No Heroes
Part 5: Once bitten

Monday morning, January 16, 2017,
Crystal Hall Cafeteria, Whateley Academy.

Bloodhound.

Federal holidays were crazy at Whateley. Of course, some students took the chance to loaf around or stir up some trouble. Others, mostly Workshoppers, treated it as a Personal Projects day. More work, for fun? Billy Hastings had heard that Doyle Medical scheduled holidays for full staffing, as they did with every other Workshop Projects Day. From where he sat with the other Underdogs, Bloodhound privately wondered if it were Groundhog Day, and no one thought to tell anyone. Mama had always thought it was a great movie. Now, Billy was thinking it wasn't all that great to be on the business end of it. Belfry was taking the same path through the lowlies' tables that had worked out so badly yesterday.

Billy concentrated on what he could hear, just in case, but the script ran differently this time. For one thing, Benjamin stopped a step short of disaster.

"... try, chum. Better be more careful! Someone could get hurt, dontcha think?"

"Y-yes. Please. Don't."

"Do better and have a nice day, then." Benjamin growled back before walking away. Noticing Billy's stare, he pasted on a smile and changed course to the Underdogs table. Except for the limp, the last time Billy'd seen a guy move like that was a motorcycle cop. His cousin, who'd been driving, had gone on to learn the hard way not to give no lip to a Kentucky State Highway Patrolman.

Belfry might not have heard the grumbling and strained explanations at the table he'd just passed. At least he smelled healthier and more rested this morning. That had to be good, maybe?

"Room for one more?"

"Eh, sure. No problem!" It wasn't like he was spying on anyone, honest!

Benjamin shook his head, "That sounded like there's a problem."

"You said you're only a manifestor-one. Should you be threatening one of the Emerson guys? He's sure to be exemplar plus something else up his sleeve." Not good, not healthy either.

"Puckwidget? Freshman exemplar, plus a combo platter of probability mangling, precog, and empathy. Doesn't get off on the idea of his own pain or embarrassment."

"Oh, no," Bloodhound almost whined, "Precog? He had to know whatever you said was a bluff!"

"Bluff? Me? Seriously, unless I have a hand of cards in front of me, I'm kind of crap at bluffing."

Belfry set to dissecting his breakfast with one too many knives. Bloodhound couldn't help but wonder if the guy ever paid attention to how he looked or sounded to other people. He sat in appalled silence for several minutes before asking, "What could you have done?"

Benjamin palmed his knives right before asking, "Haven't you just eaten?"

Saints preserve us!

Billy yiped, "Changing subject! How was detention at Hawthorne yesterday?"

"I think I got the second or third floor mopped and waxed before running out of steam. I tried policing one of the basement heads, but Mrs. Bardue ordered me out. Next thing I recall, I ended up crashing out on one of the sofas."

"You think you did?"

What? Either you did something, or you didn't, right?

"They got the good sedatives over at Doyle."

"Why would they do that?" What on earth would they have had to sedate him for? Billy asked, not whined, "Do I want to know?"

Benjamin shuddered, "Look. I don't care what stupid people say. Unicorns are freaking dangerous! You never know what they'll do. I'm lucky I didn't get skewered through my top ticker when they brought that girl Unique in to do her healing thing."

Bloodhound's head reeled from whiplash. "Unique? The sophomore in Whitman?"

"I didn't stick around to exchange phone numbers. I know danger when it's poking me in the chest."

"But! She's nice!"

"That thing had a spear attached to its head this long!" Benjamin held his hands well over a meter apart.

"Sure. I'll ... I'll keep an eye out for that." If our mutual realities ever happen to intersect.

Puckwidget.

Another day, a second chance to put that Belfry asshole back in his place. Edward "Puck" Effingham had heard plenty about the incoming freshman criminal from one of the dorm's juniors. And that guy had heard from his brother that the guy was involved in organized crime. Then there was that thing where jerk-face had just waltzed into Intros to Psychos after skipping half the week, and knocked his sister out! That wasn't how she put it, but Liese liked to see the best in people.

Look at him. What kind of moron limps down the same route two days in a row, expecting a different result? Getting himself and his breakfast dropped to the deck yesterday wasn't a hint?

Belfry stopped a half-step short of Puck's outstretched leg. They were so close, he could feel the metal brace hidden under the guy's trousers. Puck's empathic sense told him that Belfry's knee hurt one hell of a lot more than it looked. Had he done that? How? Mutants aren't supposed to stay injured like that!

Belfry said, "Nice try, chum. Puckwidget, is it?"

There was no mistaking the clenched jaw behind the smile. Edward should have expected that. What he expected so much less was the feel of cold metal wrapping around his leg, doubling back in a figure-eight across his groin, before corkscrewing up his torso. Something flat like a steel ribbon? Cold... Fucking razor wire! He couldn't see any lines under his clothes when he sneaked a look down. That wasn't much consolation.

"Y-yes."

One cool thing about precognition was that it mixed with probability alteration like peanut butter and chocolate. One sense showed Puck whether he could pull off a prank. The other sense made sure it turned out like he wanted it to. Now, all he wanted was a fast retreat. Anything but the myriad ways that the wire wrap he was wearing could rip through him before medical help could arrive. He wasn't sure whether seeing his sister's life destroyed as a result hurt more than that or not. Too much pain.

"Better be more careful!" Belfry said. "Someone could get hurt, dontcha think?"

"Please. Don't."

Belfry only said, "Do better and have a nice day, then," before walking away. Now that Edward's empathy had exposed how the guy really felt, 'limping' would be the better word.

One of the other Emerson freshmen said, "Dude! What the Hell's your problem?"

"What?"

"That's the guy you tripped yesterday, isn't it?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So? Picking on an Underdog's bad enough, but one who's disabled, too?"

"Huh?"

Aside from the limp, Belfry didn't look all that disabled. That razor-wire sure hadn't felt all that disabled.

"I heard from one of the guys over in Twain that their new guy's literally a major spaz. Lay off."

"What are you talking about? Derrick, you know, our guide for orientation? He said he's a criminal or something."

"On what planet? The guy's half-blind and I hear he's been having seizures all week."

Edward's mind blanked completely on what would have happened if Belfry'd had a seizure while manifesting razor-wire.

"You gonna eat the rest of those hash browns?"

Someone had bled ketchup all over them, just the way he'd thought he liked them.

"No. Be my guest."

Tabitha Turner's Office, Schuster Hall.

On paper, Winter Term was a great time for catching up on revising lesson plans and grading assignments. In practice, the instructors running the special topics and team training courses spent more time creating new lesson plans and seemingly-impossible new assignments. Few complained, as long as the effort went toward helping their students grow and survive. The work could be as rewarding as it was daunting.

Mondays were meant for daunting.

Tabitha's work was interrupted this morning by her husband, the Assistant Headmaster. That was unusual for the professional side of their relationship, as was the bundle of papers he carried.

"Excuse me, Tabitha, I need a few minutes of your time to talk about this past weekend."

"Of course! Come in."

She set her current project neatly aside while Robert closed the office door and sat down.

"I'm not sure what more needs to be said. This can't be the first time a student has slipped on a patch of ice, even if landing on a kneecap does hurt like Hell."

"This is more to do with something you said to the Keeling boy earlier."

"We didn't talk that much, to be honest."

"Oh?"

"Robert, if you must know, Keeling copped an attitude about being under my direction for the duration of the trip. He even threatened legal action!"

Robert winced.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

"Guardian Resources and Trading Company's legal team in London has forwarded documents regarding Keeling's status as an emancipated minor under U.S. law. That includes directions for obtaining access, if necessary, to sealed court documents in Michigan. From what they would and wouldn't tell me, some of those materials are illegal to possess even in Karedonia."

"Okay. So color me surprised he wasn't dumped into the foster care system for the few months until coming here. That doesn't excuse him his attitude."

"It was more like two or three years ago. Moreover, his employers had new identity documents and adoptive parents lined up before walking into that court room. Somehow, that leads to his activities in East Africa. You failed a saving throw when you saw those miniature medals."

"His employers? Robert, he's barely old enough to shave! And, if he's so unstable, why isn't Keeling in Hawthorne?"

"He's in dire need of socialization, possibly suicidal. He's also a manifestor. Locking him up in a single room under chemical restraints, because that's what it would take to prevent a suicide, serves no one's best interests. Debra's adding him to the Cottage Protocols as a 'do not leave unattended, ever' trustee."

"What about Poe? The mental health angles to his situation would shore up the cottage's reputation."

"Did that boy strike you as someone who'd sit still for Bella casting a spell on him 'for his own good'?"

"No, but it might be fun to watch."

"Speaking of which, I've heard that Imp's special topics class is fun to watch."

"Oh, really?"

"Maybe not today, but it comes highly recommended. Just don't hit on the TA."

Mental Health Dept. Waiting Room, Doyle Medical Center.

Benjamin had been notified that the morning's appointment had been moved back an hour, leaving him something called "free time". On the one hand, it was too short to really get into something. On the other, it was a long time to spend doing nothing. Spending too much time doing nothing was an invitation to start thinking about all the things he didn't want to think about. Here, at a school crawling with telepaths and empaths, that was asking for even more trouble than the other stuff.

He couldn't go annoy Peter because the thing with programmers is that you can't see what they're doing. They could be up to their eyeballs in work they'd lose just by interacting with people, or they could really use a break. Both states looked the same. Knowing Peter as he did, Benjamin wasn't certain that those weren't identical states. The guy really needed to unwind.

Mom would say that time spent contemplating the big, unknowable things is time well-spent. Hm. That might be something better suited to sharing out to nosy mind-readers than his past. Therefore, he needed something unknowable to work with. He could hit the school store to pick out a couple of brushes and an ink block to make do with for his calligraphy practice. At the checkout lane, he added a box of lemon drops to his purchase. Judging by her comment about rotting his teeth out, Colombine clearly didn't know what she was missing out on.

Maybe he should budget some time for working out? As long as he stayed off the free weights and the weight machines and the treadmills he should be okay. That only left, what? Boring stuff.

Benjamin ended up in the Mental Health Department with twenty minutes to spare. He pulled out his esper homework assignment. It was a penny, struck in 1998 at the Denver Mint, with a scratch starting along Lincoln's nose. Its sole goal was to exist. His goal was to become so familiar with it that he could pull it from a jar full of pennies. Pennies and sea salt, because some folks cheated even more than he did. He absent-mindedly rolled the coin across his knuckles while paging through his transcribed notes on a virtual display. With thousands of years of legerdemain history, there should be some tricks that wouldn't dock his grade. Minutes later, he manifested a duplicate to exercise his off hand.

It felt good to have that much control over his nerves instead of being at their mercy. His throat tightened at the familiar fear of not knowing when the next seizure might strike. Maybe he wasn't as much over his injury as he thought he was? Sucked to be him.

A young woman said, "I give up. Which one's the real bad penny?"

Benjamin looked up to see Thulia Firedrake's smiling face. Her golden eyes looked extra predatory today, like a dragon appraising a new bauble for the hoard.

How long had she been watching?

Losing my touch here.

Benjamin stopped the coin walks and flipped the right hand's penny in the air. At the apex of the flip, it disappeared. He passed the left-hand penny to the right and held it up.

"I'd guess this one," he said, by way of minimal explanation.

Thulia shook her head. "The process of physical elimination is no substitute for scientific enquiry."

Benjamin cracked an appraising smile and said, "How much you want to bet on that?"

From her office doorway, Dr. Delacroix said, "I'll admit a small wager would have me intrigued."

"Five dollars on Mr. Holmes. Once you eliminate the impossible, only the possible remains."

Benjamin walked up to Thulia, close enough to invade her personal space. His left hand darted out toward her purse, as if to snatch it. Damn, she was strong! The coin in his right hand disappeared. When Thulia released his bruised left forearm, he opened his fist to show a 1998 Denver Mint penny that remained a penny when she picked it up to examine it.

"That isn't the correct coin, is it?"

"Of course not. It's just not made of manifested matter."

"You aren't by any chance on work-release from that DeVille Academy I've been hearing urban legends about?"

Again, Benjamin flashed that lopsided smile of his – the real one – and said, "It's not my story to tell. But, I had decent training, if I do say so myself."

Thulia pulled a five-something bill from her purse.

"I'm beginning to see what Morgana and Laura see in you."

"Maybe they could brief Icejack someday? I think I'm officially back to Merely An Annoying Acquaintance with him."

"I'm pretty sure that he will only hear your case if you're the one presenting it."

Dr. Delacroix interrupted the sage draconic advice with, "Benjamin, if you're through fleecing my client, don't we have an appointment to attend to?"

Benjamin said to Thulia, "Well! See you tomorrow, then."

"Before or after the test?"

"The what?"

"Benjamin. No stalling."

"Coming."

Dr. M.B. Delacroix's Office.

Maire Brigid opened the session with the most recent item on the docket. "For the record, you're still a crap liar."

"What can I say? Everyone got what they expected from the transaction. So, no harm, no foul."

"Is that how you look at social interactions?"

She hadn't taught the child that well! Those who'd taken him after? Interesting, if not disconcerting.

"There's social capital on both sides. Throw in open and covert arrangements, debits, credits, risks and benefits, and it sounds like one to me. The only difference from finance is the conservation of Joy and Despair."

Maire was too much of a professional to roll her eyes at teen reductionism.

"How long have you been practicing that answer?"

"A couple of years spent working for Jameson?"

She was going to have to research Benjamin's "supervisor" more than she'd managed so far. What was the real relationship there?

Benjamin continued with, "Don't ask me too much about real-world accounting, but that's what comes to mind. I mean, trying to guess what people want from you when they're being passive-aggressive never works. Some days – okay, most days – it's like the entire human race is a pack of aliens. Maybe a herd of aliens; packs are organized and have a purpose. I could use a porpoise."

"Lacking in purpose, like the way you're rambling instead of discussing this past weekend?"

He sighed, "It could have been so much worse."

"How so?"

Benjamin had to think about that one. Mrs. Turner's offer of a ride had been thoughtful if coerced. But he had wanted to spend more time with Peter, working on those drone controls! And Peter. That wasn't what really made his back itch like a little red dot was dancing across it.

"That other guy, the one they made me into. He's supposed to be dead, but he could have gotten loose. That could have been bad."

Dr. Delacroix asked, "You said 'that other guy'. Could you tell me more about that?"

"You're not going to ask me to 'use my own words'?"

"That's the standard practice. But, do I need to tell you which way to point a claymore?" Benjamin shook his head. "No? Good. Do you have any ideas toward ensuring that 'your own words' haven't been pre-planted in your head against the risk of you finding a therapist who'd listen?"

Mass hysteria alone was enough to sideline most confirmational approaches he'd heard of. Then there was the Eyeless Witless effect. Ruling out psi, devisor tech, and magic, there too many other ways to turf an investigation. Having recently gone through psychic surgery, he knew not to rule out psi. She had a good point!

Benjamin finally sighed, dejected.

"No. I can't step outside my own head, not at a cost that I can afford. And that's the thing, isn't it? He's got to be me unless I've grown a spare brain somewhere. He should look a lot like the person I was rebuilt to impersonate, who should be a lot like me. But at best I'm an average person, so there's just nothing to target as a weak point!"

"What about getting to know him and whatever he might be hiding?"

NO!

"Benjamin!"

When had he started hugging his knees? Benjamin stared down at the carpet. Funny how the non-patterns worked into it formed patterns. He needed to breathe. What was the question? How long had he been out?

"There could be a good reason it's all blocked off," he said, sniffing to clear his nose. Maybe the rusty coppery taste was real on his tongue, maybe it wasn't.

"Benjamin, my job is to help you patch yourself together. That can't happen if I hand you bolt cutters when what you need are rivets. We also can't have you dying in a bus crash before graduation. In my professional opinion, you shouldn't be off-campus without a safed vehicle and appropriate staff supervision. Maybe not just staff. But by appropriate supervision, I'm talking about someone you can't ditch, trick, annoy into leaving, or persuade to ditch you."

"Doesn't matter much what I do if someone else separates us." Benjamin sighed in spite of himself. "There are just too many ways to separate a mark from its herd. Either way, I can't have them drawing too much attention to me."

"Why not draw attention? A snatch and grab is far more difficult to pull off with witnesses. Hostile witnesses are even better." Maire Brigid explained further, "It's not a matter of preventing the attempt but one of making it too costly to be worth the risks at that time. Speaking of witnesses."

"Yes?"

"Did you threaten to bring down the wrath of the Underdogs on a certain young man residing in Emerson Cottage?"

"No."

"Well?"

"All I said was that a person could get hurt, sticking their leg out in traffic." Benjamin shrugged as if it had been a casual observation. "Imagine if Molten stepped on your ankle."

That was too much emphasis on "said", wasn't it?

"Or?"

"I think I should leave that to my own imagination and to circumstance."

Colombine spoke up, "Benjamin, Doctor, is it possible that the Underdogs contacted the putz on their own, and the stories became conflated?"

Benjamin shook his head. "No. They can't know me well enough to risk going to bat for me like that."

Emotional detachment and low self-esteem don't cope well with reality, do they?

Dr. Delacroix said instead, "They might have more to lose if others see them fail to go to bat for an obvious Underdog than they do by taking a risk on backing you up. The appearance of weakness can be exploited against groups of people as easily as against individuals. Unfairly, in this case, if you choose to reject them."

"I don't like using people that way."

"You've lead teams into dangerous situations on several occasions that I know about. Don't tell me you don't use people."

"That's different! It was their job."

"Just as the Underdogs have the job of defending other kids who lack the power to defend themselves on their own?" Maire asked. "There isn't much difference between accepting money to provide for security and accepting the security services directly."

"I'll have to think about that."

Meanwhile, if he pulled his head down further into his shoulders, they'd have to change his callsign to either Cecil or Bert the Turtle.

Maire asked, "You don't think they deserve your support?"

"What? No! It's not like that at all!"

"How is it then?"

"I don't know about all the others, but Billy, Tabitha, some others, they're legitimately nice people. If there is a legit risk, why should they get hurt looking out for me?"

"Because they are genuinely nice people who might care about you? Maybe? Either way, what would you do if you saw one of them being bullied, walk away?"

Light brown eyebrows scrunched together. "First, I'd ask Colombine to get Security out to do their damned jobs. Then, I'd assess, pick my targets, and so forth. I would be within my rights and training to act on reducing the conflict before escalation to charges. It might be helpful if Colombine could get multi-angle video and audio capture, but we'd have to look into how best to do that, if and when it happens."

Colombine said to Benjamin, "Is the issue one of ensuring the authenticity of the originals? I can research that for American and Commonwealth legal systems."

Benjamin replied, "An AI might not be trusted with the originals. You'd be considered an accomplice."

"Benjamin, Colombine. Playing 'rules for thee but not for me' is a good way to alienate people. Speaking of which, you can discuss tactics on your own time far more effectively than you can here."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"No, you aren't, but I appreciate the gesture. Next session, I'd like to discuss what you remember of Saturday's events. Your homework this week will be to learn more than just the names of the one or two Underdogs who've approached you. In person. No dumping IRC logs or email chains in my inbox. No leaving it to me to figure it out for you. That's not how this op is going to work."

"Says who? Lots of people communicate electronically."

Dr. Delacroix said, "My office, my appointments, no unions, my rules. Got it?"

The boy pouted. No winning this one.

"Got it."

Was that everything though?

"There is one thing you could help with."

Monday Evening,
Holographic Simulation Center, The Tunnels.

Dr. Delacroix and Belfry made for a rather mismatched pair. Signing in for "professional development" only made the circumstances that much more peculiar. On the other hand, having Security Chief Samantha Everheart on hand would protect any reputations that needed protecting. Two AIs also stood by, observing from cyberspace.

While Belfry took the arrangements in stride, Dr. Delacroix suspected some crucial data had been omitted.

"Isn't this all a little overkill?" she asked.

Everheart raised an arched eyebrow.

"Given the... lingering irregularities in your patient's records, I'm concerned that it may be insufficient. The neural bypass we use is a devise. The medical equipment he destroyed in his first week here wasn't."

Fair enough.

Everheart continued, saying, "Under the circumstances, you'll both be seeing our 'Creating Your Profile' and 'Intro to the Holographic Sims' videos.  The simulations afterward should be short enough to risk an anxiolytic about now. There's a water fountain in the hallway."

With Benjamin out of the way, Samantha asked the psychologist, "Why are you coming along on a familiarization run, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Better sooner than later. Also, my colleagues have informed me that the simulations the school uses can be psychologically damaging. I need background and benchmarks. More importantly, I need the experience."

"Good reasons."

"I thought so."

Both briefing videos could be used as a sleeping aid, but the audience soldiered on.

Speaking of soldiering on, some operatives carry less concealed and disguised gear than one child psychologist. On the other hand...

"Belfry, could you explain why you carry a standard multitool?"

Benjamin shrugged. "Security personnel get cranky if there's nothing to confiscate. They also like to find the sacrifice picks."

Dr. Delacroix suggested he "Then consider a sacrificial knife, concealed against casual search. Marks value the toy prizes they work for. In the case of a shoe conceal, metatarsal protection limits what can be done."

"A broken foot is even more limiting."

Benjamin knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped out onto the simulated Quad.

"Cee? Did we screw up the profile? I've got binocular vision, though my left eye's heavily washed out."

Colombine's voice edged over the shared comm channel. "Admiral?"

"Belfry, I don't know what you're used to, but there's traffic associated with the optic nerve. We'll log that for the review. Doctor? How are you doing?"

"Walking in heels is, sadly, quite realistic." Maire was still missing something from her senses. "Not being able to notice scent, and I presume taste, could interfere with detecting some poisons."

Benjamin replied, "Some folks find nasal tubes and mouth sheaths too invasive for casual use, and masks with those features cannot be shared."

"As long as those aren't the only," Dr. Delacroix began to muse, but suddenly stopped. Starved for contact, perhaps?

"Belfry, how invasive are your suit's attachments?"

"Enough for normies to regret ever asking that question, but my suit does include a urine port."

Everheart broke in before the conversation could become any more candid.

"If proprioception is within limits, I want to proceed to powers demonstration. Populating background now."

Now that the place was meant to feel authentic, how good was that background?

Dr. Delacroix spoke first.

"I propose a test of hand-and-eye coordination. Say, five minutes?"

"Singular difficulty or combination points?"

"A mix would be more diagnostic. Jury decides."

Benjamin grinned.

"Showtime!"

Over the years, more than a few staff members have observed students free to act in the simulators and said, "Thank God they're on our side." The five-minute haul included, cash, jewelry, cell phones, holdouts, identification, two bras, and a sidearm.

Benjamin looked over to comment, "You know, that would be more impressive if you swapped—"

Maire ejected the magazine and handed it to her former student.

"Damn."

"Likewise, I could ask where the flask came from, but I suspect the owner's even more interested. Judges?"

"The Admiral would like to speak to someone about that afterward," was Belvedere's amused response. "Colombine has her biases, so I'm calling it for the Doctor. She has better taste in jewelry."

"Fair enough," Benjamin admitted. "Was Scarlyt was meant to be one of the raven traps?"

All of the Bohemians were, though it was telling that none of the Masterminds were targeted. "Why her?"

"Which one is Scarlyt?" Maire asked.

"Red-headed landshark everyone was avoiding? Facial scar under the foundation?"

"Interesting. I presume we need the crowd for powers demonstration?"

Early in her years at DeVille Academy, Maire Brigid had learned how to disappear in a crowd or to find the hidden esper working one. Benjamin was just gone. Assuming he was in the simulation, he had to be actively avoiding those who didn't know he was present. According to her briefing, the simulation team should be throwing all those persons known to crack invisibility at Benjamin.

Meanwhile, HIVE had her own problems.

"Folks, talk to me here. Are Belfry and Colombine still in the system, or not?"

Belvedere reported, "Colombine tells me they're still connected. Benjamin confirms that he's seeing the room around him but cannot move."

"Sir, the optic nerve traffic looks like Belfry should be seeing through his blind eye now. We have some old customized files that might help."

"Go for it. All stations stand by. Let me know when our folks get video at least."

The police officer's uniform was unfamiliar, but his body language was a mix of studied performance and experience. More stiff than swagger. That marked him as probably one of the school's junior security officers if his original police training was so recent. He held a hand out to Maire.

"Care to disappear?"

"Again? With you my escort? Don't ask me to believe your nametag."

Confusion clouded the young man's face. He flipped out a palmed mirror, studied his appearance, then pocketed it.

The special constable frowned again at whatever radio traffic was coming across his earpiece. Something must be up with the simulation again. Even as a child, more of a child, Benjamin had that affect on people,

"... oh. That's never been a problem... You're sure?"

What did it say about his situation that even in a secured box, in a secured facility, in virtual reality, Benjamin still wore body armor worked into his school uniform? He took his jacket off to sit down next to his therapist and former governess. Instead of looking at her directly, he hung his head.

"I guess I've changed more than I realized."

"For some that's just puberty. What do you feel that's different?" Maire waved broadly at the mutant spectacle around them. "Everyone else is going through their own changes. You could have more in common with them than it looks."

"But they're supposed to!"

"So are you. I know I have, at your age and as adult. From my limited perspective, I dare say you've more changes ahead of you."

"Then why do I still wake up afraid that, of, you know?"

Remembered the recording equipment just now, did you?

"Because you can't change your starting point, only your path and destination. Being human works that way."

"Oh."

"Indeed. Now if the Admiral and company have the data they need, you need to get back in the real world."

"If you say so."

"I do. You first. Didn't you say you have more things to clean and disinfect? I have a few things to say to the Admiral privately and you have school in the morning."

Benjamin dropped out of the simulation, but not without an eyeroll and a smirk along the way.

One wonders how that attitude will play out in the school's security reports.

"You skipped some tests, Admiral," Dr. Delacroix said. "How much data are you lacking?"

"We were certain that Colombine wouldn't be cut out on the invisibility test. Outside, she isn't. We have a workaround, but it might not work when he makes others disappear. According to validated reports, he can do that. Other perception alterations tests also provided inconclusive results."

"How so?"

"You threw Benjamin for a loop the first three times you didn't recognize or notice him. He's been told before that it's an esper effect."

"One that could be blocked by someone of my training?"

"That was the intent."

"No other motives? I'm somewhat disappointed."

"None others pending further investigation."

"My door is open to faculty and staff as well as students."

"Why would I need more counseling?"

"Psychology includes looking for patterns and explanations of how other people think. Food for thought."

Tuesday morning, January 17, 2017,
Twain Cottage, Morning Tai Chi Chuan, Laird Hall.

This far into the school year, Benjamin knew everything he need to know about "cold, crisp, mornings". For example, they're way too cold for walking back to Twain in sweaty clothes. Hurray for holding winter practices indoors! Last week's negative Fahrenheit numbers were too much "nope", no matter how happy those temperatures made crazy people like Arsi. On the other hand, Sifu Wong's early morning tai chi chuan class had to be one of the school's better perqs. Few kids sporting "jock" abilities went out for the "soft" martial arts. Nothing to show off! Fewer show-offs translated to fewer attempts to speed up practice until it was pointless for everyone else.

In other news, Sifu Wong only required modest clothing that wouldn't get in the way of the forms. Benjamin put on a training uniform, tossed some clean clothes into his gym bag, and headed out.

Boys' locker room.

Benjamin's original plan was to practice jurus after tai chi wrapped up. Maybe grab Peter for breakfast? He hadn't accounted for catching Sifu Wong's attention. Gracious and polite as the Chinese master was, he still felt like an absolute beginner by the time she called it a morning. Swallowing his pride, he closed his eyes and began his mental review of all the stupid or careless mistakes.

"Hey, Benjamin! Hello? Earth to Benjieeee..."

"Huh?" Why was someone waving their hand in front of his face?

"You need to get dressed sometime this morning," Billy said. "That is unless you want to miss breakfast?"

"Oh. Yeah. I was just thinking."

"She must be really good-looking!" Saumer's voice? Was everyone from the floor here? Ah, right. The Mongolian wrestling club.

"Don't let Sifu Wong hear you saying that," Benjamin said. "Besides, perving on teachers isn't cool."

Satisfied that Benjamin was functioning on his own, everyone else went back to whatever they were doing. In Billy's case, that was Twenty Questions. That was supposed to be Benjamin's assignment!

Question One: "I thought you're not allowed to do martial arts?"

"Full-contact sparring is out, weapons practice is way out, but supervised practice is encouraged. I'm in the morning Tai Chi Chuan class."

"They always finish long before Coach Khan remembers to end practice," Billy's tone was more good-natured kidding than complaining. "What gives?"

"Don't I get a turn to aks a question? Jeez."

Billy startled like he'd been bopped with a rolled-up newspaper. Too much sarcasm? "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude! I should go."

Benjamin shook his head. Knee brace before socks? The floor was wet. Getting his socks wet would suck.

"If you ever offend me, seriously, you'll be the second to know. Look. I tried out my very rusty jurus after class. Sifu had comments and suggestions. My point was I don't even know your last name."

Not entirely true, but effective.

"Hastings. Kind of dull, but it would be a whole lot worse if you looked like me and your name was Bassett."

There it is, folks: a sense of humor!

"Don't like your family much? Not judging."

"No! I love my family!" Billy's protest was endearing. "D-doesn't everyone?"

"Sometimes?" The negative thoughts were back on the prowl, so Benjamin amended that to, "No. Not everyone."

Time for a change of subject? Billy asked, "What's a juru? You mentioned that just now. Fair game."

"Like a kata. I've been training in silat the last couple of years, when I've had the time. Totally worth it. Mom's approach is closer to Tai Chi Chuan, but very internal."

"You live with your Mom, then? Now I'm confused about what you said about your family."

"It's cool. I'm adopted now, so I've got a real family. Maybe we should get breakfast and then head back to Twain?"

"That works. But seriously, though. It was bad enough some of my cousins went off the deep end, them and their preacher, when I manifested. Lose my whole family? I'd go insane."

"The Groenwalds I've met are no loss, as far as I'm concerned. So much for godparents."

"Ain't that Greenwood in English?" An anxious nasal whine crept into Billy's voice. Unhappy Bloodhound. Got it.

"Before World War One made being German unpopular here in the States? Yeah. Oh. Do you mean that Green Cross cunt? Nah. I'd be dead ten times over by now." Positive thoughts. Technically, that might count as one. Benjamin asked, "So what's it like, having cousins and first cousins and aunts, uncles, and stuff?"

"Well, around holidays it gets really busy, what with all the cooking and shopping and being chased out of the kitchen. The rest of the year, there's all the birthday parties that you just have to go to — even when one of my parents isn't talking to that sister or this brother (like my uncle). Sometimes it's cool. Like when you confuse the teachers as to which one of you is in their class or not. LOTS of Christmas cards. Sure, there's arguments and fights now and then, but it all works out. I mean, it used to. Maybe it will again. I don't know. Sorry. I get carried away."

Benjamin said, "Don't be. I asked you about it. I used to get homesick too, the first time I was sent off to school."

"Used to?" Billy asked, "How did you get over it?"

"Very early on, I found out that I wasn't the only one missing out. I learned to make the best of the good things I could find. If that doesn't work, getting a good head start on being somewhere else should."

"What about the bad things?"

"Still working on that. Ever hear the old song about 'changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes'? Dude knew what he was talking about."

"Yeah. My uncle's a Parrot Head from way back. Now that I'm reminded, have you thought about joining any of the school clubs?"

"I heard most of them shut down for the winter."

"Not all of them," Billy said. "Around here, Underdogs are pretty much underdogs all year long. That's why those of us who don't have flashy powers hang together."

Benjamin said, "Stand together or hang separately? One sure beats the other."

"So you'll think about it?"

"That's assuming the others would want me around."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"I'm not a big fan of making nice with folks who need to grow the fuck up."

Billy backed up a bit, then said, "Oookay."

"See?"

"I'd hate to see how you'd handle getting pulled over by a cop," lied Billy. It might be funny — from a distance.

Benjamin shrugged it off, saying, "Depends on the cop."

Speaking of, Officer Yuki Takenaka caught the two freshmen yards short of the Crystal Hall doors.

"Depends? Sure. It depends on Keeling here having a legal vehicle, a valid driver's license, and a living will, among other things. Good luck with all that, by the way."

Benjamin stopped and turned, "Why, if it isn't Officer Takenaka! Good m—"

"Officer Takenaka, my ass. As in, don't blow smoke up mine." To Billy Hastings, she said, "He knows better than to drive without medical clearance. So far, no one who's ever seen him behind a wheel makes that mistake a second time."

Benjamin fired back with, < Weren't you the one who told me 'sergeants ride, privates drive?' >

Yuki shrugged, < Why do you think I told you that? Sergeant. Stop being an asshole and make the puppy kid happy. You're going to need backup now and then.>

< I think I've been adopted already. >

< That's even better. The way I see it, they can only blame themselves for that. >

Takenaka relented under the onslaught of Billy's lost and confuzzled puppy eyes, "I know Keeling here from back home in the Ash Bucket. Don't let him deal your cards, and you should be good." She gave a smirking half-salute to the boy in question before walking off.

"Um?"

"The Bukit Aseng district's where my parents and I live. Yuki knows me from there. We both speak Malay."

"..."

"No. We didn't meet while she was arresting me."

"I didn't say anything!"

"Billy? You're looking for the exit, and we aren't even inside the cafeteria yet." Benjamin shook his head, "Come on. Let's get some food before they run out."

Wednesday afternoon, January 18, 2017,
Theory and Practice of the Escape.

Benjamin was mildly surprised to find the classroom door open and voices coming from the inside. There was plenty of time before class, but he still inspected the doorway under UV and IR light. There was always a chance that the Imp had set up something elaborate for extra credit. It wouldn't pay to trash that by accident.

He edged around the vertically-placed monofilament trip line. That would have been a lot of super fun balls to chase down.

"Awww. You're no fun!" his boss complained.

"Have you considered anchoring the line closer to the latch side, top and bottom, and connecting the line to the hinged side of the jamb between the two? I doubt anyone would expect a diagonal trip."

"Why don't you demonstrate? We've got time."

Imp went back to talking to Tabby Cat. If it had anything to do with him, he could ask Colombine for a replay later.

Benjamin disarmed the trap, replacing the release pin with a cotter pin from a belt pouch. Then, he moved the anchor points, added a new one, restrung the trap with a longer piece of monofilament he'd wiped down with solvent to dull any trace reflections. On second thought, he replaced the middle anchor with an optical/IR release latch, just in case someone tried to break out a lighter or hot glue gun to fuse the polymer line in place.

It had worked on Max. Once. Why the guy carried around a freaking torch was a whole different kettle of fried fish.

After he finished tinkering, Imp asked, "Are you ready to find out how many of our students even played with their handcuffs over the long weekend?"

"I'm going to be disappointed, aren't I?"

"You and Susan Moira have reasons to be motivated. Just about everyone else thinks they'll never get caught, or caught again."

"..."

"You'd be surprised how often supervillains think the same way," Tabby Cat added. "It's not just street-level criminals."

Fair enough. He'd wondered how many were only after the guaranteed three hots and a cot at Her Majesty's Iron Bar Hotel.

"But, even the name of the course implies that just about anyone can get caught!"

"You'll see."

Morgana, Luna, and Abigail had practiced. The others? Not so much.

Benjamin choked down his disappointment. This was a Special Topics class, being taught by a well-known expert, which had a wait-list for registration! Sure, he knew better than to expect his peers to always be sensible. But, this was just sad. How was he supposed to fit in with this sorry lot?

The reason for Mrs. Turner's visit became clear when the lecture section of the class turned to the discussion of various apprehension techniques and procedures. Rhode Island's STAR League necessarily operated under different codes and bylaws to New York's Empire City Guard or New Jersey's Shielders, et cetera. Wedawihla Tribal Police procedures weren't discussed, but Benjamin remembered Yuki telling him that the Tribe "does not fuck around."

Benjamin had just about gotten comfortable perched on the corner of a desk when Luna Wright said, "It must suck for British police forces. What do they get to do, twirl their batons?"

Seriously?

"Actually," Benjamin drawled, letting some of his father's West Midlands accent through, "Most call-outs don't require a baton, incapacitant spray, or taser. However, if you plan on committing a crime with paranormal abilities in play, Armed Response Vehicles are likely to be dispatched. In those cases, you may find yourself looking down the barrel of a Glock 17, H&K G36, or a H&K MP5 variant. Different municipalities favor different suppliers, but firearms, stun grenades, supers, it's all fair play at that point."

Speaking of fair play, one or more of the students should have remembered that a trap evaded but not disarmed is still a hazard. Thus, at the mid-point break, Laura ended up triggering a shower of various balls onto her friend Morgana. That, in turn, left a patch of rolling trip hazards between those lagging behind to point and laugh and the restrooms they wanted to use.

The Imp held back one more surprise for the end of class.

"Alright! We have a few minutes left. So, who volunteers to be the first to see what it feels like to get tagged with a taser? Anyone named Benjamin or Morgana is automatically disqualified from this game."

Kent Holloway spoke out, "Why them?"

"A little birdie told me that Miss Jones has already played with enough electricity last term."

"And him?"

"Do you want to be the one calling Doctor Bombay to explain why you voided the warrantee on her patient?"

"Um, no?"

"Smart boy. You're our first contestant on The Voltage Is Right!"

After class was over, some items needed recharging, others only needed to be stored away. That's what TAs are for! Mrs. Turner came over to the table where Benjamin was sorting the gear used in class.

"About last Saturday?" she started to say.

"What about it?" Benjamin asked. "Oh! Right. Did our lawyers get everything sorted? It's been three years, but it all keeps getting dug back up like a rotten old bone."

"I've had problems much older than that come back to bite me in the ass."

"You know what that means?"

Was this kid going to try to lecture her again? To his very limited credit, he had known his stuff this afternoon.

"I'll bite. What?"

"You're still alive and kicking. If old tales are the best the bastards can throw at you, that's a success, ennit?"

Benjamin paused just long enough for effect before adding, "Or so my real father says."

No harm, no foul?

Tabitha said, "We'll see. Why don't you head off? I have a few things to discuss with your boss and it shouldn't be too hard to wrap this up."

Benjamin turned to The Imp, who returned his look with a "girl talk, get lost" nod and a smile.

"We out!"

Wednesday Evening,
Holographic Simulation Center, The Tunnels.

A student helper pointed the way to where Team 6502 was scheduled for their indoc class. And, except for a comment or two from Icejack, everything seemed to be going well. Then the student helper introduced himself as Belfry, their instructor for the evening.

"Luckily for all concerned, your data profiles match your powers testing results and security files. So we'll be skipping over a truly riveting piece called 'Creating Your Profile' and go straight to the ever-popular 'Intro to the Holographic Sims' video while get my sim suit on. After that, it's gear check-in, suit fit, and so forth. It's my understanding your training has been running time late. However, we will verify that you have correct gear that fits."

"Even if they aren't perfect they should be good enough?"

"For fifteen minutes at a time in a classroom, perhaps. For upwards of an hour, immobile in a hard chair, sitting on a crease or a botched seam, no. Pressure wounds on their own are bad enough. Introducing sweat, oils, and dead skin into such wounds is a sure way to contract a nasty infection. MRSA can take an exemplar-4 down for a dirt nap if left untreated."

"Any other concerns?"

All six sophomores had a feeling that this maniac was prepared to happily carry on in gruesome detail.

"No? Good. Enjoy the show."

Belfry slipped back in a few minutes before the video was over. Or rather, the team assumed it was him. Unlike the suits shown in the video, he wore a full mask with enclosed mouth and nose.

"Don't worry folks, you won't be forced into what is still a prototype. If you've noticed a flat metallic disk inside your suits, at the back of your neck, that's your neural pickup devise. I have an additional setup to intercept and translate speech. The folks who designed it see commercial potential if testing goes well."

Cam wasn't worried much about the technology. He'd suspected something was up when Pete pulled a VR expert out of his hat. He had not expected a brand-new freshman from across the way in Twain. With said expert dressed up like that, Pete's higher functions were all but offline. He could forgive his roommate for being oblivious. But the other two guys in the room couldn't be that dense, could they? Well, maybe.

Then again, if he had a BMI that low, maybe he'd show it off too. Just saying.

Back in the lockerrooms, Belfry took charge again.

"Okay. Cricket. Let's lay your suit out and see if it makes sense."

"I didn't ask for this!" Usually, GSD-related problems didn't bother Rex much. However, it was late and the suit did resemble an Addams family pet octopus.

"It had better be close to what you asked for."

"That's not what I meant."

"How about giving it a chance? Camshaft? You're his roommate, I expect you to help."

"What with?"

"These suits are back-entry. Unless he can get his hind legs in while sitting? It's still easier if someone helps slip his legs in." Belfry added, "I wasn't kidding about wrinkles and don't get anything twisted!"

Surprisingly, once Rex's legs and arms were in, he could pull the back zipper up with ease. He still looked like a rubberized insectoid something-taur, but the suit fit.

"What about Archeopterix?"

Belfry said, "I'm going to check on her now. Icejack, there should be a pair of nonskid overshoes with your suit to keep from slipping on this tile. When you gentlemen are ready meet us in the hallway."

Rex watched their instructor go. "Is he going to waltz into girls lockerroom like that?"

Peter could picture it. He didn't like it for some reason, but that wouldn't stop anyone.

"My alternates were my parents or Cyberkitty. No fucks given either way."

Just like before, one moment Benjamin was in a chair in a box, the next he was on Whateley Academy's Quad. At Colombine's suggestion he'd chosen a warmer time of year. For some reason, the Simulator techs were happier to avoid Halloween too. Something to bribe staff about later.

"According to my briefing, Entelecheia's powers are spirit-focused. Halloween or the Hungry Ghost Festival should make that run smoother. As you might guess, I chose August."

"While true, contacting the other side can take some time. Should everyone be made to wait on me?"

"You're a team," Belfry said. "If you need lead time or specific backup, your team leader needs to account for that before things go pear-shaped. We can relocate to Range 4. Icejack launch your drone. We can use that to verify Cricket's, Archeopterix, and Derecha's mobility."

"I have a grav belt!"

"Which can be demonstrated at the Range while your teammate prepares. Also, Camshaft needs to try out his holdouts and check for psi blind spots."

As it turned out, the grav belt needed more practice. That practice would preferably be conducted away from moving, stationary, or just about any hazards at all if their instructor had any say in the matter. On the girls' promise to get Peter on the right track, Belfry called in a temporary denial on that gear. For some it was on to munitions, blasting things with ice, and other fun activities. Toward the end, Entelecheia struck up a conversation with someone who'd walked up instead of well, doing whatever a medium does. At first look, the sim crew had inserted another background student.

That conclusion didn't survive a closer smell. It was, by far, not the kind of smell that Benjamin's gear was meant for.

That was why he carried a vial of menthol-camphor paste in his utility belt. He still asked Colombine to add decent air scrubbers to his gear wish list.

"Care to introduce us?"

"Belfry, this is Jacob Linden."

"Hello, Jacob. Is there anything we can do for you tonight?"

In the corner of Benjamin's eye, Trina was frantically signaling not to do something. What?

"Please don't take this the wrong way. But... Does it hurt?"

"Does it... right. I see ya."

That wasn't the sort of question Belfry planned on fielding tonight. Shouldn't you ask a medium?

"I'm not going to lie to you." Some things you just don't lie about. "It can. Depending on what you have ahead of you. You have to face that or you can't reach whatever peace lies beyond."

"I meant," Jacob looked to Trina in confusion. "I guess I need to think about it. You all should go back to your own world now."

"God speed, Jacob. Entelecheia? Now would be a good time to drop that red ball."

Did she look pale compared to earlier? First run's the hardest.

Exiting the simulation so soon, Trina lost the chance to say, "But he said you were the ghost."

That couldn't be right.

Could it?

Lunch, Early Thursday afternoon, January 19, 2017,
Lower Deck, Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

Peter Raiford let several minutes of Benjamin's "explanation" of why his therapy homework was so unreasonable sink in. He was thankful for the guy helping out with the simulator. He was! But maybe the homework wouldn't be quite so unreasonable on top of Algebra and English if he had help? Gee, where would a person find a tutor with all the qualified students off on Winter Term projects? Open-ended hints landed like lead balloons around the jerk. Sooner or later, Benjamin would have to wind down from describing the problems and get around to the fixing of things — if only to get to the next class.

"You know... I could just ask Homely to stop by and put your procrastination out of our misery."

Benjamin looked up from his tray, wide-eyed, at Peter. "You'd do that, wouldn't you?"

"Why yes, Mr. Keeling, since you asked so nicely I will help you after all. This should only take a few minutes."

"I didn't ask for... Oh. Well, it's supposed to be, you know, real somehow?"

"Not introductions. The set of social things only intersects the set of logical things."

Peter was tempted to add 'dummy' to that last part, but Benjamin would never, ever, handle that well.

To Benjamin, there was something vaguely wrong with the idea of letting Peter grease the social skids. On the other hand, the two of them got along well enough together, didn't they?

Tabitha 'Homely' Dieulafoy listened to the sophomore's pitch, mildly surprised that the Emerson boy wasn't trying to score a date with her parents' money. Apologies due to working models like Meow Mix, but there were so many exemplar booties in the other cottages that she couldn't see any other angle.

"Icejack, just stop. If Belfry really needed to get to know me better – as you claim – don't you think he could have just asked me? What's your game?"

"First off, interacting with people that he doesn't know well brings out the asshole in him. Then, when he fails at the whole being human thing, he goes back to hating himself and people in general. That, in turn, makes him much harder to put up with for the rest of us. My game is pure self-interest here."

"If it's so bloody hard for him to meet new people, how does he know you?" Got ya, mate.

There was no way Peter was going to admit to even more people that he'd needed a bodyguard. He'd made that mistake and paid for it. Admitting that Benjamin had been said bodyguard was very much Not Happening. Even his parents couldn't bring up the subject without making it uncomfortable. They could try for once, but he wasn't placing bets.

"He's worked for my parents the last two summers."

That still sounded so very wrong in so many ways.

"No, don't tell me the details." Mama didn't raise her youngest girl child to ask too many stupid questions. Knowing Icejack was 'out' as a Bad Seed filled in enough of the picture. "What do I get out of it?"

Peter leaned in for the kill, "How'd that Combat Final go for you back in December?"

But Belfry is the asshole?

Tabitha weighed her options against bruised pride before asking, "You think he can help me do better?"

"Yes. The trick is that even a telepath would have to ask the right questions. Watch out for him assuming that you know things that are obvious only to him."

"Sounds like a guest we had last April. Where is this odd duck of yours?"

Score one point for the boys: Belfry was where Icejack had said he was. Better yet, he might even be reading the book he had open. By the sound of it, "See" must be the attention tag for the personal assistant that he was dictating into. Close up, the diagrams looked like mechanical drawings. They'd met here, but now that Tabitha saw the boy in his natural state? She had to have met him before coming to school here. Maybe it had been his cousin? Curiouser and curiouser.

"Benjamin, right? Whotcha you working on?"

"Hi, Tabitha. Please, sit down. I'm just doing some last-ditch research for tomorrow's class."

"Don't mind if I do. And, please, call me Tabbie. Which class? I thought there weren't many good Winter Term classes for the folks who come in late."

"Not as far as I know, but Max is loving his Ranges course." said Benjamin. "I've got two catch-up courses and an intro to espies course for credit. This is for Theory and Practice of the Escape."

Given her parents' money and business, that sounded like something she should have looked into taking.

"See, now that last one's a class I'd want to take for credit. That is, if I thought I could pass it the first time out. Why aren't you doing that?"

"Conflict of Interest. Y'see, I'm The Imp's TA and practice dummy. Once we get past standard-issue handcuffs, ties, duct tape, and lock-picking, things should really get interesting."

Tabbie's eyebrows arched in disbelief. His gadgeteer bestie hadn't said anything about that.

"You're a teaching assistant? How'd you swing that?"

That got a laugh from the over-serious freshman. Which side of the guy was really him? Some of the comments posted on the "Kicking My Class" board began to make more sense.

"I kinda/sorta set myself up for a full battery of placement tests when I showed up. Mr. Anderson and The Imp have the Survival track."

"Don't I know it! I barely managed a 'C' in Survival I by the skin of my teeth. How'd you even place out of that?"

"I didn't. I can handle most of the physical aspects, you know?. Also, I know my way around some of the procedural dodges without wasting telephone calls. However, there's more to SERE training than that, and situations change. If I can get cleared by then, maybe I can take it next year. So! What did you have trouble with?"

"Trusting an American not to shaft me in our Combat Final."

"Imagine that!" Benjamin said, though his gut knotted brutally, reminded by a memory from last spring.

"It wasn't funny at the time!"

He wasn't laughing that time either.

Afterward, Benjamin decided there might be something to this getting to know people stuff. He'd never have guessed that being a Package-Deal Psychic could almost be a handicap. He could improve his strength, agility, and coordination with training, but Tabbie had hard limits on her psychokinesis. He wasn't exactly a war machine himself. He remembered how security systems had gone wonky when she manifested. Surprising that no one's thought to exploit that, but there had to be a way.

Whitman Cottage.

Arriving back to her room, Tabitha shooed Stella out so she could set up precautions against snooping. Not that Stella would spread rumors, but they couldn't become gossip if no one overheard. Once that was sorted, Tabbie Dieulafoy dialed a number from memory.

Tabbie hung up and put her various safeguards away. Time to see whose stories added up.

Twain Cottage.

"Like a pebble chucked into a pond" was how Colombine would describe the after-effects of Benjamin's talk with Miss Dieulafoy. Sifting out all the ambient wavelets left, at first, a silent stillness. Then, a query from a London hotelier drops into the pool and a ring of data packets disturbs the surface. It intersects obstacles hidden just beneath the water and other waves, and is reflected from known and suspected data brokers. Those reflections refract before rebounding again from an extended network that thinks it's well-hidden.

Chucking a data pebble or two of her own (using or abusing Benjamin's credentials as needed) produced a new map of favors owed and bills charged. The intersection of those sets was interesting. Once the traffic of interest died back down into ambient noise, she analyzed what should be a partial map of Tabitha's father's connections. Nothing unexpected or new turned up, but she could afford to be patient. "Let the other guys fuck up first," as Benjamin put it. He did know a thing or two about fuck-ups.

Friday, January 20, 2017,
near Crystal Hall.

With Belfry actively avoiding him, Puckwidget was at a complete loss on how to patch things up with the guy. The direct approach having failed, Plan B was to ask his roommate. That wasn't much easier, as Super-Dance-Party (who came up with that?) wasn't taking a normal class schedule at all. He finally intercepted the guy between the Ranges and Crystal Hall. At seven-foot-five, a halfback's build, and legs to match, catching up wasn't an option without running. Running after someone on this campus was a good way to get hurt.

Damn. He should have been a lot more suspicious of the junior who'd come back from Japan bad-mouthing Keeling.

"Yo! Super-Dance-Party! Wait up!"

Max Livingston turned around and rushed through, "Hey! What can I do you for? Do you mind if we 'walk and talk'? After lunch, I've got Japanese and choreography. No breaks, so skipping lunch isn't on the menu!"

There were plenty of anime and manga fans on campus. So, Japanese made sense.

"Er, yeah. Fine. Choreography class?"

"It never hurts to work at getting better at what you do, and the class is cheaper than hiring a professional from outside. Who'd you say you are?"

"Edward Effingham, but my friends call me Puck."

"Short for Puckwidget?"

"Er, yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard. Do you know how bad you screwed up Benjie's day, making him look like a tool in front of everybody?"

So much for the soft-sell approach.

Edward nodded, "That's what I wanted to talk about. I'd like to apologize to him and maybe include a token peace offering with the apology. Does Bel— Benjamin like chocolate?"

"He's not what I'd call 'a boob man'. Dude, I was around for last term's chocolate fiasco."

Oh, well. So much for that idea. Usually, returning prank for prank gives everyone a chance to show 'no bad feelings'.

Max went on, saying, "Not that he'd touch it, even if he could stand to pick up a few pounds."

"Why not? Is he allergic?"

Brrr. Puck remembered what happened to Gouyasse last term. Not that it justified what happened to the dragon-girl during finals, but, yikes.

"I don't think so. I do know he judges people on what they do. So, if you want to apologize, you gotta know he'll hold that as a promise you won't go taking another shot. Also, he doesn't accept gifts – or food – without knowing exactly what they are, exactly what's in them, and exactly what's expected of him in return. I'm surprised he's even eating in the cafeteria instead of living on MREs."

"That's paranoid, dude! He'd accept a gift from you or one of his other friends, right?"

"Hell, no. Look. I know just enough about why Benjie's screwed up to know that I do not ever want to know more. I gotta go, but think about what I said. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure."

"And work on the sincerity — that was just sad, Puck."

Emerson Cottage.

What kind of person doesn't like to get gifts? Was it some kind of crazy religious thing?

Puck wasn't stupid. Something wasn't adding up. When his sister clammed up before he could ask a simple question, that was Too Much. The issue wasn't big enough to burn his allowance on local "investigators". The Spy Kidz were cheaper, but they couldn't even deliver on their pet projects. Good thing there were still some free resources left.

"Umm. Mrs. Tolliver, could I ask you a few questions? For a friend, that is?" That sounded lame. "Well, maybe not exactly a friend, I guess."

"Edward, I hope you understand that such feelings are normal for a young man your age. They don't mean you have to revise your self-identity at a shift in the winds."

"Huh? That's not what I'm talking about at all. I don't think so, anyways. What are you talking about, Ma'am?"

"Let's go to my office before you shove your foot much further past those teeth."

A few minutes and a couple of cups of tea later, Mrs. Tolliver asked the nervous boy, "What is it that has one of our class clowns so tongue-tied?"

"There's this guy..."

"I believe you just said that you weren't talking about that?"

"Yes! I mean, I'm not talking about that. Let's say you wanted to bury the hatchet after a joke went a little too far?"

"Often a good idea. Best not to go so far in the first place, but do go on."

"So, I kind of asked around to see if giving him something would show that I didn't mean any harm."

"You'd best not be holding on to any of that devisor chocolate!"

"Maybe?" Edward pushed on before he incriminated himself more. "Anyway, his roommate told me it would be a cold day, er, downstairs, before he'd even touch candy or food from someone else. That sounded strange, cause I've never heard of anyone acting like... that..."

The darkening look on Mrs. Tolliver's face spoke volumes. She had heard of people acting like that. And, the reasons were not good.

"Edward. I'm going to need you to tell me which student we are talking about. If you're having me on, tell me now, and this discussion can end before anyone does get hurt."

"No, really! I'm talking about Benjamin Keeling over in Twain. Goes by Belfry? Somehow he's on Derrick's sh— Coal for Christmas list?"

"Give me a minute to look him up. From there, we'll see."

Mrs. Tolliver went over to the terminal on her desk. A pointed side-eye discouraged any attempts at shoulder-surfing. Several screens in, she muttered "Sweet mercy" to herself. More typing. "I wonder how much she understood?" A lot more typing was followed by, "God, that poor child."

"Mr. Effingham, I need your solemn word that you will not speak of this to anyone, anyone except maybe one of the licensed counselors at Doyle, about this. That especially includes your sister and Mr. Keeling."

Be a man about it, or be treated like a child for the next four years? Easy choice.

"Yes, ma'am. You have my word that this goes nowhere else."

"Have you ever heard that nasty joke: 'Strangers have the best candy'? For some children, it's fathers. Sometimes they share the candy with friends, if you can call them that."

"But that? That's a joke about..." Oh, shit.

Mrs. Tolliver didn't look like she was laughing, on the inside or anywhere else.

"Oh."

"I'm only telling you this much because as an empath, you'll be encouraged to take courses in psychology. What you described is a common example of an avoidance strategy. The worst thing you could do is to walk out of class a year from now, wave a textbook in front of him, and ask why he never said anything while showing many of the signs of abuse. It's very difficult for people who've been in that position to learn to trust anyone or let them get close."

Get close? In a way that his roommate wouldn't, or couldn't, talk about? Mrs. Tolliver said 'fathers.' God.

"Has that happened? Someone confront a person who's been abused like that?"

Mrs. Tolliver looked a couple of decades older than she had a right to be.

"Yes. It didn't go well. Are you prepared to go on?"

Saturday morning,
Living and Working with GSD, Conference Room B, Schuster Hall.

For once, Benjamin's weekend began quietly. The Imp had said she wanted him to sit in on her Saturday morning class. What the Boss wants, the Boss gets. Peter was holed up in one of the IT labs, working on a project for class. It would have been nice to iron out the kinks in the Combat Simulations, but grades come first. Even Max was somewhere, getting a head start on something that, with luck, won't involve fuel-air explosives.

Surprise!

Max was sitting in the back of the classroom. He could have said something earlier. Benjamin grabbed a seat next to him.

"Thought you were trying to get in some extra studio time?"

"Someone else already signed the studio space out. When Miss Imp asked me to drop by, I jumped on it. Any idea what the class's about?"

"Around here? I'm just one of the crash test dummies!"

Benjamin recognized Pastel and Tidestriker from Escape class. Red, like Vic, was in the other Twain freshmen wing. He waved back at Clover Rozic from the Winter Orientation.

"Hey! Did you just wave at a real, live person?"

"I'll have you know I've met many people outside of work."

"Sure, roomie. You just keep telling yourself that."

"Eff you, bud. Who's the purple girl with Tidestriker?"

"Tanya goes by Invictus. She's dating Vic, proving that even you have a chance of finding someone. Oh, yeah. Don't ask about her roommate; something really bad happened at Thanksgiving. Now, she's rooming with one of the dragon girls."

"Thulia or Morgana?"

Hah! That'll show him. I can meet people just fine. Not that it's a good idea. But, I can.

"You realize you're the only guy here wearing a school uniform. So much for meeting people 'outside of work.'"

"It's paid for. Why not wear it?"

"Dude, I'm not complaining. The 'uptight funeral director-in-training' look suits you."

What? And deal with families? No thanks!

The Imp strolled in a bare minute before the classroom bell. Impressive on a Saturday morning, even among pros. The way her tail swayed with confidence, she had to have worked out her lesson the day before, if not earlier.

She opened the class with, "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here today."

"Was it to distract us from taking over the world, or is it too late for flowers and an apology?"

"Good morning to you, too, Benjamin. Let's start with a hint: the course is named 'Living and Working with GSD'."

"How does that include Max and me, Ma'am?"

"Examples, good or yours. Everyone's familiar with how sanctioned heroes and designated villains are featured in the press. However, as I told last week's class, we're not limited to those roles by how we look. Today, I want to use examples that the class can identify with."

As if The Imp, an internationally known art thief, wasn't enough of an example?

"Miss Imp," began Pastel, "how difficult can job-hunting be for someone who looks like Belfry? You've already said he's a cop. Drape a few pounds of donuts over his belt, and he's set for life."

Benjamin shrugged as if the nodding heads around him didn't matter.

So this was what it's like when no one knows or cares about your rep? He could live with that!

"Miss Wright, Benjamin only said he had 'experience in community policing'. He never shared what those experiences were."

"He's still just another pretty."

Max stage-whispered, "I think she likes you!"

Imp relented toward her part-time minion. Someone had to set a positive example.

"Come on up, Benjamin. Drop the makeup before introducing yourself?"

Clover and Max knew what was coming. The others were caught off-guard. One black-lined eyeball and one jade orb pretending to be an eye were disquieting enough. Darkened lips and mouth set against pale greenish-brown skin only made him look like a kid more in need of a burial than a job.

"For the record, I'm Benjamin Keeling. Belfry. Manifestor. In case you're wondering, I have a NATO-blue border MMID." He looked to the teacher for backup before going on. Waving a hand beside his face, he said, "This is what you get when your circulatory system pumps sludge. The gimpy eye came later. My employer, Guardian Resources and Trading Company, only asks that I wear my usual face at work. Suit and tie, nice shoes, et cetera, but that's just the office dress code.

"What kind of work? I can confidently say that we contract a variety of security and military-related services around Southeast Asia. As an 'authorized expediter', my duties are rarely the same from one month to the next. Any questions?"

"How did you cope with your body changing on you?" Victor Rivera asked, rubbing his arm. Self-soothing, or a more specific issue? "They can't have hired you after that."

Tanya squeezed Vic's free hand. A specific issue, then.

Benjamin cocked his head in confusion. "It took a while to get used to being blind in one eye, if that's what you're asking?"

Vic shook his head in frustration. "I meant all of it. You've got to know your skin tone's different from the norm. No matter how good you think you are, you can't hide that all the time!"

"I've looked like this all my life, thanks to prenatal tinkering the powers experts haven't sourced. I didn't learn how to 'manage my image' until I was old enough to call the MCO myself. Post-injury MATD when I lost my eye is all that changed."

A feline paw went up.

"How long you work?" Shisa asked through a device.

"Freelance? A few months. Three years since."

"Child labor illegal."

"I'm an... let's go with emancipated minor and a powered paranormal. Believe it or not, having an employer and paying taxes reduces the risk of a mysterious disappearance.

Tanya asked, "You said your company provides security services. Where does that normally put you? Administrative or other support work, surely?"

"Well... I have my own desk, which is probably covered in boxes by now. I have been sent for office supplies and doughnuts. But operational and logistical support might cover most of it. So are we ready to put Max in the hot seat?"

After class, The Imp pulled Benjamin and Max aside. It had taken most of the class to get some of the other kids in the class to even speak up. Had they missed something important in the Q&A?

"I want to thank you two for being good sports about this," she said. "Too many students get it in their heads that they're doomed to a life of crime or living on the streets."

Max smiled his toothiest smile. "No problem, Miss Imp! Just because things turned around for us, I still don't recommend sleeping rough. Back home, that's a good way to wake up dead."

Benjamin shoved his hands in his pockets.

"It only takes picking one wrong target for everything to go to Hell."

"True, but that's for the advanced class. It may not seem like much, but I hope that they can see enough of themselves in you guys to take a chance on living. You're free to sit in on the rest of the course. You might even learn something!""

"Won't our other teachers get jealous?" Benjamin asked.

"What better boost to The Fabulous Imp's Amazing Academic Career? Go on, track down some lunch before it crawls away!"

Saturday afternoon,
Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

Call time for the Elemental Dance Club meetup-slash-audition had been set for 1 P.M. Despite Max's comments about already running late by noon, Benjamin pulled a scarf and run to be on set by 12:30. Peter stared at both for a long couple of minutes before shaking his head.

"You'll be lucky if anyone's there before a quarter after. If FairyFire was canvasing for performers in person, treat it as a shoot. The talent just has to be ready when the photographer's set up and good to go."

As he bussed his tray before heading to Kane Hall for Paranormal Law, Peter paged Colombine to film Benjamin's performance. Absolutely no particular reason in mind, but after the time the guy spent dithering on what to do it could turn out interesting.

King Auditorium.

The auditorium was as quiet as a dead church mouse, six feet under.

Recognizing disappointment, Colombine reminded Benjamin that "Peter has worked with Venus, Incorporated. As professional as they might be, we're still talking about teenagers."

"Got to hand it to him. That club's sure to have an impressive female to male ratio."

One of the nice things about being an AI is that one doesn't have to facepalm at the clueless. Logically, if Peter cared about how many more girls were in the club than boys, he would be angling for a permanent assignment. She even said so.

"Cee, you haven't seen the look in his eyes when he gets going on about his projects. Anything that subtracts from that is a lost cause. Whatever makes him happy, y'know?"

"Anyway, are you planning on leaving and coming back?"

Benjamin wouldn't recognize most of the students drifting in either way. Being early or late wouldn't change that. His therapist would claim it's good for him to have the opportunity to make new friends. But, so far, Whateley hadn't proven itself all that welcoming. Humorless lived down to his code name. Mrs. Turner had copped an attitude before he could even say anything... Most people allowed him two or three sentences before writing him off as a lost cause! Then, when he goes to get his knee patched up, the freaking place had nearly fed him to a unicorn!

"No. I'm still blanking on what to do. Best I can think of is to redo my face, something theatrical. Can you emulate a side-by-side mirror and display with what you've got?"

"Of course."

"You're pissed I haven't asked for that before. I should've."

"No," Colombine said. "Your daily routine works for you. Why screw with it? Now, what do you need for a reference?"

"Nothing yet. I'll start with a purple-tinted foundation before applying a cool white and going from there.

A familiar, amused voice off to Benjamin's side answered for the AI.

"It's ten after," Miss Rogers said. "But, Miss Wheeler and I both know better than to rush a makeup artist. If you could apply powder to set what you have on, you've made your case."

As Benjamin put away his theatrical kit, the streetlamp evaporated from sight. However, his black turtleneck jumper was soon replaced or covered over with a plain shirt, patchwork waistcoat, threadbare jacket with tails, and a well-beaten top hat.

"Showtime?"

Monday afternoon, January 23, 2017,
Dr. M.B. Delacroix's Office, Mental Health Dept.

"... That's pretty much what I've learned about Homely that I didn't find out before. She said that she wondered what the heck was going on when Peter asked her to talk to me. It seems he's one of the few Workshoppers – male or female – who hasn't tried to pick her up. I have no idea why, she's kind of pretty and smart. There were some queries over the weekend, so we think she decided to vet what I'd told her."

Technically speaking, Colombine had run the electronic traces. He'd helped, some. It's the thought that counts.

Dr. Delacroix jotted more notes to cross-check before saying, "While I'm told that it's mostly the Melville students that come from high-placed families, net worth is not the only factor in housing assignments."

"Do the residents know that?"

"I'll let you figure that one out on your own. The skills you develop along the way might come in handy. As to Miss Dieulafoy, I believe it's wise of her to be careful as to whom she lets in and who she avoids."

"Er, yeah. Considering how our paths had crossed before, I can't say I'd blame her."

Oops.

Benjamin shifted in his seat. The armrests got in the way of escape.

"We have time. First, I want you to turn it around and tell me how much you've told her about yourself. On both occasions."

"You know what they say. The best performances always leave the crowd wanting more?"

"This crowd is still awaiting the first of these memorable events."

Tuesday morning, January 24, 2017,
Underdogs Table, Crystal Hall.

A familiar canine face appeared above the tray landing across from Benjamin's. Billy said, "I see you're eating breakfast. Didn't you say you've got Powers Testing today?"

"Yes, why?"

"It's Powers Testing. Think about your old school's sadistic coach. He'll just order you to run wind sprints until you puke, y'know? The mad scientists doing Powers Testing are worse. The more you eat now, the more vomiting later. Let me tell you, chunky parts up your nose are the worst!"

Given Billy's sense of smell, that wasn't a fun thing to think about over breakfast. Didn't dogs eat their own poop? Nope! That's what didn't bear further thought either.

"Someone did mention treadmills."

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Low blood sugar lowers the seizure threshold for everyone. I'd rather blow chunks on my shoes than face-plant a treadmill."

Billy shook his head. "You're taking that pretty calmly. I'd be a nervous wreck waiting for the next one."

"Calmly? As if. I was a basketcase for a long time. But, shit still had to get done, and I got stable on medicine." Benjamin shrugged. It wasn't like life waits for you to 'feel like it'. "Exercise, meditation, three squares, and eight hours of sleep a day help out a lot."

"Good, clean living, huh?"

"Dude! I did shower this morning."

"For which we're all thankful. If I didn't see your coffee eating through the styrofoam cup, I'd ask if you were a Mormon."

Benjamin's egg-fried rice ran out before the silence did.

"There's a punchline I'm missing, isn't there?"

"Yep!"

"Should I care?"

Billy stared back, "How can you room with Super Dance Party and not know every freaking show tune from the last decade?"

"Earplugs and a white-knuckled chokehold on my sanity?"

Powers Testing, Check-in.

Benjamin's heart sank when he saw the intern's ear-to-ear grin. Whatever this jerk had in store for unsuspecting freshmen, it must be grim, boring, annoying, or something like that. Screw it. He'd cope.

"Belfry. Yeah. Looks like they forgot to tell you the doctors ordered a full-body sensor suit for you!" At Benjamin's blank look, he explained, "That means a lot more sensors built-in, and there can't be anything between your skin and the suit. Luckily, one of the school's alumni was a genius when it came to hair removal. Instructions are on the bottle. Where it says 'no more than ten minutes' thou shalt not count to eleven. Fifteen is right out. Questions?"

"No."

"The big boys' locker room is down, and on the right. Can't miss it."

Benjamin calculated the old Nair shampoo gag plus no warning to wear a mask. Carrying the stupid, it all summed up to one jerk looking forward to photographing some humiliation. Too bad. This freshman had already had a Silkwood shower or two for work. Even without the experience, he knew his way around a skinsuit. Built-in tread on the soles was a neat idea. Black greasepaint, spirit gum, and a cheap throat mic completed the not-quite-a-gimp look. Just to screw with the jerk, Benjamin put on a pair of Miami Vice shades once he had everything else together. Colombine's sensors included hard-light optical pickups, so neither of them would be flying blind.

Check-in Jerk asked, "What do you need help with," before he looked up. Fumbling for his camera or putting away something else? "Oh. Looks like everything checks out."

On second thought, the intern had better have been fumbling for a camera behind that desk.

Benjamin asked, "Where to next?"

Watching someone else's brain short-circuit for a change never got old. Next time, if there was one, he'd have to remember to bring along a little "stocking stuffer."

"Er, Lab E. Two doors down on the right."

Lab E.

Lab Exemplar (going by the added letters in grease pencil) featured equipment for the basic 'Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger' tests. This might be the one high school weight room where the Hulk might be able to break a sweat on leg day. Go, team. Belfry was going to need a far lighter setting on the resistance training gear. After dialing things down from Champion to Normalman, the crew put him through an intense workout. Every break was spent with them arguing over something. Benjamin got to drain warm sweat from the suit "for analysis". Now and then, he wiped himself down with cool wet towels. He got a couple of odd looks, but he knew the drill from having spent a full month as a lab rat for testing "recreational-grade" simsuits.

On the third break, Benjamin tried manifesting chilled aloe vera gel. Maybe it would cool him off more? He wasn't wearing clothing over the suit, so water would just run off. Getting something wet to stick to the suit without dissolving it would have to be good enough. The next station on the circuit was the inclined treadmill. Now he'd have to manage the stuff without any landing on the treadmill and landing him on his ass.

Dr. Shandy explained, "Your neurologist has explained her objections to the treadmill test, at quite some length. However, the problem with putting someone who isn't a speedster, an exemplar, or a show-off on a conventional athletic track is that they're often not as motivated to push their limits. As a safety feature, the cowl you're wearing gives us and your personal biomonitors a full set of electroencephalography readings. We've also called in Kodiak to assist. He's an Exemplar-five; if he can't catch you, there's no catching you."

"If it's just an endurance test," Benjamin said before the doctor cut him off.

"If it were, we still wouldn't substitute your favorite skateboard or bicycle or pedal-operated clown car."

"'Clown car', you said?" That could be fun!

A deep baritone voice muscled in, "It belongs to your work-study advisor. Both Hotrod and Brandywine are hunting it down with intent to maim."

"Ah. Kodiak. Glad you could make it. We were just about to need you."

Even measured against Benjamin's ingrained misanthropy, that didn't sound right. Sure, the guy looked sincere when he smiled... but there was no doubt who saw themselves as the predator vs. midday snack here. Motivation?

Maybe Kodiak's purpose was to distract Belfry from the scientific sadism planned. Each time he reached a steady pace, either the ramp would increase the incline angle, or the damned tread motor would speed up. That went on for ten minutes before the testing bastards randomized the level and speed increments. Up, down, left, right, thump?

There's often a middle ground between one's first spark of consciousness and functional thought. Stumbling through this mental landscape, Benjamin mused on the dental habits of huge fricking bears. This one had huge fricking teeth too.

Do they floss between maulings, or are underage mercs stringy enough to get into the cracks and crevasses? A paw the size of a dinner plate halted Benjamin's sensible instinct to scramble away.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

That was a trick question. Bears don't have fingers. Benjamin wanted to keep his fingers, so he stayed quiet. In the distance, someone said something about some trick requiring two eyes. Benjamin had one, but it wasn't being helpful.

The bear said, "Let's try again. Do you know where you are?"

"Nando's for Bears?"

Pain exploded from Benjamin's forearm. He was still blinking away stars when Dr. Cody's face came back into view. Ever-cautious, he looked around and above for ursine para-commandos, just in case.

Colombine's voice pierced Benjamin's mental fog: "What's your favorite color?"

"Plaid."

"It's him," she said.

"What happened?" ... other than cruel and unusual brutality with a neural inducer?

Dr. Cody's brows furrowed. They were kind of bear-like now that Benjamin noticed. "You don't recall taking a basketball to the back of your head?"

"No. I should, right?"

Colombine noted that "The hazmat team is happy that Doctor Butterfingers is good with towels. He caught you on the rebound from taking a header face-first into the treadmill controls. Not quite enough blood to donate to the Black Cross, but we were getting there." The AI was getting better at freestyle sarcasm. Benjamin approved but stayed quiet In Case Of Bears.

"If I may say something in my defense," Dr. Cody asked. "It's much more difficult to catch and hold on to wet, lubed latex than you may realize. The general idea is to test for a danger sense, separate from precognition, empathy, cyberpathy, or some other esper talent."

"So they blind-sided my doctors. Let's skip the lawyers and go straight to a formal complaint through HR."

The Bear growled, "Get in line, kid."

Benjamin stiffened but said nothing.

The Doctor Bear stated, no question asked, "You heard that."

"Y-yeah." Straight from the mouth filled with long hungry teeth.

"And your mother is a daoshi?"

"Dào shī."

"Let's agree to disagree about pronunciations until I can get an expert in to referee. Now that the researchers have crocked their results by second-guessing the Tao, we might as well salvage what we can."

Benjamin lurched to his feet, leg muscles burning from the forced run.

"What's next?"

"Follow me to the next lab. What's in it, you might ask? Picture a confidence course crossed with a shooting gallery." Doctor Cody smiled and shook his head. "But, this is done Whateley style. It's only paintballs, but the bruises are real."

"Huh."

"And we borrowed some of Mr. Anderson's favorite toys."

"Okay, I guess. Rules?"

"Try not to get hit. Some hits will hurt more than others. The course ends when the allotted time runs out, the hits exceed some score, or you leave through the door on the other side of our little danger room."

"I think I can do that."

They walked on, to the aptly-named Lab D. Dr. Cody pressed a lit green button to open the lab door. Before the boy could scope out what was ahead of him, Cody shoved him into the waiting shooting gallery. Odd that air whistled past the door seal for a second, as if the small arena was under negative pressure, but that couldn't be right.

Lab D.

Benjamin rolled forward with the shove, avoiding three paintballs that splatted against the door instead of his stomach. Speaking of the door, it now fit smoothly into the wall. Ahead of him in every direction were barriers. Some of them had ropes or cargo nets to climb; some didn't. It could be part of a multi-level maze, but the Bear Guy had said "confidence course." No reason it couldn't be both.

He spoke into his throat mic, "I'm going to need overwatch and tracking."

Colombine replied, "On it."

Sticking to the left-hand wall, Benjamin's first obstacle was a tire run leading to a climbing wall. If it were his course, where would he stick the pressure plate? No. Plates. First step to arm, second step to trigger the hazard? Turrets popped up the second he stepped into the second-to-last rank of tires. A sense-scrambling blast of 'confusion to the enemy' blinded the group's targeting before they could lock back on.

"Close five, far nine high."

Why wouldn't other mounts try to acquire a squishy human target? More doing, less overthinking!

A paintball from the close shooter nailed Benjamin in the thigh as he sprinted to the next obstacle. That hurt! Back to feeding the jade ball in his head more 'nothing to see here' thoughts. Move with the immovable, still mind, flowing water.

Two turrets opened up, spraying and praying from the backside trench as soon as Belfry edged over a medium-height wall. Given their firing rate, his throwing knives didn't need to last long to jam the mechanisms.

The next obstacle involved monkey bars, a water trap, and a field of shimmering green lines crossing the open space between the two. The lasers were already pumped; no sensors needed. Lovely. Whatever was playing the "Exterminate!" audio clip on his eight, it probably was meant to spook him into stupidity. Midway through his crawl over the bars, Colombine warned him the laser grid was moving up. He got winged a couple of times, but corkscrewing from a crawl along one rail to a three-point hang and back to a crawl along the other rail saved him a couple of first-degree burns. What surprises could they spring from the other end?

Well, Hell.

Benjamin had been herded into a large area filled with a PRT instructor's wet dream. Walls and, per Colombine's recon, slime pits removed the option of just going around the obstacles on foot. Climbing ropes and cargo nets provided plenty of slow-moving exposure — in case the skyscrapers, Tarzan courses, balancing logs, swing ropes, and slides weren't enough. The blind-firing paintball turrets kicking in intermittently provided an essential theatrical touch.

"I got nothin', Boss."

Colombine sounded rattled.

No one fucks with his people. No one.

Benjamin counted five to calm himself. "Just a walk in the park, Cee. Mark the shooters in case I get within throwing distance, and watch for ropes rigged too short."

Concentrating on moving, not thinking, he went for the second-closest access to the aerial monkey puzzle. Thinking about it afterward, the setup was similar to playing jungle sniper tag without any of the cover.

The low-powered lasers could be deflected with a mirrored riot shield, at the risk of losing his balance...

"Exterminate!" "Exterminate!"

... and giving away his approximate position. There was a reason he would have liked more cover, wasn't there? On the other hand, "Here, dalek, dalek, dalek!"

Benjamin learned several new phrases from Colombine's detailed and comprehensive review of his current state of idiocy and questionable parentage. Who knew that daleks that lose the ability to distinguish left from right, up from mauve, and minty fresh from quiet down can still fly and shoot, albeit badly. One down, two to go, wasn't time to get cocky. He stilled his mind to better drop back out of sight.

Did the young AI need to know how he knew he could get away with sliding down a steel line hanging from a manifested breaker bar? If she didn't notice how many times he had to replace it on the roll, probably not.

On the other end of the gallery, the door was – of course – locked.

Staying unseen would be easy. However, clumsily picking the door lock with manifested tools, now that he was mentally and physically exhausted, wouldn't be. The damned flying pepperpots laying down suppressive fire could go away now. So, Benjamin shoved his mounting frustration through the jade eye while he worked on the locked door. Outside, he leaned back against the door and slid to sit on the floor. Taking five now, whether the testing wonks liked it or not. He imagined the air tasted sharper in the maintenance tunnel.

Colombine counted the milliseconds and seconds until Benjamin's breathing evened out, and his pulse returned to its baseline syncopation.

"How do you think that went?" she asked.

"I stunk on ice."

"I doubt the private academy you attended has a course with half that many complications."

"They would have had more spotters, more instructors shouting, and the Dalek eyestalks would have knives duct-taped to them. Then there'd be more shouting once the instructors run into Stabby the Space Roomba."

"What?" A few discreet network queries later, Colombine asked, "Would that be before, or after, you appropriated the bayonets for the construction of Stabby?"

"I regret nothing."

Monitoring Station, Lab D.

"Kodiak, please accept our apologies for our earlier skepticism."

"Are you telling me that this is what it takes to believe my report, Caduceus' report, Mystic Arts' complaint, HPARC's inquiry as to what the fuck happened here, and the work order for repairs filed by Facilities back on the tenth?"

"Try looking at it from our perspective! What moron would even consider handing power like that to a disturbed child? Whatever that thing in his head is, it should have fried every synapse in his brain the first time he used it!"

"Disturbed?" Dr. Cody growled, "Would you like me to bring that disturbed child over here so you can repeat yourself? Or should I first call Kurt over to see what you let happen to his toys? I'm flexible either way."

"Let's all return to Lab E while the technical crew restores the partial oxygen pressure, and not do any of that."

"While the crew does what?"

"Run a few volumes of fresh air through the lab space. We needed to find out how Belfry's blood chemistry avoids hypoxia and excess carbon dioxide buildup if it does. If we could pin down the gene sequences activated to make it all possible, space travel and colonization would be that much more viable."

"The kid has a TBI, and you pumped out the oxygen without telling anyone?"

"Lab D has most of the safety features the Arenas offer. Hardly any risk of a severe injury if he slipped or fell."

Lab E bullpen.

Once the three doctors were all seated and their coffee cups filled, Dr. Hewley went straight to focusing on the session notes instead of the humans. Sitting across the small conference table from Dr. Cody, Dr. Shandy remarked, "I bet Bergamot will be happy to have one youngster who isn't likely to break down when the manifestors get The Talk in Powers Theory."

Dr. Cody asked, "Don't most students get that from their parents or sex-ed teachers?"

"Wrong Talk, and you wish. Let me start by saying that Belfry's homeostatic control is consistent with having manifested as a mutant well over a year ago. We weren't able to get skin scrapings or hair samples, and it took a couple of pints of sweat poured out of that sensor suit to get enough material to run labs on."

"Is that why your intern dressed Belfry up in rubber gear? I thought someone had found a way to play up their fetishes."

Dr. Shandy said, "Having a student keel over from heatstroke doesn't help our research, but we were short of options. Did you notice that the minor laser burns healed up almost instantly, but the bruises didn't? Depending on the materials they manifest, internal and contact manifestors manifest a scaffold for new cells to grow into after an injury. Sometimes, that leads the body to adaptations against repeat injuries. For example, carapace manifestors may stop growing body hair that has to been pulled out too many times. Some replace it altogether with manifested matter. After a heat injury, they may subconsciously start manifesting extra sweat to avoid dehydration and salt loss. Given where he lives, that would have happened early on in Belfry's case."

"Regen One or Two? That's a better deal than I would have expected. What's the catch?"

"Aside from what happens when a hormonal teen learns that they've got so much as a hint of regeneration?"

"I haven't forgotten being that young."

"Right. Well, the same goes for other tissues. Absent a BIT, when the body has to resort to manifesting tissues in order to replace lost blood, there's a much greater risk that it may not know if it's made a mistake or know when to stop. In the long run, the mutant manifestor can manifest something inherently dangerous to themselves. If not, and MATD, burnout, or tissue rejection doesn't catch up to them, an autoimmune disorder or myeloproliferative disorder might finish the job. You do not want to see what a cytokine storm looks like in these people."

Cody remembered one or two such student deaths. "What does it have to do with Bergamot?"

"He's teaching Introduction to Superpowers this year, which our subject should be taking in the Spring. I figure that Belfry's smart enough to research MATD on his own once he learns we've found early signs of it."

Dr. Hewley looked up from his tablet, puzzled, "By the way, why are you still here?"

"While our lab rat changes out of fetish gear into clothing, I'm waiting to tag Horton in for the esper, techie toys, and spooky shit tests."

"Of all people, her? Why?"

"Psychic Arts is a joke, and Mystic Arts couldn't break anyone free."

Monitoring Room 1, Lab E.

Lab E, Mystic Arts Station.

Bella Horton thanked The Lady for small miracles. As expected, the boy was pulling in no Essence worth taking notice of. If she didn't hear more of him until he gives up chasing Dickinson girls like all the other horndogs on campus, it would still be too soon.

Bella recorded her notes in an elegant cursive script before telling Belfry, "We can safely rule out any wizard trait in your case."

He nodded at that. No surprises there.

"Okay. Is there anything else to do here?"

"I do have one more test," Bella said. She rearranged some of the mystically magical-looking items on the table before her, adding or removing some.

"Now, go ahead and pull your disappearing act."

Seconds later, Bella looked down and wondered why she had a scrying array set up with no one in the immediate area to trigger the thing.

Belfry reached out to the rearranged items, but pulled his hand back. If this was magic, touching them could be a Bad Idea. Hadn't there been a faint glow in or around some of them? Meh. It could be a CGI effect to impress the civvies. Acting on a hunch, he moved to another part of the lab. Mrs. Horton looked around as if she were waiting for something to happen. He stopped the effect ten feet away from the waiting instructor.

He gestured to the setup in front of her, "Anything?"

"Nothing to see here." Teens disappeared all the time at Whateley Academy.

Benjamin returned to his chair. He asked, "Was there supposed to be something happening?"

"Not necessarily. An explanation of the Art wouldn't do you much good. Whatever you were doing, it did nothing to the flow of magical energies around you."

"Like moving in accord with the Tao?"

"I've known taoist practitioners. You'd almost be better off wasting your time studying magic. Now! Let's find someone to take you where you need to be, so I can get back to work."

"Fair enough."

Advanced Materials Testing Lab

The next lab was several "closed for maintenance" detours deeper into the tunnel complex. Arrays of specialized fittings, sinks, fume hoods, secured cabinets, and more, suggested to Benjamin that this wet lab wasn't strictly Powers Testing territory. The last couple of students scurrying to cover or screen projects that couldn't be stowed away during filming added to the impression. Judging by the two adults' body language, Benjamin figured the tall, angular gentleman of a certain age to be the powers expert and the shorter, healthier, younger woman to be the Person in Charge here. The flunky introduced Belfry to them as Dr. Jean-Michel Aranis and Mrs. Metal.

Judging again by the equipment under her custody, Benjamin suspected that Mrs. Metal often answered to "Doctor". She noticed that he shook Dr. Aranis' hand first, <Bonjour, m'sieu>, but he waited until she extended her own hand to nod, <Namaste> and shake her hand.

"Is Hindi spoken at home? My apologies, but you do not look the type."

"Chinese and English. I'm not to repeat any poetic phrases in Bengali I may have overheard my father use."

Dr. Aranis waited for the last student to leave before motioning to Belfry's escort to start recording.

"One would think that the Department could afford the facilities for testing manifestors. However, as it's an uncommon trait, Mrs. Metal has graciously agreed to allow us access to the Advanced Materials Testing Lab. Please do not abuse that privilege like you did Lab D."

Mrs. Metal said, "I am curious as to what may have happened. I was under an impression that Lab D is rarely used."

"True, but it offers environmental controls and safeguards that a mid-level exemplar would need when testing endurance, stamina, and agility."

"Let me put it plainly then, Jean-Michel. What hazards does Belfry pose to my lab?"

"Belfry's manifestations are reported to have limited temporal stability in our local dimensions. Thus, we need him working close to the analytical equipment that we will be using."

Playing this part for the camera? As long as everyone's on the same page...

• liquids: water, light machine oil, grease.
• non-metallics: latex gloves, cloth rags (appear to be cellulose-based).
• spring steel pieces looking suspiciously like lock picks.
• meditation balls: brass.
• cosmetics: carbon, ochre, other pigments in organic wax/solvent suspension; pigmented silicone polymer.

"Holding on" to the makeup for the extra seconds needed to determine its make-up was painful enough, but "feeling" the organics in the cosmetics he used dissolve and separate in the chromatograph was disorienting. Benjamin opted to sit on the floor rather than the offered stool until his head stopped spinning.

• penny: zinc-clad copper alloy.
• balisong: high-carbon spring steel.
• batons: fibrous cellulosic material, resembling rattan.
• throwing knife: urukku steel ... not just in composition but microtexture.

Mrs. Metal tapped her chin, thinking, before she said, "I believe that certain threats to my lab's security may have been understated."

Dr. Aranis leaned back against one of the workbenches. "How so? Twenty or so kilos of material isn't much to think of."

"That is the mass limit for manipulation, or for production per second, of relatively inert materials."

"I don't see where you are going with this."

"Allow me to first determine where my line of inquiry goes. It may be of no consequence. Belfry, I assume you can manifest materials while wearing gloves?"

"I can say I've managed it before. Why?"

"Come with me. Dr. Aranis, please do not follow. All that I am authorized to say for the record is that this involves a proprietary project requiring extraordinary oversight."

Dr. Aranis scowled for the camera but nodded assent.

Maybe 'No' had been the right answer? Benjamin began to think so once Mrs. Metal decked him out in extra-heavy gloves, visor, and over-clothes. The next door he was led to would have put Fort Knox to shame. What the blazes did they keep here? He was already sweating bullets when she retrieved a lead-lined box from a secured safe that was much smaller on the inside. Make that sweating uranium-depleted bullets.

"Do not open the box before I tell you to do so. If I say 'Halt': stop whatever you are doing. Breathing, too, if need be. Understand?"

"The waivers I signed on arrival don't cover this, do they?"

"Of course not. Where would be the fun in that?"

Minutes later, Mrs. Metal spoke over an intercom: "What I want you to do is to make a small sphere of matter that matches the sample in the box I left on the table. If you cannot do so without taking the gloves off, we'll call this a null result. Take your time and take suitable care. Those gloves would make anyone fumble-fingered."

'Fumble-fingered' isn't going to be a Good Thing, is it?

The small, lead-gray disk inside was heavy as lead, but Benjamin wasn't stupid enough to think it was lead. For one thing, lead didn't tarnish black like that. For another, it didn't mentally feel like lead when he turned his full attention to it. Lead didn't have the same firey-airy character of something wanting to escape from an eternal metallic prison. Imposing the same identity onto a small sphere of nothing took all of his remaining attention. Benjamin imagined that he'd heard alarms once, somewhere in the distance. They coincided with a moment he thought he'd imposed too much of the fractious firey nature. He'd had to wrestle it back under control. The more he let it slip loose, the stronger and more dangerous it became. This was something he'd never be able to pull off on the fly, but he was okay with that.

After an eternity, Belfry asked, "What next?"

"Place the original sample back in the box. Hold your sample out so I can direct our analytical equipment to it."

Robotic arms descended from the ceiling, carrying who knows what with them, circling and looking from every possible angle.

Uncomfortable silence stretched throughout the room after the equipment stowed itself away.

"Mrs. Metal? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I am. As are you. So are we all. Right. I should think that now is as good a time as any to dismiss what you've created. Carefully. There is no reason to rush, lest you find yourself tempted."

That deeply felt like the wisest course of action. Paranoia prevailed, so Mrs. Metal brought the robot arms back out to look, scratch, and sniff. Satisfied with that, she detailed the steps to put the original sample back into its specific spot in the vault. The suit got its own storage barrel in the next room. It smelled of sous vide teenager, but containment gear did that. Mrs. Metal pressed a small card into Benjamin's hand before leading him back to the lab to announce that the test had failed.

Much later, he'd learn that most people let ectoplasm stay ectoplasm and didn't try to fake out mass spectrometers.

To be honest, making lead was a bitch and a half of its own. He maxed out at 3 pounds at a time, even though he could still manipulate 22 kilograms of it. Composites probably could be managed, but Benjamin figured that even fiberglass would take immense practice to pull off, to diminishing returns. Mrs. Metal laughed, then suggested taking some engineering courses before deciding he knows true complexity from mere repeating simplicity.