The Other Eight, page 6
Summers tracked down each of the heroes by name and handed him or her a thin manila envelope. There was the murmur of a few dozen voices reading over the contents.
“Oh, cool!” said a young man who had optimistically worn army fatigues. Combined with dark eyeliner, it made for an unusual ensemble. “I got Class B. That’s pretty good, right!”
“Yes and no, Mister…” Dr. Aiken began. Private Summers checked her clipboard and whispered in his ear. “Mister Dusk. That is just your classification.”
“But it’s like grades, right? B is second best.”
“Wait, why did I get a C then!” cried an applicant labeled “The Hocker” by his freshly applied tag.
“No, no, no. Something isn’t right here. I got Class O,” Nonsensica said. “What is this, a blood type? Is that good or bad?”
“There are no good or bad classifications. It is just a set of terminologies to help separate you into different groups. The classifications are B, C, H, O, S, and U.” Summers whispered something in his ear. “Ah… evidently there are two different Class Os.”
“Well gee, Doc. You think maybe you could have made it a little more confusing?” Nonsensica asked.
“Well, if B isn’t a grade, then what is it?” asked Dusk.
“B stands for baseline.”
“So, average then?”
“In a manner of speaking. It means that, from the military’s perspective, you do not have any powers.”
“Don’t have any powers! But I resonate with the energy of the sunset!” he objected.
“Yes, but that doesn’t really have any quantifiable meaning, sir.”
The crowd began to get a bit unruly as those with Class B reacted to suddenly being denied superhero status.
“Now please! A Class B rating is nothing to be ashamed of! It is simply a statistical bracket and has no bearing on your status as a meta-human.” The din quieted somewhat. “However, and I assure you that this is a coincidence and has nothing to do with your classification, all Class B individuals can go; you were not selected to advance to the next stage of screenings.”
The jilted members of the crowd erupted with objections, and for a moment things looked like they might turn ugly, but Sergeant Roberts chose that moment to step forward.
“The United States Army thanks you for your interest. You are now encouraged to return to your homes or places of business in an orderly and peaceful manner. Thank you!” The statement was made in a clear, commanding voice, made all the more compelling by the fact that his right hand rested on the grip of his service pistol while he spoke it. The rejected applicants wisely departed without further fuss.
“Well, now that the pretenders are out of the way, what do the other classes mean?” Nonsensica asked.
“The initials stand for Baseline, Combat-applicable, Handicap, Oddity or Other, Support, and Utility.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why am I Class H,” asked a pale and frighteningly thin man in dark clothing.
Aiken glanced down at Summers’s clipboard. “Well, er, Hemo. You have the ability to bleed on command.”
“But I can bleed other people’s blood.”
“Yes, sir, but it still results in blood loss, which is something the military prefers their soldiers avoid. For reasons which I hope are clear, all Class H applicants can go. Again, we thank you for your time and interest.”
There were the beginnings of an objection from the crowd again, but a single step forward from Sergeant Roberts was enough to convince them to rethink their actions and disperse. With the Class B and Class H people gone, there remained only about twenty of the forty-eight who had made it through the initial screening.
“So I’m Class O. What does that mean again?” asked a fellow with a tag marked “Gracias.”
“Oddity-class powers are powers that are undeniably beyond what a baseline human being is capable of, but do not have any obvious application in a military context,” Aiken explained.
“Okay, but what does that mean?”
“It means we’re sideshow freaks, not superheroes,” said a man with a sneer. His name tag dubbed him Chloroplast, and since his arrival there had been an argument circulating among the crowd about whether his complexion, which was broccoli green, was the result of his powers or body paint in lieu of a costume.
“Hey! I have the ability to make grass grow on people’s butts just by thanking them. What part of that is freakish?” Gracias asked.
“What part of that isn’t freakish?” Chloroplast jabbed.
“At least I don’t have green skin like some sort of scrawny, weak, wannabe Hulk!”
“How exactly am I an oddity?” Nonsensica said, ignoring the argument behind her in favor of her own outrage. “I’m able to verbally short-circuit brains! That’s totally a combat power for sure!”
“Oh, well, in your case the O is for Other.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Other is distinct from Oddity in that there is no obvious evidence of your power when it is in effect.”
“Well, how is that any better?!”
“Now come on, fellas, miss. No need to fight about this,” Phosphor said, slapping a massive hand onto Gracias’s back and another on Nonsensica’s shoulder. “Lots of folks who came here got told they didn’t have powers at all. Seems to me if you got this far, Uncle Sam thinks you’ve got something to add to the team.”
“That’s correct, Phosphor, thank you. Now please listen up, everyone. If you are still standing here, you are among the final selections for the second stage of recruitment. There are only eight spots available on the army team. Today we will be taking sixteen of you to the boot camp to see just what you can do.”
“Sixteen of us?” remarked FM after a quick tally. “But there’s nineteen of us here.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. Please step forward when I call your name: Litmus.” A woman, dressed rather plainly aside from alternating red and blue fingernails, moved up. “I’m sorry, but your ability to tell an acid from a base by dipping your finger into it, while impressive, hasn’t been found to have a place in an active-duty combat unit.”
“Fair enough,” she said with a shrug.
“Next: Herbivore.” A bleary-eyed young man with ratty hair and a distinctive odor about him, after some prodding, stepped forward. “Herbivore, while it is unquestionable that being able to lift three times your own weight is useful, the fact that you must be under the influence of marijuana in order to do it—in addition to being illegal—violates the substance abuse policies of the US military.”
“Whatever, dude,” he said, waving off Aiken and wandering vaguely away.
“Cactus Commando—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” objected a man near the back of the group whose hair was literally spiked.
“Your—”
“No! You know what? I don’t care. This is a worthless team anyway. Everyone knows the marines are the real team to be on. This was a waste of my valuable time, and the rest of you losers can just bite me,” he ranted. “The army. HA!”
“What a prick,” Chloroplast observed.
“As for the rest of you, I would like to congratulate you for making it this far. If you’ll please line up by the troop carrier, once your bags have been screened for anything deemed too dangerous to bring along, we’ll head off to boot camp. Once there we can discuss what arrangements need to be made. Welcome to the finals.”
A cheer went up from the crowd, the excitement of advancing momentarily wiping away any perceived slights against their powers. High fives were exchanged, and some of the more enthusiastic of the group hugged.
“I realize that, as you were interviewed separately, you may not have been introduced to your fellow finalists, so I encourage you to acquaint yourselves with one another during the trip. Once you are there, you will be split into pairs, and the tests will begin.”
“Oh, and one or two more things,” Private Summers added, glancing at St. John’s packet. “From this point forward, we would appreciate it if you referred to each other exclusively by your codenames. Also, though you may find that you get along with or do not get along with certain members of the group, please keep in mind that when teams are formed you will not be able to choose your partner, so don’t get your hopes up. Finally, the camera and sound technicians will be accompanying you, and they will be present every step of the way. Please ignore them, and behave as though they are not there, thank you.”
The lucky finalists subjected their bags to the screeners and climbed onto the troop transport. Once it was fully loaded, it pulled away. Private Summers and Dr. Aiken remained behind, checking the time every few minutes. Finally Dr. Aiken scribbled something on the remaining envelope and pinned it to the door of what remained of the temporary structure. With that, they left. A full hour later, a taxi arrived, and out stumbled a man in a brown sweat suit with the letter B emblazoned on the front.
“I’m here, I’m here!” he cried desperately. He looked around to find no one but workers on hand. “Every time!”
He marched up to the envelope pinned to the door.
“Inside is your assessment. I’m afraid your power is Class H, Handicap. You have not moved to the next round of screening,” he read aloud. He gritted his teeth and crumpled the paper. “They’ll pay for this! They will pay! They will forever curse the day they passed up the chance to join forces with me, Bottleneck!”
He turned viciously back to the taxi—just in time to see it drive away. His shoulders slumped. “Every. Single. Time…” he muttered with a shake of his head.
Chapter 11
The meta-human condition tends to take three basic forms with regard to working with others. I’ve classified these as Lone Wolf, Dynamic Duo, and Team Player. Team Players believe that they should unite with other heroes (or villains), and each member has a crucial role to play. Dynamic Duos gravitate toward a pairing, with one-half of the pair typically having more substantial powers and a greater amount of experience, while the other half has low-level or undeveloped powers, and youth. This is the standard hero/sidekick pairing, and it is notable that most frequently the sidekick is the one that initiates the partnership, essentially aspiring to a secondary role. The Lone Wolf is, as the name suggests, much more interested in working solo. This is by far the most common mindset in the meta-human world.
Excerpt from The Psychology of the Meta-human Condition by Dr. Richard Liefeld
After the jubilation of advancing to the next round of selection had worn off, the bus ride to the boot camp became remarkably silent. Not entirely silent, as the open-topped troop carrier made for a very windy ride, but there was little in the way of conversation. Many members of the group found their eyes wandering to Nonsensica, no doubt due to the colorful “uniform” she wore. The green-skinned Chloroplast caught his share of sideways glances as well. The real star of the ride, though, wore a badge marked “Primadonna.” She had attempted to make a similar fashion statement as Nonsensica, but in many ways had been a good deal more successful. She was wearing a snug pink and black spandex leotard with matching tights. Around her waist she wore a tutu-like micro-skirt, and a silver headband with the markings of a swan perched on her head of lustrous blonde hair. Unlike the rather meagerly proportioned Nonsensica, however, Primadonna had the hips, chest, and legs that comic-book artists typically crafted such an outfit to showcase. She was clearly well aware of it, too, because rather than the utilitarian boots that Nonsensica wore, she had selected sleek high-heeled boots that reached her knee, and the chest of the leotard sported a rather immodestly plunging neckline. Somewhat spoiling the look was the purse she had clutched at her side, and the wheeled pink suitcase she’d brought along. Nonsensica eyed her with sizzling anger.
“No sense us just sitting around quietly. You heard the doctor. We should get to know each other,” recommended Phosphor. “What say we go around and say our names, powers, and where we’re all from. I’ll start. My name’s Phosphor, I can pull endless fluorescent bulbs from my bag, and I’m from just outside Carmel, Indiana.”
He turned expectantly to Chloroplast. The young man was dressed in a way that likely would have drawn attention even if he didn’t have green skin. His head was shaved completely bald, and at first it seemed that he had no eyebrows, but in reality they were just the same green color as his skin. He wore a leather jacket, open in the front, with no shirt underneath. His body didn’t have an ounce of fat on it, though there wasn’t much in the way of muscle, either. The result was an oddly stretched-out greyhound-like physique. He wore tattered jeans with numerous holes, and black boots that he had neglected to tie. Glancing around to see that he was now the undivided center of attention, he rolled his eyes.
“My name is Chloroplast. I’m from Venice Beach, and I have the power of photosynthesis,” he said, as though he was doing everyone a tiresome favor by doing so. Without being asked, he went on to clarify in an educational tone, “Photosynthesis is how plants make light into energy. So I don’t have to eat as long as I get plenty of sunlight.”
With that, he leaned back, opened his jacket a bit more, and closed his eyes. Next in line was a young Latino man. He’d made a halfhearted attempt to assemble a costume, which was comprised of a green T-shirt with an iron-on patch in the shape of a G on the center of the chest. He had a black duffel bag at his feet and wore heavy canvas work pants of a dark tan color.
“Funny us two sitting together,” he said with a slight Spanish accent, elbowing Chloroplast. “I’ve got plant powers, too.”
Chloroplast opened one eye and looked him over. “I thought you were just a fan of the Packers.”
“Ha haa!” he laughed, genuinely. “Nope. My name is Gracias. I’m from San Antonio, and I have the power to give people a grassy ass. I just have to thank them first. Get it? Gracias, grassy ass.”
“Yeah. I got that. It wasn’t exactly subtle. Your powers are a pun. You must be so proud,” Chloroplast remarked.
Gracias laughed again. “This guy is such a kidder! We should team up!”
“Not gonna happen,” Chloroplast said.
“Wait now. I’m confused. What exactly do you mean by giving someone a grassy ass?” asked Nonsensica.
“They do something for me, I thank them, and then POOF, grass all over their butt. Very distracting.”
“I can imagine,” she said.
“Well, you’re next. What’s your deal?”
“Nonsensica, I’m from Parts Unknown, and I have the power to short-circuit brains with laser-guided gibberish.”
“Parts Unknown. That’s a good one. I should have said that. Hey, maybe I should be teaming up with you. We think the same way.”
“Yeah, I’m not really into the whole hero/sidekick thing. I like the idea of a team, then eventually a solo gig, once I’ve got some experience under my belt. Fully sanctioned experience,” she added quickly. “I’m extremely experienced when it comes to the ways of crime-fighting. Just need a legit organization to sign off on it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m after, too,” Chloroplast said. “I figure a few years with the army and I’ll have a few missions behind me, learn a few tricks, learn a few skills, then when my tour of duty is up, break out on my own.”
There was a sequence of nods from the vast majority of the other passengers. Next in line was a chubby girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was dressed in dark colors, wore sunglasses, and had a total of seven adhesive bandages on her rather beat-up hands. She held a silver Zippo lighter, and had been flipping it open, flicking it on, then clapping it shut periodically in an absentminded manner since she’d boarded the bus.
“My name’s Bomb Sniffer. I can smell explosives from wa-a-a-a-ay far away, and I’m from Topeka, Kansas, where there is absolutely squat to do,” she said. She delivered her introduction in a manner that attempted to match Chloroplast’s laid-back, indifferent attitude, but it was clear that she was beyond excited.
“How old are you, miss?” asked Phosphor, a bit of fatherly concern in his voice.
“Twenty-three,” she said, eyes darting a bit.
“In what, dog years?” scoffed Chloroplast.
“Whatever. Age is just a number,” she said. She turned to Phosphor. “And who are you to question it? You’re like a hundred.”
“May as well be, I suppose,” he said with a light chuckle.
“You’re up,” Sniffer said to the man beside her.
“I’m FM, I’m from Idaho, and I can transmit my thoughts—”
“Over the radio! I know that voice! You’re the guy who let the cat out of the bag about this team to begin with!” Nonsensica said. “I could seriously kiss you, FM. We all owe you a drink for creating this opportunity.”
“Yeah, the, uh, the folks in charge don’t really see it that way. At first they told me I was rejected as a security risk, but then I got a call from a major. He said people ‘associated’ me with the project, and that it would be good to let the people see that I was still a part of it.”
“Hopefully you learn to keep a lid on that power of yours, or covert missions are pretty much out for us,” said the next man in line. He had a gap-toothed smile and an easy drawl to his voice. He was also chewing on a wad of tobacco and spitting over the side of the troop carrier wall from time to time. “I’m Retcon, I’m from Alabama, and I’ve got about three years of experience in just about anything I feel like having it in.”
“I don’t follow,” FM remarked.
“About once a day I can sorta change my mind about what happened to me between the ages of seventeen and twenty, so long as I end up in the same place at the end of it. Whatever I decide is what really happened, or may as well have.”
