Villain, With a Code (college-age superhero original novel)

[Siegeengineer00]

A writer never feels prouder than when he reaches the last page of his novel, caps the final sentence with a period, and leans back in his chair to bask in the success of finishing an entire work of literature. This feeling lasts about five minutes, until the writer realizes he now needs to find someone to read the damn thing and provide feedback.

After two years of struggling with this problem, a friend suggested these boards as a place to get your work in front of other eager readers. At 45 chapters and 180k words, my work is a bit too long for typical beta reading, so I decided to start posting it as a weekly serial. How far I get through the book depends on community interest. Feedback on character/world development or other questions is appreciated, especially in a few parts I am still trying to polish. So without further ado may I present a Villain, With a Code.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Everyone's the hero of their own story. In my case, I'm the villain as well.


Son of two of the world's most notorious Supervillains, Pockets has hardly had what anyone would consider a normal upbringing. A minor villain in his own right, Pockets' world is turned upside down when, in a moment of conscience, he gets caught doing what's right instead of walking away. Prison wouldn't have been too terrible, but the head judge had something else in mind. Now sentenced to four years at a university for superheroes, it will take every back-up plan, dirty trick, and cached favor Pockets has just to survive until winter break. For the incoming students to the Boltman Institute, the true meaning of being a hero is about to be challenged by a villain who plays by his own rules.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Reserved for later use

 

[UponALotusBlossom]

origional is spelled wrong, might want to change that.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Chapter 1: Even Supervillains get their day in court



Rumors of people with superhuman powers date back to the earliest points in human history. They were rulers and gods, teachers and students, ordinary men made extraordinary and great beings stuck low. They were the foundation of good and evil as more than just an abstract concept. Since then, there have been hundreds of cases of individuals that could supposedly do what their fellow man could not. A little girl whose tears brought the rain back to her parched homeland. Old women with too much incense and hair who could speak to ancestors long departed. A mountain of a man wielding an enormous axe, who could fell a grown tree in a single chop.

In the beginning of the twentieth century, some of these rumors and fanciful stories were finally recorded as fact. It’s hard to deny the case of a man pulling a string of loaded freight cars with only his hands when you have the corresponding pictures to prove it. Or traveling shows where the main attraction is a woman who melts safes to slag with only her touch.

Around this time we saw the emergence of the first powered heroes and villains. They were fanciful characters, like something out of a dime store novel instead of the Classed we see today. For obvious reasons they kept their identities secret, so scientists had a devil of a time trying to explain these people who could poke holes in their neat logic of reality.

Only in modern times have we finally found the truth behind the myth. Ironically, like most great discoveries it happened by accident. A brilliant graduate student was using his own DNA for a project on nitrogen bases when he found something Watson and Crick had never accounted for. This discovery of a third helix, nearly twenty years after two had become the common standard, shook up the scientific world like few things ever had. Even forty years later, there are still many mysteries about this phenomenon and all other aspects of the Classed. While I doubt all of them will be solved in my lifetime, I will strive for as many as I can.

Dr. Eustace Porter

Keynote remarks at the inaugural Conference on Classed Individuals (CCI), 1986​

_________________________________________________________________________________


Cell Block A, Floor 8

Beacon City Courthouse #3, Beacon City

Wednesday July 20th, 1:13 PM


On a hot, muggy summer day I found myself in the last possible place I wanted to be. Trapped in a small, bare room that only thought it had aspirations of being a cell. Heavy cinder block walls that could probably stop a rampaging Barbarian, a metal barred front wall with metal posts thicker than my wrists, and a six inch thick plastcrete "window" overlooking the dreary parking lot several stories below. Not that I could see that unless I stood in precisely the right place. Otherwise the supposedly translucent material of the window acted more like a mirror, reflecting my shoddy state of affairs.

Hard to believe, but a week ago I had been wearing a tailored suit. Now I was stuck in a shapeless orange monstrosity I wouldn't put my worst enemy in. And they had the gall to call me a supervillain. To make things worse the insult to modern fashion didn't even have any pockets, which was making me even more twitchy than getting stuck in lowest bidder polyester.

I stopped pacing, closed my eyes, and let out a few deep breaths. They weren't going to throw the book at me. I was the good guy in this situation; I'd saved dozens of lives. Of course, that was after I'd put them at risk. That was how an objective observer would see it. The Department of Paranormal Activities was very thorough, by now they would have the whole story.

Not feeling much calmer, I opened my eyes and studied my reflection in the misnomer of a window. I certainly didn't look like a supervillain, even discounting my forced wardrobe choice. I was no Adonis or Aphrodite, like Hollywood seemed to stereotype all Classed regardless of which side of the line they walked. I was tall but, due to the enhanced calorie requirements of my powers, perpetually skinny. My face was a bit too sharp both in both chin and nose, a trait inherited from my mother. My black hair was close cropped in a professional style, matching my clean shaven face. The latter was the result of a...profession disagreement with a colleague that left me unable to grow facial hair. Otherwise I’d be sporting a few days of stubble, as apparently razors counted as deadly weapons in here. A bit silly, when you considered this courthouse regularly dealt with people who crush a cinder block with their fists. I couldn't wait to get out of here and take a proper shower, not to mention put on a decent set of clothes. Something with a pocket count higher than its square footage, which would hopefully make my infernal headache go away.

A loud clicking and mechanical grinding behind me announced the arrival of my jailers. The portal they stepped through would have looked quite at home in a bank or submarine, giant chrome spinning wheel and all. I don't know why they had me locked up in here. This cell was designed to hold Barbarians and Paladins, not a guy whose escape potential was on par with a baseline human. What was I going to do, float out of my cell? Good luck with that, even discounting the massive cuffs on my wrists. They had to weigh almost sixty pounds apiece. Frankly, I wish they’d just gone with the old ball and chain. At least then I’d only need to burn power if I wanted to move. With the cuffs I was forced to negate gravity’s tug constantly if I wanted to do more than lay back on my bunk. I’d heard the government had teams of Technomancers working on power nullification cuffs. Frankly, they couldn’t come soon enough. At least that way I wouldn’t lose ten pounds a day unless I stuffed my face like a pig.

"Prisoner, put your hands through the slot." one of the guards boomed. It was the one I'd taken to calling Schnoz, on account of his desperate need for a rhinoplasty. My own nose was slightly bent from a bad break years ago, but this guy looked like he got into a headbutting contest with a brick wall. And lost.

Looking through the bars I saw my five man escort were all wearing heavy riot gear. Full hard plate chest pieces front and back. Lighter reinforced leg, wrist, and shoulder guards. All over a Kevlar undersuit. About the only things missing were the riot shields and the helmets with gas masks. Damn, you'd think my skin leaked acid or I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes or something by their reaction. I mean, what did they use when there was a real big name villain stuck in here? Suits of power armor?

There was no point in resisting, so I did as ordered and stuck my cuffed arms through the small slot on the door. There was the clank and rattle of chain as Schnoz the guard connected them together. Once he was satisfied I was even more helpless, I was allowed to withdraw my hands. The door opened and two more guards took up a position on either side of me. These ones I’d mentally named Eyebrows and Twitch, for reasons obvious to anyone who spent more than five minutes in their company. Both were half a head taller than me and looked like recreational steroids were their entertainment of choice.

The muscle twins picked me up by the arms and frog marched me out of the cell. This saved me from the weight of my cuffs, but now my shoulders were screaming anew from the fact they were supporting my entire weight as my feet dangled off the floor. As we traversed the hallways toward the courtroom I wondered what the overkill was all about. I’d let myself get captured, it wasn’t like I was crawling up the walls trying to escape.

My entourage marched through one last set of doors and I found myself in a courtroom crammed almost literally to the rafters with people. While super trials, both hero and villain, tended to draw large crowds, this was a bit excessive. Even counting the operations the government knew nothing about, I was a C-list villain at most. D-list, if I was being honest with myself. I was a coordinator and a transporter. The former came from my upbringing, while the latter was the logical extension of my powers. But in the grand scale of threats against humanity, I barely above thugs knocking over the local liquor store. The press must have missed the memo, as besides the empty judges' bench the only open seat in the house was the one next to my lawyer at the defense table.

"Are those cuffs really necessary?" my lawyer asked scornfully as the guard team dumped me off at his table. "My client has been nothing but cooperative."

"Standard procedure in cases with Classed individuals. Especially ones like him." Schnoz replied, leaving out exactly what I was. Dangerous? Powerful? Spontaneously destructive?

My lawyer fixed the guards with a pointed look. "Can you at least take the cables off so he doesn't have to sit here like a prisoner in a chain gang? You're going to be standing only ten feet away for heaven’s sake, it's not like my client can do anything with the ability to scratch his nose."

The guards conferred in a huddle before Twitch came over and unlocked the links holding my cuffed hands together. Then they retreated off to one side of the room, still glowering at me as if daring me to suddenly go on a rampage. I stretched, trying to get some circulation back into my arms. "Thanks Slimy."

I wasn't being insulting, it was the name he chose to go by. My lawyer had once been a small time villain before he realized lawyers made more money than the crooks they represented. Less risk of heroes dropping in and messing up your plans too. At least in the way that resulted in trips to the hospital.

"Don't mention it kid, that's what you pay me for." Slimy held out a hand to shake, thankfully gloved. Otherwise it would have been like shaking hands with an ooze. "How ya doing?"

"Not great." I sighed, putting in a bit more power so I could lift my arms enough to rub my temples. “I prefer my courtroom experiences on television, from the comfort of my couch. Throw in the clothing issue and the fact I’m borderline nauseous from constantly lugging these things around…” I lifted one of the heavy cuffs slightly before letting it slam back onto the table under its own weight. Over in the corner, the guards all jumped and glared at me accusingly. “Short answer, I’ve had better days.”

Slimy snorted. “I’ve been there kid. Don’t worry, I’ll get this sorted out quickly enough. The hard part is already over and I skewered the prosecution. All ya gotta do is get through the personal interview and you and me will be out of here tonight. I know justta place we can blow off some steam.”

I'd known Slimy since I was ten, after watching him successfully get Kraken off on charges stemming from blowing up a few oil platforms in the gulf. One life lesson I'd learned from my parents was always have a good lawyer on retainer, so we'd stayed in touch. I’d used him for paperwork jobs over the years, but this was the first time I’d ever needed his courtroom services. Hopefully they were as sharp as the other legal advice I’d received.

"All rise!" the bailiff called, forcing me to struggle back to my feet. He was in full power armor, the blue metal hulk looking quite menacing in the corner. Were they serious going to try and use that in here? The bailiff would do more damage than I ever could. And how did they even fit a ten foot tall metal suit through the courtroom doors?

Putting that thought aside for later, my eyes flicked over just in time to see a door at the back of the courtroom swing open. Out of the portal strode five black robed and very solemn looking individuals. As the five judges took their seats, I thought about how different things were about to be from a normal trial. After Dr. Tim, BoMMD, had successfully argued in The State of Pennsylvania vs. Carver that the average citizen was not a "peer" of super powered individuals, the DPA had to set up their own set of courtrooms with panels of five judges. They were pulled from a large pool of various experience, with the goal of providing a balanced judgment panel.

The panel acted much like a grand jury, questioning witnesses and examining evidence. At the end they would pronounce a supposedly fair verdict. While this model looked great on paper, the reality never lived up to the expectation. Most supers on both sides of the law saw them as little more than kangaroo courts.

During the test trials at the beginning of the panel process, several judges were...influenced by defendants. Because of this, the identities of the judges were kept secret until they questioned the defendant in open court right before delivering their verdict. I had to work hard to suppress a groan as I saw who took the chief judge seat at the center of the bar. With Slimy's help I'd done background on the people possibly deciding my fate. While Judge Powell wasn't the worst option (that went to Judge Hostetler, who I think only accepted a judgeship to "throw the freaks in jail"), he was very fond of ironic punishments. Stuff like making Crusader of the Seas work in a fish restaurant after he got out on parole, or making Iron Maiden dress as a candy striper and sing songs to sick kids at the local hospital.

"You can be seated." Judge Powell commanded. After the mismatch of noises from everyone sitting died down, he continued, "Today we are here to preside over case 1A23016, dealing with the individual known as Pockets."

I could hear some sniggers from the gathered crowd over my name. Yes the nickname was silly, and a bit childish, but I’d been a child when I’d been given it and the name had stuck. I certainly couldn’t use my real name for villain work and I worked 24/7. I could have gone for something like GravMax the Destroyer or the Eternal Surpriser, but besides being taken they didn’t fit with the image I was trying to display.

"Son of the S-Rank supervillains the Iron Cosmonaut and the Nova Queen."

It hit me why the room was so crowded. They weren't here to see me. They were here to see the son of two famous supervillains. Or possibly see the supervillains themselves, come to break their son out of jail. That certainly explained all the guards, even if they would crumple like tissue paper if even one of my parents showed up. Not that they would. Everyone who came for that kind of show was about to be disappointed.

I returned Judge Powell's stare with one of my own, from my carefully cultured collection that I’d practiced over the years. Annoyed youth #5. Slightly raised left eyebrow, slightly lowered right. Slight hint of teeth and full facial I am not amused.

"I am not my parents Judge Powell, no matter what you think otherwise. I haven't even seen them in person in nearly three years, just before they pulled off that ridiculous stunt to steal a handful of Russia's nukes. I would have been legally emancipated years ago, but had a hard time tracking them down to sign the paperwork. The government frowns on the my parents are in another dimension excuse." I upped my look to annoyed youth #3, increased eyebrow displacement with a scowl addition. "So if you think dragging me in here is going to get you anything on my parents, let me dissuade you from that notion right now." Slimy put a hand on my shoulder, a non-verbal reminder to not let my mouth dig a hole the rest of me would end up falling into.

"You say you are nothing like your parents, yet here you are in front of us today accused of supervillainy?" This came from the judge on the far left, Abrams if I remembered correctly. And from a combination of long practice and necessity, my memory was damn good. He was the youngest on the panel and already had a reputation as being anti Classed. Just the person I wanted deciding my fate.

"Judge Abrams,” I began, before pausing to choose my words carefully. This was a concept many ordinary people couldn't understand. “I've been part of the…alternative powered movement since I was old enough to count above five. I probably know more supervillains than my lawyer, not to mention the fixers, henchmen, and all the other little people who make game possible. Once you get into the lifestyle, it's almost impossible to get out. Do you think I can walk into a bank and ask for a job? My parentage would throw up a red flag first thing, and security would toss me out on my rear. Or possibly shoot me, depending on when they were last robbed. The same with any other job more complicated than retail or fast food. I can submit several studies as evidence to back me up on this, if you don't believe me."

"Having a high school diploma and a clear work history would help with getting a job." This came from Judge Baker, the only woman on the panel. She was almost as old as Powell, her once blonde hair gone totally white and her face deep set with wrinkles. "From what little records we have on you, you were last known to be attending a boarding school under the name…" she flipped through a few pages, "Yuri Gagarin? You look a little young to be the first Soviet in space."

“It’s a good name. And who needs a high school diploma when I have a PhD?”

Judge Baker’s face settled into an I don’t believe you scowl. Maybe because I barely looked old enough to vote, let alone have spent ten plus years in higher education. “You have a PhD?”

I added a bit of wattage to my smile. “Three in fact. Would you like to see them?”

I was being a smartass, but I wasn’t technically lying. I did have 3 PhDs, all carefully forged when I was going through an artistic period last year. They weren’t worth the paper they were painted on, but that wouldn’t stop me pulling out and waving one.

In truth my education was a cobbled together collection of boarding schools, personal tutoring, and correspondence courses. None of them lasted more than six months or so. I either had to move with my parents to take a job, or hide from a job, or vacation after a successful job. I did actually have a slip of paper proclaiming my higher education credentials I actually earned, ironically in pre-law, but I wasn't going to admit it. That would be giving away one of my still clean aliases. Instead I had to pretend the education level of a standard...ish eighteen year old.

“Try again son.” Judge Powell boomed, drawing the focus of the courtroom back to the chief judge. “Give us an answer we’d actually believe.”

"I have my GED sir, from two years ago." Actually is was four years ago, but I doubted they would believe that. "And for why I don't have a listed job history, I believe it would be…in the parlance of the court…a confession. Something my lawyer tries to drill into my head not to do." From beside me, Slimy sniggered. He knew exactly what I’d been up to for the past three years, and how many laws I’d broken while working for my primary employer, the arms dealer known only as C.

"This trial is not about the difficulties of those in the criminal lifestyle, it is about the crimes you stand here accused of committing." barked Judge Hito , a frail yet severe looking Japanese man on the far right side of the bench. "Can we please get back to the manner at hand?"

“Indeed.” The chief judge’s eyes flicked from his compatriot back to me. "Now Mr. Pockets. My colleagues and I have already extensively examined the evidence for your case. Before we render judgment, I have some questions for you under oath. Your answers to them will determine your future. There are several paths out of here today, some better than others. It is in your best interests to cooperate."

As intimate the poor sap speeches went, it wasn't bad. Needed a bit more righteous vengeance for my taste. Working very hard to suppress my inner smartass I replied, "Yes Sir. What would you like to know?"

"Where were you on the morning of July the 13th?"

I knew where the judge was going with this, so I gave the answer he wanted. "Downtown, near Bronson street in Financial District."

"And on that morning, did you deliberately use your powers to cause an armored car to crash?"

I could have tried to lie, as the truth was a straight up admission of guilt. But if they were asking, the DPA already knew the answer. Lying now was only detrimental. "Yes."

"And why did you do such a thing?"

"Because I was paid to." This caused some murmurs from the crowd, so I decided to elaborate. "I did it in a way that would do more damage to the vehicle than the driver. This was a job, nothing personal against the poor working stiffs inside."

Abrams was back. "You say you used minimum force? Then why did the truck explode against the side of the building?"

I had a feeling this question was going to come up. When I caught up with the team from this last job I was going to kick their ass. I didn’t normally take jobs without significant vetting, especially ones where I’d actually need to get my hands dirty in the field. But the guy in charge had a referral from someone I’d worked with closely in the past. A someone who was now off my Christmas card list. Permanently. "While my client didn't say what was in the back of the armored car, I assumed it to be cash or savings bonds. We were in the Financial District after all. From my understanding I would crash the car, the rest of the team would grab the goods, and we’d meet up at the safehouse later to split the take."

"But that's not what happened, was it?"

I rubbed my nose, hoping my building headache would go away. "No…it wasn't. Instead of bricks of cash, the truck was loaded with bricks of an experimental plastic explosive. At least, that’s what I was told afterward. I don’t know what the hell they were thinking moving such a dangerous cargo through a heavily populated area. I don't know if my client got bad information or was trying to use me as some sort of fall guy. Either way, my sliding stop of the truck was too much and the explosives blew. Perhaps instability was one reason the cargo was still considered experimental. Regardless, the resulting explosion took out most of the front columns of the Thornton Bank."

I knew the judges had seen the damage. Slimy told me they took a tour of the bank on Monday, to get a better appreciation of what happened. Hopefully a clearer image than the blow-up shots the prosecutor used from right after the incident. Judge Powell gave his colleagues a moment to reconcile their memories before asking, "What happened after that?"

"From casing the place, I knew how much of an impact those columns could take. A normal crash would have done more damage to the vehicle than the stonework. I also knew they held up most of the weight for the front half of an eight story building. Don't ask me why it was designed that way, Donald Thornton was a loony architect. I think the only reason his older brother let him design the place was it got Donald out of the rest of the family's hair. Anyway, from where I was standing I could see the intact columns starting to crack and fracture under the increased load. If one or two more broke, the whole front of the bank building would have collapsed. With the height of the building, it probably would have pitched into the structure on the other side of the street. I knew if I didn't do something, then a lot of people would get hurt or even die."

"Which is why you ran over and used your gravitational powers to lighten the load until city engineers could arrive to shore up the building?"

That was a gross understatement of the difficulty required to prevent an unstable structure from collapsing on itself, but somehow I didn’t think the Judge wanted a lecture on college level structural dynamics. "That is correct Sir."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?" I didn't understand what Judge Powell was asking.

"After the truck explosion, there was nothing to stop you from walking away. Without the use of your powers to support the building while everyone evacuated, the DPA probably wouldn't have connected you with the skidding truck. So I'll ask you again, why did you stay?"

That was a tough questions, one I'd been going over and over in my head since the police took me into custody. "I did it…because I'm not a monster. You might label me a villain, but I take from those who don't stand to lose from the theft or deserve it for their actions. The transport company had insurance, they wouldn't have lost a dime. As for the Thorntons, a black eye to one of their ugly landmarks was just a fraction of what they’re due for their anti-Classed actions. But the people up in that building were innocent…at least as innocent as a team of bankers can be in this town. I wasn't going to just stand by and watch them die from my mistake. Sometimes a villain has to have principles, even when those principles cost him a little jail time."

The room was totally quiet as I finished. Maybe some were admiring me for making a stand, while others were probably waiting for the judge to throw the book at me. It didn't matter. I could take a few years in prison. I was friends with enough people on the inside, not to mention my parents’ reputation, that no-one would mess with me. It would be a vacation, a chance to start on that book I'd always wanted to write.

"I see." Judge Powell took off his glasses and cleaned them before returning the spectacles to his face. "Mr. Pockets, I see a lot of individuals come into my courtroom each year. In my opinion, I've gotten very good at judging them. I thought I had a pretty good measure of your character after the presentation of the evidence, now I'm sure. As you know, the minimum sentence for the use of superpowers in a crime that causes gross property damage is five years. The average is ten, which I would be justified in ordering based on what happened. But I'm going to offer you a deal. Have you heard of the Boltman Institute?"

"You mean the spandex academy?" The words left my mouth before my brain could register Judge Powell's tone. He looked a bit annoyed at my using the Institute's demeaning nickname. "The Boltman Institute is a educational facility catering to those with powers, not just individuals who want to be superheroes. It provides a wide variety of classes and training to help students understand and correctly apply their powers. I will admit that you are correct about the high number of heroes who graduate. Apart from apprenticing under a licensed hero after reaching the proper age, the Boltman Institute is where the majority of heroes learn their trade in this country. The Institute is often compared to a college, as it hold students in their late teen and early twenties, and offers several degrees in both mundane and powered topic-"

Abrams cut the Chief Judge off. "I've always wondered…and now that we've got a knowledgeable villain in our midst, is there such a school for young villains-to-be out there? An anti-Institute?"

The rest of the panel turned to him with disapproving looks. "You don't have to answer that, Mr. Pockets." Judge Powell said reproachfully.

"Even if I knew of one, would I be allowed to talk about it? We’re talking fight club rules here. Take it with a grain of salt, but as far as my experience goes most villain training is done by internship and the internet. It’s amazing what you can learn with Youtube videos these days."

Judge Powell carried on as if he hadn't heard my answer. "I'm glad you've heard of the Boltman Institute, Mr. Pockets, as it's about to be your home for the next four years."

My mouth was halfway open when that freight train of a statement crashed into my ears. "Pa..pardon?"

"I said, I'm sentencing you to four years at the Boltman Institute. After you graduate you may do as you wish. Hero, villain, bowling alley owner. It doesn't matter to me. But you claim to not be a monster, so I'm giving you the chance to prove it."

"But…um…" I dug through my brain for any excuse I could throw up that would save me from being sent to that place.

"Of course, I could always send you to prison for ten years instead." Judge Powell told me with a smirk.

And he calls me a villain. This was a classic example of one of Powell's famous alternative punishment, one I didn't have a way out of. "I'll…take the Institute, your Honor."

"Good, I'll have the guards take you downstairs for the fitting of your tracking cuff. You'll have another month or two of summer left, but I expect you to be on the front lawn come the nineteenth of September. If you’re not…” The judge removed his glasses and glared at me with a stare that would have made Drala the Universe Conqueror wet himself. What would happened to me was unsaid, but very, very clear.

Returning his glasses to his face, Judge Powell continued, “Do we have an understanding, Mr. Pockets?"

I gulped. "Yes Sir."

“Good. Case dismissed.”

With that, the guards bracketed me and dragged me off downstairs. I hadn't ended up in prison, but something arguably worse. I was about to be a villain in a school for heroes. I was so screwed.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

origional is spelled wrong, might want to change that.

Click to shrink...

Try and prep everything out before hand and stupid mistakes still slip through. Thanks for the catch.

 

[Chogurt]

Fun premise. Will hopefully see where it goes.

Why is the whole chapter in bold?

 

[Unhinged Puppet]

I enjoyed reading this (but maybe make it not in bold?)

One of the things that I noticed though:

Since then, there have been hundreds of cases of individuals that could supposedly do what their fellow man could not.

Click to shrink...

You might want to change “hundreds” to “thousands”, I would think that if there are enough good guys with superpowers that making a college for them is a reasonable decision, then there would have to be more cases than just hundreds.

The other thing that I noticed was that you used the word “portal” once or twice and while I don’t think that you mean sci-fi looking portals, I am not sure so if you would clarify that for me, I would be grateful

I look forward to reading more in the future

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Fun premise. Will hopefully see where it goes.

Why is the whole chapter in bold?

Click to shrink...

First time posting to these boards, and for some reason it doesn't like the google doc file I'm pulling the chapters from. I unbolded the text once before, and for some reason it undid by fix. We'll see if it stays normal for now.

I enjoyed reading this (but maybe make it not in bold?)

One of the things that I noticed though:


You might want to change “hundreds” to “thousands”, I would think that if there are enough good guys with superpowers that making a college for them is a reasonable decision, then there would have to be more cases than just hundreds.

The other thing that I noticed was that you used the word “portal” once or twice and while I don’t think that you mean sci-fi looking portals, I am not sure so if you would clarify that for me, I would be grateful

I look forward to reading more in the future

Click to shrink...

The hundreds is referring to pre-1900s instances of superhuman individuals. Effectively the myths and legends we have in our history. The alt history of this universe doesn't really split off until the early 1900s. As for the portals, I was using them for synonymy for doorways. There are magical/tek (weird science) portals in this universe, so perhaps this is confusing.

 

[Copper Polendina]

This is a Worm expy. A good Worm expy. Now to learn the entire superpower culture of this world you created. Watched.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

And here we have the second chapter of the story. I decided to try and do the weekly posts on the weekend. Tune in next Saturday for the next installment.
______________________________________________________________________

Chapter 2: Orientation


/\ LAW ENFORCEMENT SENSITIVE /\

Interpol Green Notice


Legal Status​

Family Name: Unknown

Forename: Unknown

Alias: Pockets

Sex: Male

Date of Birth: Unknown (subject estimated to be in late teens to early twenties)

Country of Origin: Unknown/none

Languages Spoken: Russian, Chinese, English, Infernal, and Medieval Portuguese, plus dozens more at different levels of fluency

Offenses​

Category of Offenses: Classed Supervillain

Convicted Offense(s): None

Suspected Offense(s): Conspiracy, Smuggling, Bribery, Theft

Active Warrants: None-Pyronatrix Protocol (see below)

Notes: Suspected of being a primary sales representative and transporter for the arms dealer known only as C. Also serves as a mid-level fixer between different criminal enterprises.

Class Information​

Class(es): Sorcerer

Assessed Power Level: Mid tier (4-6)

Power Description: Subject is able to store large quantities of items in extradimensional space. Size is a greater limit than weight. Suspected gravitational powers of unknown capability.

Other Notes​

DO NOT APPROACH. While not powerful on his own, subject is the son of the Iron Cosmonaut and Nova Queen (see their respective Red Notices for more detail). Under the Pyronatrix Protocol, subject should only be apprehended if caught in the commission of a serious crime. If arrested, subject should be held in at least a class-A holding facility to prevent escape.

/\ LAW ENFORCEMENT SENSITIVE /\​

______________________________________________________________________


Statue of Harry Boltzmann, in front of the University Union

Boltman Institute, Beacon City

Monday August 22, 9:55 AM



I stood at the base of the statue and looked up at the bronze representation of a man who was a legend in Beacon City. As the Boltman, Harry Boltzmann had been one of the city's first heroes. The most successful of the first wave at least. He started out fighting gangsters and bootleggers during the Depression, saw the rise of the first real supervillains, and disappeared just after the start of the Vietnam war. Along the way he'd somehow amassed a fortune large enough to buy a huge plot of land on the outskirts of what would later become Beacon City. Decades after he was declared dead Harry's heirs donated the property to the newly formed Boltman Institute, to help carry on their father's legacy of service and heroics.

At least, that's what the pamphlet I'd read on the drive over here said. Somehow I thought there was more to the story, but I wasn't exactly in a position to find out. All I could do was look up at the smiling bronze relief and wonder why the man really put his life on the line.

Looking around, I didn’t see any other students. It was still summer break, so this wasn’t too surprising. I was dressed to blend in, with cargo shorts and a shirt limited to only two pockets, but the lack of other people to blend in with was driving up my nervousness. Nervousness that was already elevated due to the fact I was a known villain sauntering onto a school for heroes. I looked down at the metal cuff wrapped around my right wrist. Somehow, I was going to find a way to get Judge Powell back for this. Ironic punishments were the worst.

Somewhere further into the campus, a set of bells started to chime for the new hour. I wondered if they held classes up there in the tower. That would be a very stereotypically hero thing to do. After the bells fell silent, the morning heat was broken by another voice.

"Students for the 10 o'clock orientation tour, over here."

From the information I'd received from Judge Powell, the Boltman Institute ran incoming students through orientation over the summer to place them in proper classes and have a demonstration of their skills. As those had mostly taken place before my incarceration, I was here with the last remaining dregs that needed to be tested. Oh joy.

I walked around the statue and deeper into the campus, over in the direction of the voice. It's owner was easy to spot, the man had to be at least six three or six four. He was also wearing a skintight red, white, and blue spandex monstrosity that was almost nauseatingly patriotic to look at. He had to be a Paladin, both for the pretty boy factor and the level of obliviousness require to wear a getup like that.

On an instinctive level, I was distrustful of the whole Class. Even low level Paladins had perfect features it would take either a year of all you can eat buffets or a knife to the face to ruin. Throw in super strength, flight, and an impenetrable, all encompassing aura for the higher level ones and they were the perfect Mary Sues. Most of the Paladin heroes I’d met on the job had been holier-than-thou types, which might have colored my perception. Or maybe this was just the chip on my shoulder from being a Sorcerer, the class they dumped everyone with magical or supernatural powers in that didn’t fit into one of the other Classes.

The Paladin already had two men standing next to him and as I approached two women joined the group from the around the other side of the UU. As was my habit I started tallying up what I could determine about the others from clothing and mannerisms. My eyes flicked over the two guys first. The first was short and skinny, dressed in a set of robes like he was Harry Potter or something. Obviously a Wizard, and one who didn't get out enough. The other was a solid wall of muscle masquerading as a black guy. Seriously, he had to be at least six six and three times my width. I’m skinny, but I’m not that skinny. All that was missing was a do-rag and he’d be a shoo in for generic street thug #6. In a way, he was as obviously a Barbarian as Captain Spandex was a Paladin. The Barbarian had some alternative characteristic syndrome, known as ACS in polite circles, which manifested as large granite growths poking out of gaps in his wifebeater shirt. Maybe I should have gone with boulder instead of brick wall.

Of the two women, the first was a pin-up blonde. She was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans that looked painted on, showing off every inch of her curves. Another Paladin, clearly. The three other guys were staring at her a bit open mouthed and I didn't blame them. You know things were getting out of hand when Congress gets off their ass long enough to actually ban a Class from being in adverts.

My eyes, however, were locked on the other woman. Her back was to me as I approached, giving me a clear view of the woman's long black hair. The twin red streaks were both distinct and familiar, but it wasn't until she turned at my approach and I saw her face that everything clicked. "Tatiana?"

The woman's face snapped to mine, eyes wide in surprise. "Pockets?" Her accent, as slavic as schi soup, made my name come out closer to pou-kets.

There was no mistaking that combination of hair, accent, and dumbfounded expression. Before me stood Tatiana Scarwing, sole daughter of Oberiarion,the Infernal ruler of the dimension of Pandemonium. At least, before me stood an illusionary version of her. While not as over the top as the Paladin beside her, Tatian’s figure clearly spoke of her lustful heritage. For the illusion Tatiana was sporting Eurasian features; a thin nose over lips stained red with what I dearly hoped was only lipstick. All in all a pretty package, but not one so over to top it drew attention like the other woman. About the only thing that stood out were Tatiana’s eyes, a bright yellowish green inside almond shaped lids. They were some things no illusion could hide.

The true Tatiana had bright red skin, cloven hooves, long spade tipped tail, growable wings, and horns. The typical demon girl package, like all the other succubae of Lust. All that was hidden now, though I thought I spotted the stubs of her horns sticking out of the headband attempting to corral her wild mane of inky black hair.

I'd first met Tatiana over a decade ago, while my parents camped out in the demonic Highlord’s guest room while they planned a heist together. I was between the ages males were fascinated with nearly naked female bodies, so there wasn’t much for me to do in that particular section of Purgatory. So as small children are want to do I went exploring. Thinking back, that could have ended up with some x-rated surprises, but instead I found Tatiana all alone in a tower of the Highlord’s castle. She seemed lonely and about my age, so I invited her to go exploring with me. Over time I came to think of her as the sister I never had, though it had been two or three years since I’d last seen her. I certainly never expected to run into her outside of Purgatory, let alone at Boltman.

"Pockets, what you doing here?" Tatiana asked fearfully. She clearly wasn’t expecting to run into anyone she knew here either.

"Community service." I held up my right arm and pointed at the chrome metal band around my wrist. From a distance it could pass for a tacky watch, but up close anyone in the business would know what it was. While far from impenetrable, it had enough sensors to track me to Mars and would shock me silly if I tried going somewhere I shouldn't. I’d been told quite sternly what would happen if I tried to take it off. Of the options, there were none I was particularly interested in experiencing. "It was four years here or a cozy vacation in Tartarus for the next decade.. I choose the lesser of two evils."

"I…heard…about…you." a voice rumbled beside me. The mountain man had pulled his eyes away from the killer blonde and was looking at me with disdain. "The…super…villain."

I’d known I wasn’t going to be accepted here with open arms, at least open arms that weren’t brandishing a weapon or two. But this guy was looking like he wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.

"Supervillain, where?" the Wizard shouted, pulling a staff out of thin air. The Barbarian pointed at me and mage boy pointed it in my direction as well. "Take that, villain! Elth nath akel!" In addition to his words, the Wizard threw what looked like a complicated gang sign in my direction as well.

Through lots of (very painful) practice, I've learned how to defend myself against most physical attacks. Magic though, tended to treat the rules of the universe more as guidelines. I had no idea what kind of attack was coming at me, let alone if I could block it. In circumstances like this, the best option was to get out of the way.

I concentrated and gravity decided to take a vacation. Down became right and I fell out of the way of a bolt of lightning that zagged through the air I’d occupied not a moment before. The bolt kept going until it hit a light pole, blasting out the bulb with the sound of shattering glass. I shifted gravity's direction again until I landed behind our patriotically dressed tour guide.

"Hey, move!" the Wizard called. "You're blocking my shot."

The Paladin walked up to Wizard, pulling the staff from his hands with ease. "What do you think you're doing?"

"But…but he's a supervillain…and he's right there." The Wizard's voice descended into a whine. "Aren't we supposed to learn how to battle villains here?"

"If he's here, then he's studying to be a hero. That makes him a hero, not a villain. As for you, clearly some control is needed first. What if he was an ordinary person? I'd be forced to arrest you for burning him into a crisp. And did you stop and think for an instant what was behind your target? What if that was a bus full of orphans instead of a light pole... "

As the two continued to argue back and forth, I walked over to Tatiana and acted like nothing had happened. "So, what are you doing here?"

A guilty look spread across Tatiana's face. "I…don't want to talk about it. Please, Pockets?"

I shrugged, showing the issue was dropped. If I had to guess, I knew why Tatiana was here. Partly from our past connection and partly because we grew up in similar circumstances. Like so many young people, she was rebelling against her parents. I did it by actually giving a damn about people other than myself, while Tatiana was trying to spite her father by becoming a hero. Good for her. I just wished the heroes were open-minded enough that they could see her true form without freaking out. If staff boy's reaction to me was any indication, Tatiana had a hard road ahead of her.

On the other hand, Tatiana had a temper. The Wizard was luck he’d taken a shot at me. If he’d tried something similar on Tatiana, the Infernal would have shoved that staff somewhere incredibly painful. And no-one does pain quite as well as Infernals of Lust.

Our guide finished chewing out my attacker and they returned to the group. The Wizard was so chastised even his staff was limp. "There were supposed to be six new students for me to lead around today and I only see five. I've already confirmed the presence of Herbert Miklentire IV." He glanced at the Wizard, who didn't meet his eyes. "Next up on the list is Cecilia Hamilton, AKA Perfecta."

"Ooh, that's me." the stacked blonde piped up. I worked very hard to suppress a sigh. Only a Paladin would pick such a pretentious yet ridiculous code name. More surprising was someone hadn’t tried to claim it first.

I looked askance at Tatiana as she answered to the last name of Foster, but I didn't say anything. The big guy was, I kid you not, Black Mountain aka Luke DeShea. No one answered for Rolando Guzman.

"That must make you Pockets." our guide finished, looking at me. If my outfit wasn’t a clear indications he’d guessed correctly, then all the words in the world wouldn’t have convinced him. I returned a nod. "Just a codename…odd. Usually it's the opposite. Only about half the students have one starting out."

I shrugged. "I've had so many aliases over the years I don't think I even remember what name is on my birth certificate. That is, if my parents ever bothered to get one." Mostly a lie, but there was some information I wouldn’t give up easily. The joys of a complicated backstory. "I've gone by Pockets so long I answer to it easier than any other name."

"Right. I'm Nicolas Reyes and my code name is Patriot." I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that. It was an obvious name, one I'm pretty sure had a copyright somewhere. This guy was going to make some lawyers rich. "If you'll follow me, I'll give you a brief tour of the campus before powers testing."

The best way to image the layout of the Boltman Institute was to picture an archery target. There was an outer road that encircle the campus and a second, concentric inner road. Most of the larger campus buildings, such as the UU,Administration Offices, gym, cafeteria, and machine shops were all in this outer ring. The inner ring, sandwiched between the second road and a central plaza, contained the eight main instructional buildings. After about an hour and a half of walking in giant circles, Patriot led us back to the northern section of campus. We stopped off for lunch at the multistory cafeteria, sitting by the glass walls to watch the few people walking around far below.

As we left the cafeteria Patriot pointed out several brown brick and glass buildings to the east. "There are the rest of the campus dorms, a bit newer than the ones over by the library. You'll be sorted into one of them based on the results of your testing today."

"Like using the sorting hat?" Herbert’s face perked up.

I thought I saw Patriot roll his eyes. "It's a little more complicated than just putting a hat on your head."

Patriot led us back toward the center of campus, skirting the road beside the dorms, and into a squat red brick building that reminded me of a huge, boxy fire hydrant. "This is where they do power classification and testing.” Patriot explained as he held the front door open for us to enter. “This building is also home to the sim system."

At several blank looks Patriot continued, "As sometimes it would be dangerous to use your powers, even in a controlled environment, the Institute designed a computer controlled simulation world that would be useful for tests and practice bouts. It can create scenarios that range from a small, featureless room all the way up to faithfully rendered version of Beacon City.”

"How exactly do they plug us into the simulation?" I asked dubiously. I’d seen similar systems before, and the consciousness transfer methods were...messy, to say the least.

Patriot shrugged. "It has something to do with special helmets and brain waves. I never looked too deeply into it."

Our group passed through another doorway and into what appeared to be a small conference room. There was a trio of people behind a podium there. One was an older man, dressed in a lab coat decorated with enough pockets that I could have worn it without discomfort. He was bald on top, with white frizzy hair around the sides like a mountain rising out of the fog. By the eccentric appearance and the goggles perched on the man’s forehead, I labeled him as a Technomancer and braced myself for an oncoming tide of technobabble.. The other two, a younger looking man and woman, were wearing normal looking lab coats and no goggles. Whether or not they had powers wasn't readily apparent but they were clearly assistants of some stripe.

Patriot walked right up to the older man in the center. "Dr. Porter, I brought today's batch for testing."

"Very good, my boy. Very good." the doctor turned to the rest of us. "Good afternoon all, my name is Dr. Porter and I'm very excited to have you with us today. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll explain a little of what we do here at the testing facility?”

With that, Dr. Porter launching into a discussion long winded enough to drive a politician to tears of boredom. I could see the women twitching anxiously in their seats, Herbert appeared to be almost catatonic, and Black Mountain wasn’t moving. Personally, I tuned him out and went over some stock calculations in my head. Every so often I tuned back in to just check if anything interesting was being discussed.

About the only topic that could be considered “interesting” in the nearly two hour lecture was when Dr. Porter started talking about the Gygax-Arneson classification system. Rumor had it, the pair had based the Classes on a pen and paper tabletop game they were developing. Many a geeky night had been wasted on arguing which came first, as most of the archetypes slid nicely into the game they eventually published. Paladins were the big and powerful, beautiful and charming. Barbarians were tough melee brawlers, capable of regeneration and manic rages. Warriors fought with a wide variety of weapons, while Monks mixed it up with blinding speed and skill.

The three most common magical classes were Sorcerer, Wizard, and Cleric. Sorcerers like myself were able to manipulate the forces of the natural world instinctively, though we tended to be limited to a single phenomenon. Wizards required much more training and preparation to perform their art, but their abilities were more flexible. Clerics were somewhere in between, a mixed bag who derived their powers from gods, spirits, extra-planar beings, and the like. Or at least, what they thought were gods, spirits, or extra-planar being. The jury was still out on the true nature of Clerical patrons.

Besides that there were other classes such as Rangers, Gunslingers, Cavaliers, Druids, and Summoners. About the only class that didn’t fit the DnD standard were the Technomancers, as generally fantasy and modern technology don’t hang out together. In my experience all Technomancers had at least one screw loose, and that was exempting the goggles Drawback universal to their class. Maybe that was why Dr. Porter was able to drone on like this.

I had some high hopes when he got to multiclassing, individuals who seemed to have powers from multiple Classes, but the monologue quickly dived back down to mental flatline territory. I spent a few more minutes trying to decide if I wanted to invest in one of Alphabet’s new companies, when I tuned back to hear, “We won't be doing full power testing today, that will be one of your freshman classes, but we do have a little preview for you, followed by a scenario that will help us get a handle on your general powers and mindset. Janice, if you would?”

The female lab assistant strode over to a cabinet on the wall and returned with a small wooden box. She brought it back and handed the box over to Dr. Porter. The scientist removed the lid and pulled out what looked like a deck of cards, only they were twice the size of a standard poker set. By the thickness, there were quite a bit more than the usual fifty two. Tarot cards perhaps?

“Can anyone tell me what these are?” Dr. Porter asked, turning the deck to allow us to see the design on the back. There were dragons and demons and far too many skulls for my liking.

“Deck of Sha-la-Tinbard.” Tatiana whispered from beside me, clearly surprised she recognized it. “Last used by Black Witch Sally.”

I scrolled through my mental catalogue of villains until I found the right entry. Despite her boring name, Sally had been an Oracle not insignificant power, using her skill at predicting the future to try and manipulate the stock market. If memory served, she’d bought it back in the mid 90’s after she accidentally popped the tech bubble, leaving several other villains royally cheesed at her. I idly wondered how the deck had ended up here.

“I’m surprised you recognized it young lady.” Dr. Porter said with a smile that revealed he had a bit of lunch stuck between two of his teeth. “While I’m afraid much of its power was burned out during the acquisition process, the deck has remained a useful tool for preliminary power determination. Each of you, please take a card.”

Dr. Porter fanned out the cards and slowly went between the gathered new students. When I tried to pick a card, I was hit with a static tingle. “Ouch.” Reflexively, I sucked on the shocked tip of my finger.

“Sorry about that. Like I said before, the deck isn’t what it used to be.”

A bit more cautiously, I tried again and this time managed to retrieve a card without gross fingerly injury.

“Whoa.” Ignoring my card for the moment, I snuck a glance over at Tatiana’s. The Infernal had her mouth open as she studied the picture on the front of the card. The ink held two images of Tatiana, standing back to back. The one of the left was her demonic version and the background of the card was filled with monsters right out of Pandemonium. The right side of the card held Tatiana as she was now, with the rest filled up with a psychedelic haze of uncertain images. As Tatiana shifted her card I thought I saw a third figure, encompassing both inked Tatiana’s. There was a vague outline for just a moment, then it disappeared.

“Very interesting.” Dr. Porter remarked, appearing before us like a ghost. “Very rarely do we get a card so detailed. May I?” Reluctantly, Tatiana handed over the small rectangle of paper. “Very interesting.” the doctor repeated after studying the card for a moment. “Definitely a multiclass. A multiclass, I say. I’d guess some sort of summoner, judging by the left side. One with a demonic flair. As for the other...hmm.. a reality distortion of some kind. An illusionist Sorcerer, or perhaps a Psi if the effect is mental.”

One by one, Dr. Porter went around and read out cards like they were tea leaves. The Wizard’s card contained a tower that was strangely hat shaped, surrounded by four staves. Black Mountain’s card depicted a large rock, covered in blood. A rather blunt assessment, in my opinion. Perfecta’s card was taken up by a large, expensive looking book. It might have just been a trick of the light, but I swear that half the pages seemed to be missing. Somehow I felt that was important, but Dr. Porter didn’t mention it.

“Alright Pockets, it’s your turn.” Dr. Porter’s words dragged me out of my thoughts. I looked down for the first time at my own card, the one I’d neglected up to that point. I stared at it for a good thirty seconds or so. My left eyebrow twitched up and down as my face tried to decide which of my carefully cultivated annoyed scowls it wanted to take.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” I finally asked, flipped around a card that was as blank as the look on my face. “Some sort of haze the villain thing?”

Dr. Porter took the card and stared at it as blankly as I had. “Odd, the deck’s never done that before. We usually get at least some detail. Perhaps another card?”

I did, only to have the exact same result. I started for a third when I felt a familiar tingle of static. Not wanting another singed finger, I backed off.

“Very odd.” Dr. Porter remarked. “We’ll have to schedule some in depth powers testing for you, my boy. Lots and lots of testing. But now that we have that little tradition out of the way, it’s time for the fun part. If you’ll follow me I'll show you to the individual sim booths."

As we walked, Dr. Porter continued explaining what we needed to do. At the first room we came across Dr. Porter gestured for Perfecta to step inside. The room was too small for all of us to enter, especially with Black Mountain present, but we watched from the doorway. I cheated a bit, using my powers to float above the heads of the others. Dr. Porter directed Perfecta to lay back in the chair that took up most of the room. It reminded me of a leather doctor's couch with arms.

After she was comfortably seated, Dr. Porter lifted down a device from the head of the chair. It looked like a metal hair scratcher kludged together with half a box of electrical components. There were a dozen equidistantly separated "legs" that grew out of the central body and curled around the top of Perfecta's head. Each one was covered in enough sensors and wire to hogtie a Barbarian.

"Now Perfecta, there's a button on the side of the right armrest. Press it, and the simulation will start up." She did and after a moment the blonde's body went slack.

Dr. Porter studied the still form in the chair, checking readings on the back. Finally he nodded and stepped away. "Everything looks good. These chairs are very easy to use. If you have any questions I or one of my assistants are available to help. Otherwise pick a room, hop in a chair, and get yourself connected in. When you get out, we'll meet up in the conference room to discuss results." He paused a moment to let the instructions sink in. "Any last minute questions?"

I looked around, studying the expression on my fellow lab rats. Tatiana and the Wizard both looked nervous. Black Mountain was indifferent. Frankly, I was of the same mind. This was only one of the first of many hurdles I would face here. At least if I got knifed in the back during a simulation, I wouldn’t have to clean the bloodstains off my real clothes later.

With no questions forthcoming, Dr. Porter and his assistants directed us to our rooms. I closed the door took a seat on the chair. The head thingie took a bit of adjusting before it wasn't poking me too onerously. Finally, after one last calming deep breath for luck, I pressed the button on the side of the armrest. For a long minute nothing happened, leading me to believe I'd done something wrong. Then a shock ran through me, as if I'd been struck by lightning on top of my head. My body spasmed and I was instantly hurled into blackness.

 

[Chogurt]

Is there a reason to use cards for power testing? Like it seems a bit theatrical and solely to draw attention to pockets.

Also is there no indication of what traits they are testing for? At least for sorting?

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Is there a reason to use cards for power testing? Like it seems a bit theatrical and solely to draw attention to pockets.

Also is there no indication of what traits they are testing for? At least for sorting?

Click to shrink...

The deck is not the full power testing (which is a series of classes), it is a theatrical piece to warm up the students before the evaluation scenario (see the next chapter I'm about to post). From a writing perspective, I'm using it entirely as a Chekov's gun device. It wasn't even in the initial draft when I wrote the chapter. But the deck raises questions such as why don't the cards like Pockets (hint: it's not because he's a villain), who's the third figure on Tatiana's card, why is Perfecta's book missing pages, etc. Some of these facts will become important later, either in this book or future ones, and I wanted to start laying the groundwork early.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Chapter 3: Defying Expectations.​

Rule 9 of Pockets’ code: Anything you can get with a gun can also be acquired with a smile and a silver tongue​

You see this, my boy? This is my clean getaway collection. Every piece hanging on these walls was from a job I pulled where no one was hurt, nothing was broken...at least nothing of significant value, and the cops were no closer to catching me than than an old farmyard cat is a risk to mice. Some of these pieces don’t even have any real value. That velvet rope over there, one of dozens hanging around the Uffizi gallery. It nearly tripped me up as I was running out with a Botticelli. I gave the painting back when I got bored with it, but I kept the rope as a reminder.

But my mind does tend to wonder. Where was I going with this lesson? Ah, yes, that was it. If at any time someone tells you that violence is the only way to get what you want, remember this room. Remember my side of the argument, that I got all this with planning, a smile, and a few charming words. And most of all, remember that I have a Da Vinci hanging next to a Michelangelo and a Rembrandt, so their argument is invalid.


The Purple Gentleman

_____________________________________________________________________



Time and Location Unknown


One second I was lying on that stupid chair. The next…I didn't have the foggiest clue where I was. Everything around me was cloudy, as if I was trapped in one of those mists that require cutting implements to progress through. A quick pat down revealed I still had the correct number of fingers and toes, which was a relief. Despite the fact I couldn't see any details farther than a foot from my face, signals from my limbs were coming through just fine.

What was going on? Some sort of computer error? A sync period? As my level of computer competence was average criminally minded American (a category which had a wide divergence at the top and bottom), I certainly couldn't hack my way out of this. And that was assuming I found a keyboard or some other way to influence my environment.

I put my hands to my mouth and called out. "Hello, Dr. Porter. Is anyone out there?"

The only response to the call was a slight uptick in the swirling of the mist. In a toss up between stand here and die of boredom or keep walking until I died of exhaustion, I choose the latter. Mercifully the ground beneath the fog was mirror smooth, preventing any trip hazards. A small mercy, as the more I walked the greater the feeling of wrongness filled me.

After what felt like miles, but could have been only a couple hundred feet for all I knew, I found a door. Or more accurately, I nearly broke my nose walking into a door. This wasn't a hazy opening or a darker patch of fog. It was a literal door. 36 inches wide by 80 inches tall and all that. White painted wood, with four panels and a brass door knob. I rapped on it gently and confirmed my nose’s hypothesis that it was solid.

Walking around the door, I saw nothing but more fog. So here I was, standing before a door without a wall in the middle of a fog cloud. What was the obvious solution to this puzzle? I walked back to the front of the door, turned the knob, and stepped through.

What should have met me on the far side was more fog. Instead, inexplicably, I was standing on a downtown street. I even recognized it and a nearby lamppost confirmed my location. I was at the corner of Mikimoto and Bulgari, standing at the heart of the Tourist District. How the hell had I gotten here? Turning around, I saw nothing but a blank stone wall.

It was at that moment a heavily ingrained concern reared its head. Arrayed before me in a semicircle were a half dozen police cars. Each had a pair of cops apiece and I thought I saw a surveillance or SWAT van parked around the corner. My fight or flight response rose, only to fade as I realized none of the cops were looking at me. Instead they were all focused on the jewelry shop across the street.

One cop glanced around nervously, spotted me, and hurried in my direction. "Mr. Pockets?" he asked, hopefully.

"Lose the Mr., it's just Pockets. What's going on here?"

"Two powered assailants burst into the McGruffson jewelry outlet less than twenty minutes ago. We got the place surrounded quickly so they haven't been able to escape, but we believe there are several hostages inside. When the responders saw signs the criminals were Classed they called for hero support and you were the first to arrive."

I was their hero support? That proved I was in a simulation, for no cop in this city would say that after my trial. "And what do you expect me to do?"

The cop looked at me, confused. "You're the licensed hero on the scene sir. All the men here are at your command. We're ready to assault the store on your order Mr…um...Pockets."

So, this was the test. I was supposed to rush into the store, with or without the police at my back, and give the criminals inside a good thrashing to dissuade them from their criminal ways. Screw that. That wasn't how I operated.

I'd dressed for the day to blend in as a college student, not pull a job. Despite what the comics say, doing a full wardrobe change in a phone booth is a lot harder than it looks. The biggest problem is finding one in the age of cell phones. So as usual, I was going to have to improvise. I reached into one of the larger pocket on my shorts and pulled out a tangle of metal links and chain. It was as if someone had taken a hacksaw to a hula hoop and ran a chain through the inside to keep all the pieces together. Other, thinner pieces of chain ran between the hoops elements, welded to the outside to create the impression of a butterfly net for the world’s biggest and strongest butterflies. I found the part of the chain where the end links were soldered together like a handle and tugged. This forced the sections back together to form a two foot wide circle with a chain net backing.

Another downside of this particular power, though not on the level of a Drawback, was I needed an enclosed area to pull things through. Generally a pocket or purse or similar, though in a pinch I could do this chain trick when I needed to pull through something bigger. The smaller the hole the less power I needed, but it had to be big enough for me to physically pull the item through. The process worked easiest with the pockets on my clothing, probably for psychosomatic reasons, but sometimes you needed the opening to be a bit bigger. I had no idea how well my powers would work in a simulation, but here went nothing.

I reached into the center of the hoop, my hand disappearing into whatever alternative dimension I used for storage space. It came out a moment later, a bundle of black leathery material clutched firmly in my grip. I tugged the entire mass through, revealing a trench coat that fell to my calves. Cliché, I know, but it had some extra surprises sown into the liners, not to mention an ample supply of pockets of all shapes and sizes. As I shrugged on my coat, I wondered if this worked because the computer could somehow read my mind and knew what I expected to happen. What if I tried to pull out a bazooka, or George Washington? Would I somehow end up with an explosive Founding Father? Something to think about for later, but right now I had a job to do.

I turned back to the cop, who was facing away disinterestedly but kept sneaking peeks every few seconds. "Officer…" I searched the cop's shirt and found his name tag. "Hughes. Please have your men stand by out here. I'll take care of this…my way."

"But what if we hear shooting and signs of a struggle?" The officer asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. Did this guy have a death wish or something? I'd seen the statistics, and cops who went up against Classed didn't fare too well without heavy ordinance. This guy didn't have anything more that a pistol and bullet proof vest. They might as well be a bb gun and a sheet of cardboard for all the good they would do if things went sideways.

"Then call for an ambulance." I strode off in the direction of the store. "One of the armored ones, as it means things got messy."

The cops all looked at me strangely as I passed through their ranks and made my way up to the front door of the jewelry store. My hands were out at my sides, showing I wasn't currently armed. Of course ordinance that was a pocket away, but the odds were the two guys in the store didn't know that.

I walked right up to the glass front door and knocked. "Pizza delivery!"

I could hear muffled voices from behind the shades and the shuffling sounds of movement. The shadows shifted as a figure approached the front door. A loud “click, click, click” echoed through the wood as a trio of heavy duty locks disengaging, followed by the door opening a crack. Through the slit, I could see the barrel of a rifle and the twitchy, sweaty face of the man holding it. He looked worse than I did after a week in that prison jumpsuit.

"We didn't order no pizza." he called back, suspicious.

"No, you didn't. But if I'd just walked up and opened the door, you would have shot me."

"S' true." The robber nodded. The one eye I could see narrowed. "Are you a cop? Or a hero?"

I had to work very hard to resist rolling my eyes. "Do I looked like I'm wearing blue or spandex?"

"No." he begrudgingly admitted. "T’n what you want?"

"I want to put an end to this travesty."

The tip of the gun had dropped over the last minute, but now it was back pointing at my face. "I thought you said you weren't no hero?"

I sorted through my carefully practiced list of facial expressions and settled on Superior Villain #5. Just enough to look like I knew what I was doing, with a dash of being annoyed at the person I was talking to. "I'm not. I'm a villain, and I'm insulted at this poor excuse for a robbery. Are you going to let me in so I can sort this out, or do things need to get messy?" I threw in an intimidating eyebrow raise #3 for good measure.

The robber's will fell apart faster than a house of cards in a blender. "I suppose you should come in." He stepped back a few paces and I let myself into the store. I closed the door behind me and followed the robber into the main showroom floor.

The jewelry store had a half dozen display cases arranged in a horseshoe pattern. About half were smashed in, signs of the robbers' progress before I arrived. There was a man standing in the middle of the floor, one who almost matched Black Mountain for size. I pegged him as a Barbarian, mostly by the fact his fists were large enough to squish my head like a grape singlehanded. By the way the gunman who let me in was incapable of standing still, I figured him for a Monk, probably a speedster archetype. Strange to see one using a gun, but not unheard of for someone low level. A decent pairing, if they'd had someone with brains to operate them.

"So you guys just came in here for a smash and grab, is that right?" I asked, stepping over to one of the partially looted cases.

"Yea, and it was going fine until the cops showed up." muttered the Monk.

"I don't know what happened. We got this place buttoned up in a jiffy and no one saw us approach." the big guy added. His cadence was slow and childlike, which was common with Barbarians. That didn’t necessarily mean he was slow. I’d learned that the hard way in Cairo.

Shaking my head to dispel unpleasant memories, I turned my thoughts to why intel was so important on jobs like this. I left the case and walked over to the hostages. Six in total, three women and three men. By the way two of the men were hugging two of the women, I figured they were shopping couples. That left the mismatched other two; an older, graying gentleman and a woman about my age in a pantsuit. Stopping before the man, I asked, "Excuse me sir, are you the manager?"

He blinked stupidly for a moment. "Umm…yes."

"Good, do you mind showing me your wrists?"

The manager looked confused at my request but obediently pulled up the sleeves of his jacket. Wrapped around his right wrist was a silver watch, fancy while not looking too ostentatious.

"Was that watch a gift from the company?" He nodded again, not knowing where I was going. "Thought so." I turned to a the robbers. "That watch has a heart rate and blood pressure monitor in it. McGruffson's way of subtly spying on its employees. They figure if the numbers spike above a certain level, then the branch is either being robbed or the person wearing it is having a health problem. Or possibly, having a huge sale that may or may not end up on the books."

The managed looked down sharply at his watch as if it was a cobra wrapped around his wrist and ready to strike. "But that's not…"

"Possible?" I finished for him. "You'd be surprised what big corporations get away with these days. Half the time the top guys aren't in jail only because the government can't incarcerate a corporation." I turned to face the two robbers again. "You two never had a chance of a clean getaway. You need to tranq the manager first thing when hitting a store like this, which you would know if you'd done any proper research."

Something else was bugging me and it took me a moment to pinpoint what. As I walked back over to the display case I asked "How much were you guys supposed to get off this haul?"

"Half a mil. Maybe a little less depending on the fencing." the Barbarian answered.

I picked up one the rings and held it under a table light. I set the ring back down and selected a gold and diamond earring. I repeated the process, then did it again for another ring. "Yea…no. You wouldn't have gotten a fraction of that." I glanced over at the manager. "These are fakes."

"What?" the manager blustered, completely forgetting the situation. "How dare you? The McGruffson chain has only sold the very best in jewelry since…"

"2004, when the Thornton conglomerate bought a struggling brand that had been around since the early 1900's." I held another ring under the light, watching the kaleidoscope of colors shimmering on the glass. "I'm not saying you're pedaling cubic zirconia, but these diamond are all synthetic." I pulled a jeweler's lens from a pocket and studied the gem under magnification.

"But how can you claim this? What makes you say they're fakes? Every diamond we sell here is perfect."

I lowered the lens. "Exactly, they're too perfect. Normal stones have small flaws and imperfections, even after the cutting process. The facets don't align right, or there's a touch of color. These stones are all identically perfect, differing only in cut and size. Magmaizer's work, or possibly Diamond Queen's; I can't tell without a chemical analysis."

"Wait, are you saying we tried to steal fake diamonds?" the twitchy robber asked.

"Oh, they're perfectly real." I slid the edge of one diamond against the glass, leaving a gouge behind. "But synthetic diamonds normally sell for a pittance. They're used in manufacturing to cut very hard surfaces. If anything, you two just saved those couples from getting robbed by the store."

That remark caused everyone in the store to look at me a bit open mouthed. “What? I specialize in moving high value, small volume objects. Shady people in my line of work don’t always hand over the right goods, so I got very good at spotting fakes.” I set the ring back in the display. "Look, let's just call today a wash. For you two lovely couples, you've learned to do a bit more research about who to buy legitimate jewelry from." I turned to the manager and his assistant. "You two learned the corporate office loves to spy on you, hopefully with enough time to make sure everything is in order before your next audit. Because if there wasn’t one on the books before, there will be now." That just left the goons. "As for you two, you're going to have to leave the loot behind."

"But I needed the money for this month's rent." the little guy whined.

"Better than not needing to pay rent after getting shipped upriver for the next five years. We can call this a security exercise that got a little out of hand. I'm sure the store could provide a little something to compensate their guests for accidentally getting them caught up in the drill. As for the police outside, call it a faulty sensor and lack of communication."

"We can't take anything?" the Monk wheedled.

"Uh, fine." I pulled three envelopes out of different pockets. I tossed one apiece to each of the robbers and the last to the manager. "Consider this a signing bonus and money for repairs."

"Signing what?" the Barbarian asked suspiciously.

"You two have some real talent, but need the training to go with it. I know a guy that provides security for rich stiffs. You get to sit by the pool, watching hot women in skimpy outfits, and make six figures for only the occasional bout of trouble."

"No way, no one's going to hire a pair of thugs like us to protect rich people."

"Most of the people you'll be protecting are warlords, drug kingpins, fugitive hackers, and the like. They don't really care about the morality of the help, as long as they provide the contracted services." I pulled out a business card and tossed it to the Barbarian. He barely caught it without dropping his envelope of cash. "Be there by the end of the week, or I'll have to come find you and take my money back." I shifted up to a maniacal villain #2 stare. "And you really, really, don't want me to have to do that."

Both men gulped and nodded rapidly. "Good, now come along. I have to go explain to the nice policemen why this is all a big understanding…."


______________________________________________________________________


Conference room 3B, Administration offices

Boltman Institute, Beacon City

August 22, 4:12 PM


The five department heads sat around the table and watched as the trench coat wearing student to be and the two robbers exited the jewelry store and began conversing with the army of cops outside.

"Well, that was certainly a new way to beat the scenario." remarked Valerie Adams, the head of the magic department. The Cleric stroked the head of her cat familiar, who was napping on the table before her. "Pretending to be a supervillain, I never thought anyone would try that."

"You needed to pull your nose out of a spellbook more often Valerie." retorted Damon Klein, head of general studies. "That boy wasn't pretending to be a villain, he is one. Don't you remember the special case Judge Powell sent us last month?"

"That's him? I was expecting someone more…imposing."

"Size is not the only qualifier of strength."

Adams glared over at the diminutive martial arts and combat chair Isamu Shidehara. "I know that. My life's work is proving that magic can overcome the problems muscle can't fix."

Before Shidehara could retort, Trevor Rogers, the head of the engineering department cut in. "You two can get into a brains vs. brawn argument later. We have two more videos to watch after this one and I'd like to get home at a reasonable hour tonight." The Technomancer adjusted the goggles on his forehead in agitation, giving a hint what would happen if things ran over. "Right now we need to decide where to place him."

"He barely used his powers at all. Everything he did could have been accomplished by carrying around a sufficiently large purse." Dr. Porter's eyes flick to Adam's bag on the seat beside her, which looked large enough to smuggle a five gallon fish tank.

"Do we at least know what type of Classed he is?" asked Rodgers.

"Sorcerer, I believe, but that comes more from the records of his arrest than what we saw today. A gravity manipulator of some kind. He managed to hold up half a building by himself until help arrived.” Dr. Porter scratched his nose. “The deck was surprisingly unhelpful. First time it's ever spat out a blank card."

"He is powerful, but does not rely on it." Shidehara said sagely.

"Powerful enough for the hero track?" Adams looked skeptical.

“I won’t know without further testing.” Porter admitted.

"Let's see what the computer thinks." Rodgers suggested, tapping on the keyboard built into his bracer.

The screen flashed and numbers spilled down it like digital rain. When the last ones fell to the bottom, everyone around the table sat still with shock. "SynCat, you gave him a perfect score?" Rodgers finally bellowed.

A small window opened in the bottom right corner of the screen, revealing a Cheshire smile of gleaming white teeth against a black background. "I did indeed."

"Care to explain yourself?"

"Of course. I'll start at the top." The lower text shrunk while the top lines grew bigger. "All the damage happened before Pockets arrived and he prevented any further damage. He also paid for repairs, effectively erasing any damage done. For the next category he prevented any harm to the hostages, police, or robbers, except perhaps hurting some feelings. In fact almost everyone involved ended up better off than when they started the day."

"Even the police?" Adams scoffed. "I doubt they liked sitting out there all day for a, and I quote, security exercise."

"You had yet to reach that part of the video, Ms. Adams. Pockets managed to negotiate between the manager and the police. It seems that the Thornton group will be paying their expenses for the day, and an additional training day every six months, to hush up the fact they were selling synthetic diamonds."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm recommending a villain for the hero track." The others looked at Klein, who shrugged. "If anything, to see what crazy stunt he pulls off next. Will the other students resent him for it? Probably. Will it cause them to work harder to keep up with him? Most definitely. I think this is a golden opportunity to see what this new class can do."

The other teachers shared looks, but no one could refute Klein's argument. "SynCat, put Pockets down for the hero track and load up the next video. Rodgers isn't the only one who wants to get home at a reasonable hour tonight."

“Yes Dr. Porter.” The lights in the room faded as, up on the screen, a red skinned woman appeared on a street crowded with police cars.

 

[Erwin_Pommel]

College age superhero? Ooooo, this has my attention on the superhero basis :U

Though, what do you mean by college-age? Like, is that meant to mean the character's age or is it referring to some specific time period IRL for the genre, like Silver Age or Golden Age Superman as references?

 

[TheWanderer]

Have to say I am really liking this so far looking forward to seeing where you go with it

 

[Chogurt]

Why would they be selling fake diamonds in the simulation, i initially assumed he was lying to cut off their motivation, but if he negotiated something with the police later then it must have been the truth.

 

[Siegeengineer00]

College age superhero? Ooooo, this has my attention on the superhero basis :U

Though, what do you mean by college-age? Like, is that meant to mean the character's age or is it referring to some specific time period IRL for the genre, like Silver Age or Golden Age Superman as references?

Click to shrink...

College age was supposed to be the age of the characters, as opposed to teenagers or full adult superheroes.

Why would they be selling fake diamonds in the simulation, i initially assumed he was lying to cut off their motivation, but if he negotiated something with the police later then it must have been the truth.

Click to shrink...

Short answer: The diamonds are fake because Pockets has the skill to notice fake diamonds, and the company that owns the store does all kinds of shady things.
Long answer: Huge spoiler as to what the simulation really is. But you've pointed out one of the several simulation inconsistencies that Pockets will eventually realize (though not one I intended with I wrote the chapter).

 

[Siegeengineer00]

Chapter 4: Move in Day​

How many Classed are there across the world? That’s a question I get a lot. And I admit, it is a question I don’t have an answer to. Short of compulsory DNA testing of the entire population, there’s no way to tell. As that idea won’t pass muster for solving crimes, it definitely won’t get put into place to satisfy the curious.

So for now, we are forced to use anecdotal evidence and statistics to fill in the gaps. Compounding that fact is the distribution of Classed seems to be uneven. In the US, our best estimate is that one in a hundred, or nearly thirty million people, have at least a single Class level. Of course, with the brutal exponential relationship between quantity and power level, just over a million of those are what I’ll call actives. That is to say, they are strong enough Classed that their powers manifest to the point of being obvious. I’m not saying every one of those million has flaming hair or some other form of ACS. Instead, they have some kind of active control over their power. The ability to turn it on or off, the ability to direct or otherwise change it. The benchmark from active to passive is generally levels three to four. Below that Classed powers tend to not be under conscious control of the individual. They might might become stronger or prettier over a short period of time, or they might gain a supernatural talent for knowing exactly when their teacher is going to drop a pop quiz. But they cannot actively control it and, in most case, don’t even realize they are Classed.

Yes, you had a question? Classed populations outside the United States? If it’s hard enough to get data in this country, getting it in others is even more difficult. I’m fairly certain the Classed rate is higher in the US than anywhere else in the world by nearly an order of magnitude. The theories as to why are legion. Chemicals in our drinking water, the widespread use of the internet...I once met a man who was convinced that dust brought back from the moon landing was the chief cause of the proliferation. About the only concrete reason for variance I can propose for some specific countries is their treatment of Classed. If you treat having powers as a capital crime and execute anyone who expresses them, you tend not have many Classed flying around.

Next question…

Excerpt from a panel involving Doctor Eustace Porter at the 15th annual CCI (Conference on Classes Individuals)​

____________________________________________________________________


South Outer Perimeter Road, Boltman Institute

Monday September 12, 10:34 AM



"Pockets, thanks again for letting me crash at your place for past few weeks." Tatiana said from the passenger seat. We were both in my completely nondescript econobox of a car, one I'd bought second hand for cheap before giving it an overhaul myself. Boring on the outside, full of surprises on the inside-just like me. At the time I was tempted to go with something flashier, but sometimes you need something inconspicuous when you have to get out of town in a hurry. And trunk space doesn't matter much when you have access to theoretically infinite extraplanar storage.

"It's no big deal. Just put me up sometime in the future when I'm laying low from a job."

Tatiana laughed, revealing teeth that were slightly more pointed than normal . "Really, as a wanted criminal your first thought would be to bunk with a hero?"

"That depends on if she'd turn me in."

We chatted a bit more as I drove around campus and parked in the small student lot between the west dorms and the library. Freshman students were discouraged from bringing their cars to the Institute, but it wasn't like I had anywhere else to take mine. I’d checked out of the extended stay hotel Slimy had booked for me after getting out of prison and it wasn't like I could drop the car off at my parents' pad. Assuming they were even here, do you have any idea how expensive it is to ship stuff into space?

"Where to?" I asked as I pressed the key fob to lock the car. I got a pleasant beep in return.

Tatiana swung her backpack around and dug inside for a sheet of paper. Pulling it out she ran one slender finger down the page. "Looks like Deighan Cottage."

I found it funny that the Boltman Institute used the names of famous comic book artists for its cottages. Then again, it seemed the whole spandex crowd was always geek referencing these days.

At the door to Tatiana's cottage there was a table with two older students checking the newbies in. "Name?" asked the woman on the left, who had purple leaves instead of hair. She had a name badge on her shirt with Lana hastily scrawled across it.

"Tatiana Foster."

The woman scanned down her clipboard with the tip of her pen. "Right, you're in room 214. Your roommate hasn't checked in yet, so you'll have first pick on room sides. There should be a list of important information on your dorm room whiteboard. If you need anything else, go find your RA or come down here to see us." She looked over at me. "And you are?"

"Manual labor. I'm here performing luggage duty before heading off to my cottage."

Lana raised an eyebrow. "And where exactly is this luggage?"

"That explanation would require a Phd in extraplanar physics." I reached into a pocket and pulled out a bouquet of flowers that would definitely have left a bulge had it been there a moment before. I normally detested such a showy gesture, but a certain Gentleman had always told me to have some on hand. You never knew when you needed to impress a lady. I was just lucky my storage space was time locked, so the flowers were as fresh as when I popped them in months before. Lana’s face screwed up in priceless confusion as I handed them over to her. "Let's just say I always have the proper item on hand."

While we were talking Tatiana had received her welcome packet from the other guy at the table. Lana gave me an eyeroll and gestured us to step into the cottage. As we passed I thought I heard her mutter something about damn magic users. However, in the mirrored reflection of one of the cottage’s front windows I could see her lean in and sniff the bouquet.

The inside of the cottage was very modern. The first floor seemed to be for resident gatherings. There was a game room, a study room, a kitchen, and a small library. As we walked upstairs I saw the cottage had a smaller group study room on the second floor by the staircase. Tatiana’s room was halfway down the corridor. Along the way we passed two open rooms, both populated by a woman apiece. I knew the cottages were coed and this floor must have been for women only.

Tatiana dug into her welcome packet and removed the small key to her door. She turned it in the lock and we stepped inside. The room was as I expected. A double dose of desks, beds, and armoires. Everything empty, save for the small welcome baskets that sat in the center of each bed.

"Cozy." I commented for lack of anything else to say. "Where do you want me to drop your stuff off?"

"Um..I guess middle of the floor will do."

I reached into my bottom right pants pocket and retrieved another of my chain hoops. When tightened, this one was two feet across. I set it on the floor and crouched down to lay my hand on the metal ring. With the other I removed one item after the other from the large pocket I'd created to store them. By the time I was done Tatiana had a small pile of possessions scattered around the room.

"Whew." I wiped mock sweat from my brow. In reality, the drain was more mental than physical. The bigger the item the more juice it took to pull out. In a way I was lucky Tatiana’s possessions were limited. "That was a doozy. Unless you need my help unpacking, I'm going to see to my own accommodations."

"Fine, shoo.” Tatiana made a sweeping gesture. “But call me later when you get hungry. I owe you dinner at the cafeteria for putting up with me."

I gave her a playful grin. "Last time I checked, the food was included in our fees for being here." Ones that were being paid by the city in my case.

"Ok, then you treat me." With that Tatiana shoved me out of the room and slammed the door.

Ok…I wasn't sure how to take that sudden turn of events. That was almost a classic tv line involving two characters with unresolved feelings for each other. And yet, I only saw Tatiana as a friend. A very attractive friend, but it would be like dating my sister. Worse, I didn't want to even think about the things her father would do to me if we ever broke up.

Sweeping aside those disturbing thoughts, I left Tatiana's cottage and meandered over to my own. I was bunking in the east dorms, so I headed north toward the gym and pool. Walking across campus I saw a lot more students than on my previous visit, though those numbers dropped precipitously as I passed the cafeteria.

In contrast to Deighan, the front of Kirby cottage was completely empty. In fact, there didn't seem to be the puddles of milling students I'd seen around the other cottages either. Very odd. I stepped up to the front doors of the cottage and, not seeing a knob, gave them a push. Against my expectation, the doors creaked slowly open. Ok…that sent up the creepy vibe by another few notches. That dial slid up further as I stepped inside and felt the slight molar tingle of magic as I passed through the entranceway.

"Hello?" I called cautiously as I walked further inside. It would be just my luck to get pranked on my first day and somehow end up in the specimen storage building instead of a dorm. "Is anybody there?"

Silence. Dead freaking silence. Lovely. Turning, I decided to go back to one of the other cottages and see if they could tell me where I was actually supposed to be. I'd made the 180 degree spin and was almost to the door when it opened. The creaking was the only giveaway, as the figure blocking the entrance was almost big enough to be mistaken for the portal he'd displaced.

"Hey, what you doin’ in here?" the figure growled, advancing in my direction. I'm not too proud to admit I took a step or two back as he approached. This giant had to be nearly seven feet tall, which made him a Barbarian. Likely a high level one. The thuggish look on his face and hands the size of trash can lids were good confirmations.

"Someone's where they shouldn't be." sneered a second voice. Apparently the walking mountain had friends. A second later they stepped inside as well. The one on the right had a few inches on me and double my width. Probably a Paladin, from the size and pretty boy looks. The other was an equal distance shorter, with the twitchy movements I tend to associate with Monks.

Like many things in life, from sexuality to the color of flowers, superheroes exist on a scale. On one end are those who do their jobs out of a sense of selflessness, the ones that truly believe that they can make the world a better place. On the other end of the spectrum are the guys who see heroing as a legal way to enjoy their violent habits. I consider myself a good judge of character, a necessary trait in my line of work. And the three so called heros blocking my way had trouble floating over their heads like a trio of npc quest givers.

"Ooh, I love dealing with lawbreakers." the Monk squealed, rubbing his hands together so quickly I was amazed the friction didn't light him on fire.

This situation was going sideways in a hurry. From past experience I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to talk my way out of a fight, but it didn’t hurt to try. "Pardon me guys, but is this Kirby cottage?"

"It is." the big guy confirmed. "Best on campus. We picky about who we let in here."

"Then I'm supposed to be in here. My welcome e-mail said this was my cottage." I pulled out a sheet of paper from a pocket and held it up for them to see.

"What? I don't know you, so you must be frosh. And froshes never good enough to end up in Kirby." The big guy snatched the page out of my hand and scanned down it with a squint.

"I don't know Arthur, this looks pretty legit." The Monk had hopped up on the big guy's back and was reading over his shoulder. "But what kind of name is Pockets?"

"Spike-Thrust, you know you're only supposed to call me Pounder, right?" I had to work very hard to resist sniggering at the choice of code name.

The monk went white under his tan. "Yes boss, sorry."

The Paladin spoke for the first time. "A villain's name."

"Huh?" Spike-Thrust and Pounder turned to their companion.

"I said, it's a villain's name. I watched part of his trial on the news."

My heart sank as I saw the looks of glee overtake the faces of the other two. "The only thing better than a rule breaker…is a villain."

I decided to give it one more go before I jetted out of here. “Look, I have paperwork saying this is my dorm. And unless I want to go back to prison, it’s where I’ll be staying for the next four years. So you guys can either tell me where I’m supposed to go, or you can get out of my way.”

“This isn’t a place for villains.” grumbled the Paladin.

“Yea, we’re going to make you wish you were back in prison.” cackled the Monk.

Well...shit. Suddenly, ten years in prison looked a lot more appealing than this place. Especially if everyone was as welcoming as this bunch. My three opponents were between me and the only known exit to this building, which put me in a bit of a bind. I would have to rely on the element of surprise, what little of it I still had left. Setting my feet, I used my power the throw myself forward at a sprinter’s pace.

They might not have been expecting it, but all three were still in my way. A moment before I would have collided with Pounder, I reached out and poked him in the chest. My finger stung as power flowed out of me and into the Barbarian. Pounder’s personal gravity suddenly got bored and decided it wanted to change directions for a little while. The direction it picked happened to be toward the side. The big guy practically fell out of my way and it was only due to his innate speed that the Monk didn't end up a pancake beneath him.

I zipped out of the cottage, essentially taking giant flat bunny hops to try and steer myself around. I kept going for about a hundred feet, around another empty dorm and out into the common area before the cafeteria, before I finally cut my power. A few new students taking an early lunch looked at me strangely as I slowed to a walking pace. I took a few slow, deep breaths to try and lower my heart rate before I went to go find someone that qualified as an adult in this crazy place. No way students should be allowed to pound the crap out of each other just because they felt like it. Even most villains weren’t that uncivilized.

Wham. One second I was still, the next I was sailing through the air. I was so shocked I almost hit the floor before I was able to cancel my momentum. As I was already horizontal, I let myself drop the last inch onto the grass. My back was complaining loudly it had been hit by what felt like an iron bar.

Before I had a chance to catch my breath, a menacing shape loomed over me. It was my medium assailant, the Paladin.. He reached down and it wasn't to help me back up. Instead the jerk grabbed me by the shirt and tugged me upward. "Nice escape trick. Let’s see how well it works when you’re up in the air."

Not satisfied with five or ten feet, the bully flew up into the sky with me in tow. We leveled off somewhere in the sixty foot region, if the nearby buildings were any guide. An almost guaranteed lethal fall to anyone who wasn’t a super and good chunk of those who were.

"This is what we should do to all villains, as a message to any that want to turn to a life of crime." With that, and a sneer of self righteousness on his face, the Paladin let go.

I don't know what his plan was. Maybe he did really want to see me go splat on the ground. Maybe he was going to let me cry for God and my mother before catching me at the last second. What he absolutely didn't expect, yet totally should have if he'd been paying attention during my trial, was for me to float there staring at him angrily.

"Before I do anything I regret." I began, struggling to keep my anger in check. "You're a real tough guy, aren't you?"

"Me? I'm the toughest tank on campus."

Somehow I doubted that, unless the standards of this place were lower than I thought. But at least my conscience would be clean for my next action. "Good, then have a nice trip."

Before the Paladin could respond I slugged him in the stomach. It probably hurt me a lot more than it hurt him, as the Paladin's aura would soak up most of the impact. However, the moment of contact was all I needed. The Paladin suddenly found gravity's tug a bit more insistent than before. And when I say a bit, I mean several orders of magnitude more insistent. Normally I wouldn't push things this far, but I was angry. Angry enough I was fine with the jerk taking a bit of damage from the impact.

With over a kilometer a second squared of acceleration, the Paladin plummeted to earth like a meteor. His impact was hard enough I could almost feel it this far up. Adjusting my own gravity, I floated slowly to the ground.

Ponder and Spike-Thrust huddled around their buddy, who was at the end of a ten foot divot in the earth the Paladin had dug with his body. He must have been stronger than I thought, to be able to slow the impact that much. No broken bones either, at least any that were visible. That was probably a good thing for me, as the last thing I wanted was to get in trouble for seriously injuring another student on my first day at school.

"You started it, I ended it." I told them, adjusting the ripped neck of my shirt while pumping out a full Annoyed Supervillain # 13. “Consider that a lesson. I’m not here to start trouble, but I’m more than willing to finish it. Try not to get in my way again.”

Then I did something I probably shouldn't have. What I wouldn’t have done, had this been any other place. I turned my back and walked away. This was a school for people who wanted to be heroes after all. There had to be a dozen onlookers, some within a couple of feet. If I hadn't been trying to keep my anger in check, I wouldn't have done something so stupid. Then again if I hadn't, I probably would have done something else unconscionable.

The blow was surreal at first. A wave of pain spreading out from my lower back that I had no comparison for. The force of the impact threw me to the ground and in the shock of it all I forgot to soften my impact. In a daze, I reached around to feel my lower back. I winced as a lance of pure pain shot through me when I found the quarter sized hole a few inches above my pelvis on the right side. Pulling back my hand, I saw it was covered in blood. I blinked stupidly at it a few times, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.

I consider myself a civilized person, a villain with a code. I try to avoid violence, both on the job and off it. But sometimes, the other guys isn’t willing to walk away. As my aunt would put it, it was time to take a dog out behind the woodshed to teach the others a lesson. I might be a civilized villain, but I was still a villain. And when you stab a villain in the back, prepare for the Marquis of Queensbury rules to get tossed out the window.

Fighting to ignore the pain, I hauled myself back upright. Spike-Thrust was about ten feet ahead of me, smirking in my direction. He held up an arm, a jagged six inch spike of bone sticking out of his forearm just above the wrist. It made the Monk look like a knock-off version of Wolverine. "I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Unstoppable."

To emphasize the point, he held the spike to his face and licked the blood like a crazy person. How stupid was this guy, did he have any idea how many diseases were bloodborne? Perhaps there was more than one lesson I needed to pound into the Monk’s thick skull.

Given the choice, I preferred to stay away from melee combat. I wasn’t a Physical Classed, I was a squishy Sorcerer. But as I had to be touching something to affect it with my power, sometimes the only option was to throw down. With a practiced motion I reached into the large cargo pocket on the left side of my pants. My fingers wrapped around a familiar grip and pulled free a foot long, gently curving blade connected perpendicularly to a handle of equal length. A heavy metal spiked ball of the same engraved obsidian poked out of the pocket like a snake from a pot, before curling up into easy reach of my free hand. Both sickle and ball were connected to thick links of chain that disappeared back into my nebulous storage space. A Kusari-gama is an odd weapon, but it suited my unique power set perfectly. Slender, easy to store, and deadly when used properly. This particular model was black steel over an adamantine core. Nearly unbreakable even without the runes of durability. It also weighed a ton, but that wasn’t an issue for me. I don’t know where WeaponMaster got it, but the old Monk taught me how to use it when I'd spent a summer with him two years ago. Frankly I think he was happy to gift it on to me, as no one else was able to use such an ungainly weapon. The Kusari-gama was the only melee weapon I’d achieved anything beyond basic proficiency with, but I could do things with the chain that would make a Monk jealous.

I struck a fighting stance, sickle high in one hand. My other spun the ball in slow circles, adding a little more chain each time. My hands were both full so I gave the Monk my best Come and get me, asshole glare. That got Spike-Thrust mad. I could see the Monk tense up, ready to charge at me again for a killing blow. A moment before he moved I flared my power in two directions. I went left, while the heavy ball at the end of the chain shot out the other direction. The metal links quivered under the strain, momentarily turned into the literal unmovable object.

My gambit worked perfectly. As Spike-Thrust shot past me the chain hit the Monk in the knees and tripped him up. Inertia took over and Spike-Thrust continued on his way, except for the fact he was spinning instead of upright. His impact with the ground was punctuated with the crack of breaking bones. His nose at least, by the way the man landed. And by the way one leg was bent at an impossible angle, my Kusari-gama had claimed it as well.

I’d walked away once when I shouldn’t have, now I was staying when I should have left. I should have gone to get my back treated, to find someone in change to let me know where I’d actually be spending tonight. But I was angry, and I wanted to make a point. Hopefully if I dealt harshly enough with the first group of boneheads to pick on me, the rest would get second thoughts.

“You see this!” I yelled to the watching crowd, pulling the ball back and looping it around my hand. “I was perfectly willing to walk away. If they were heroes, they would have as well. Hell, if they were heroes this whole mess wouldn’t have even started. Instead, I’m forced to take my chunk of flesh as lesson about what happens to those who attack me.” There was dead silence as I walked right up to my fallen attacker. I spun the spiked ball up to medium speed before bringing it down on the prone Monk’s uninjured leg. There was the loud crack of bone accompanied by a scream of pain.

I put one shoe squarely on the Monk’s chest to stop the squirming and leaned down to be face to scowling face with my attacker. “Remember this pain the next time think about pulling a dirty trick like that.”

The Monk spat at me, little flecks of aerated blood splattering all over my ruined shirt. “Screw you, villain.”

“I might be a villain, but I’m still more honorable than you.” Perhaps this idiot needed to lose another limb to get the point.

Before I could spin the spiked ball back up to speed something bowled into me from behind. I lost my grip on both halves of the Kusari-gama and went tumbling. Something heavy was on top of me and driving blow after blow into my chest hard enough to crack ribs. It was the Barbarian and he was pissed. They could be difficult enough to deal with at the best of times and this guy was in full on rage mode from what I'd done to his buddies. Bloodshot eyes, spit and sweat flying everywhere, muscles bulging enough to almost rip his shirt...the whole works. When a Barbarian went deep into a rage there really were only two options. Kill them, or die. My body went into overdrive as I knew I only had a few more seconds before the raging maniac on my chest beat me to death.

I tried to use my power to throw the Barbarian off, but he’d learned from the previous encounter. With his legs wrapped around my lower body, all I could use my power for was to try and lessen the impact of blows that could turn a hanging side of beef into hamburger. Fumbling around, I found the sickle handle. I spun it around and sliced the blade deep into the Barbarian's guts. Barbarians have toughened skin, sometimes to the point they can shrug off small arms fire, but I’d once used this weapon to carve through the armor on a main battle tank. The sickle cut through ropey muscle, sliced organs in twain, and finally deflected off bones hard as diamonds. The Barbarian didn't seem to notice, too intent on pounding me to pieces. We matched each other pound for slice, a race to see who would kill the other first. One I objectively knew I was going to lose.

However, those odds were calculated without outside interference. Just when I thought my ticket was punched, something…someone slammed into the Barbarian from the side. All I caught was a streak of blonde hair. They had to be incredibly strong, as the bulky man practically flew off of me. Still lost in my own bloodlust, I tried to get up and follow him. This was only going to end one way, with one of us dead. If I could still move, then I was going to make sure it was him instead of me.

But try as I might, my legs just wouldn't work right. The Barbarians must have broken something critical inside. I tried crawling in the direction I thought the Barbarian went, but I found my arms weren't responding too well either. I tried though, tried as hard as I could, before blood loss swept away what little consciousness I had left.

 

[Chogurt]

Really not much to comment on without seeing the aftermath. Sorta a cliche encounter, but how well it works depends on the consequences. Also the thing with Tatiana felt a bit odd. A slight bit too meta, when you consider he knew her for a while before the story, given the scope of his personal situation I do not know if I buy him mulling over his relationship status.

 

[Erwin_Pommel]

College age was supposed to be the age of the characters, as opposed to teenagers or full adult superheroes.

Click to shrink...

Ah, fair enough I guess, why specify it though in the title? Seems rather pointless when one could probably pick up the details of young adults in the story... But I'll drop it here, as this isn't really a contribution to your ability to write or that :^{D

Hm, Classed huh? Interesting title for the superheroes and that, though it seems to infer that there are school's of sorts? Apologies if this was already covered, been a while since I last did anything on this thread.

 

[Thunderhead]

Why would pockets get a perfect score when he let the robbers walk, and covered for them? I could see him passing because he did technically stop the crime and prevented any more property damage and harm to the hostages in a clever way, but the evaluators can't be fooled like the police and know what really happened. Also this is just an aside but I really don't like the classification system, it seems strange and out of place, although I'm willing to wait and see if there's some sort of reason for the system to be the way it is.

 

[Alphasierra]

I like your style of writing and am interested in the story.

However I have a few questions:

Did the heroes honestly never see a situation where the heroes tried to negotiate with the villains? Isn't it the main go to with hostage situations?

In addition why use that and not standard power testing (questions and tests) to find out what the candidate is capable of? Why are they judging what class a student goes into, shouldn't the student get to decide?

If supers have a long history then wouldn't they be at the top of society, why would they be persecuted so much?

Why is the doctors explanation about how the US has got significantly more supers than any other nation the one about persecution, when there are a number of other liberal and democratic nations around the world? Assuming that you are using our world as a template his explanation makes no sense at all.

Finally, why would they use barbarian to class a group of people... it's just the connotations.

 

[Dracon]

Well, this is a very excellent start. And knowing that is is complete, if not fully released is always a good sign. I'm looking forward to whatever comes out next. Original works really deserve a lot more attention then they get.

 

[BalerionTheDrake]

A good start, as I'm sure others have said, and I look forward to more. Will we get to see why exactly the three Stooges attacked our lad Pockets the way they did? Because that seemed less of the upper crust trying to muscle over the new guy and more of a bloody murder attempt. Which makes them either psychopaths or completing uncaring of the consequences of murdering someone. Plus they should know that Pockets parents are super villains with a capital SUPER. and that Pocket, who was/is an active villain, would have to know how to fight, lethally if needed. It just makes no sense for the standards/competence they are alluded to having.

 

[queensarrow]

Interesting story, though I'm wondering why they are using DnD classes to describe supers?