hands on a utility towel he'd grabbed earlier.

The floor was already nearly dry, covered in an even film of floor shine.

"Next wing next, I guess."

Celine replied, "Allow me to call Friedrich so I can warn him of your impending arrival."

"It's just across the way though? Um. Over there?"

"Let me call him first. Trust me! It's for the best."

When he saw his roomie curled up in a corner of one of the Common Room couches, head tucked under a pillow, the rest of him under his coat, Max Livingston couldn't resist.

"Aw! Isn't that kewt!"

He took the raised-finger salute aimed in his general direction as proof that Benjamin wasn't too far gone.

"Now, now. None of that! We've got to get you to dinner before they decide to keep you here."

Having been warned that the two boys might be a carefully mismatched set, Mrs. Bardue wasn't having none of that. "Child, that is by no means going to happen."

"They've got cof-fee!"

"UmTrdGway"

Max could dig his heels in with the best of them. "If you come with me now, I won't tell your doctors that you skipped a meal and your meds."

"Not fair."

"Welcome to Life. Population: You Wish."

Someone outside the line of fire asked, "Is he always like this?"

"Nah. He's usually only this cranky the day after a bad seizure. Headache, nausea, muscle strain, yadda, yadda. He'll be as fine as he ever is tomorrow!"

"I bet you didn't even—"

Max shook two amber-colored plastic bottles.

"Fine," Benjamin huffed. "I'm awake. But I Am Not Happy about it."

"Should I tell Bloodhound you don't want to be seen around him or the other Underdogs?"

"Huh? I never said that. You take that back!"

Benjamin managed to stand, within ten or twenty degrees of vertical. Adrenaline was enough for that. Adrenaline wasn't enough for putting weight on an injured knee without locking the joint out. This time, Max was faster than the speed of pain, catching his off-white-faced roommate and friend.

"Thanks for everything, Mrs. B. Gotta run!"

Sunday afternoon,
Pranksters Chat, Hawthorne Cottage.

"Please tell me this guy won't be back."

"Awww, guys. You know how it goes, once they pop, they just can't stop! :)"

"Why are you complaining, AQ? He didn't light your floor up with a fireball! Took the wax buildup right off; but, still, fireball."

"I want to know who sent that maniac down to clean the sub-basement bathrooms."

"So does Mrs. Bardue."

"But those bathrooms are a classic! We even locked up the supplies like she asked."

"Not. Well. Enough."