Powered (7 page)

He looks up. “I never thought that far ahead. When your sister died, I chose to believe you were good.”

I brace myself for the backlash to come next. For the speech about how I’ve totally disappointed him and that I’m the worst daughter ever and he regrets changing the laws. He pinches the bridge of his nose and runs his hand down his face, distorting his eyelids as he sighs.

“I should get to sleep soon, I had a long night.” He keeps typing, making no motion to get up and actually go to bed. I take that as my hint to leave him alone. I start to go back to my room and then stop, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Hey, Dad?” He looks up, his fingers still flying across the keyboard. “What was your secret mission thing about earlier today?”

His lips form two flat lines. “It was secret. That is all I can tell you.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat embarrassed to be spoken to like a child. I wonder if he can tell Max since he’s in the Hero club and all. I’m tempted to wake up my brother and ask him, but I’ve caused enough trouble for the day. “Goodnight then,” I say as I head toward my room.

“You’re not the evil one.” I barely hear it. At first I think I’m imagining it. I stand motionless in the hallway just outside his door, wondering if he wanted me to hear his whispered words. He lets out a long, defeated sigh. In the same hushed voice he says, “Please don’t be the evil one.”

“I’ve never been grounded for thirty seconds, much less five days.” Crimson’s face bobs up and down on the holograph screen in front of me. She’s been running full speed on a treadmill for the last twenty minutes and isn’t breaking a sweat. That isn’t a benefit of being a Super—that’s just Crimson.

“He didn’t exactly say I was grounded.” I recall this morning’s conversation with Dad. “He just said I can’t go anywhere … or do anything … or talk to anyone until the examiners make their decision.”

Crimson rolls her eyes, the irony of what I just said not lost on her. She ups the speed on her treadmill until she’s at fifteen miles per hour. “Call it what you want. You’re grounded.”

I sigh. I like my bedroom. But not enough to spend the next five days living, breathing, eating, and sleeping in it. “Don’t tell anyone I called you. I’m technically grounded from my MOD. I guess Dad thinks I could lose my temper over a phone call or text or something.”

“I wish I could tell you something encouraging.” Crimson wipes the back of her hand across her forehead in what could be, holy crap, considered wiping off sweat. I guess she isn’t a genetically perfect cyborg. “But you picked a terrible time to delay getting Hero status. Crime rates have skyrocketed in the last few days. Quite a lot of petty villains trying to gain access into Central.”

Petty is what they call Supers who have gone rogue, but not
too
rogue. Real villains kill, hurt, maim, and destroy. Others are just Supers who couldn’t cut it in Central and wanted to live amongst the humans where their powers would make them better than the people around them. Of course, once you go rogue, you can’t come back. They wipe your credentials from every access to King City and any other Super location.

But if they’re trying to break into Central, maybe they realized how stupid they were to leave it in the first place. Maybe all they want is permission to come back. That’s not allowed, but maybe Dad could change it. Central may have a ton of rules, but it’s for the greater good.

The greater good. The thought of Central and its government, my father included, has always brought comfort to me. Knowing there is a force greater than any evil, that’s in control for the safety of Supers and humans alike, is a very comforting thing. But what if the rules meant to protect me are the same rules that will ruin me?

“What’s wrong?” Crimson asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I stammer some kind of reply that I’m fine. Her eyes question me for a moment. She tilts her head to the side as if she’s looking at a toddler and not her best friend. “This too shall pass, my dear. I’ll talk to you later. Or—in six days. Whichever comes first.”

“Crimson?” I say right before she ends the call.

“Yeah?”

I bite my lip. The life of an aspiring Hero consists of fifteen years, three hundred sixty-four days of training for their Hero Exam. Fourteen-hour days both in the classroom and in SLAM—learning, honing and perfecting every technique available to defeat villains. Without that, I’m lost. “What am I supposed to do for the next six days?”

She gives me a look often reserved for animal shelter puppies. “The humans watch a lot of TV.”

I watch five days, six hours, and twelve minutes of television. I eat every piece of junk food in the house and I gain exactly five point three pounds, a fact I am happily ignoring until Max walks into the room and says, “What’s up, fatty?”

I throw a pillow at him.

It bursts in half when he holds out his arm to stop it from hitting him in the face. Tiny feathers float through the air, landing all around us. “Get up,” Max says. “I’m not letting you mope around anymore.”

In an effort to show how I feel about that idea, I slouch further down my bed and pull the comforter over my face. One split second later, all the sheets rip off my bed and I’m gasping for breath with my back on the floor.

“What the hell, Max?” I rub my elbow as I wait for the bruise to heal.

“Heroes don’t sulk in bed. And they sure as hell don’t watch television.”

“I. Am. Not. A. Hero,” I remind him through clenched teeth. But I take his outstretched hand anyway and let him pull me up. Max eyes me from head to toe, taking in my knotted hair that was once in a ponytail but who knows if the hair tie is still in there. He frowns at my outfit: pajama pants and a sports bra.

“Get dressed.” He grabs a handful of unfolded laundry and throws it at me. “It’s time for me to kick your ass.”

A week ago there was nothing I’d rather do than spar with my brother once I turned sixteen and my full powers developed. But that was a week ago.

“No,” I mumble through pouted lips.

“You may not be a Hero yet but I am, and it is my duty to stop you from doing this to yourself. Now get dressed so I can beat you.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Go beat yourself.”

Max slams me into the wall. Cold concrete sends a sharp pain down my spine as he grips my throat in his right hand. His left hand pins my shoulder to the wall. I gasp for breath as my windpipe closes against my will. The fury in Max’s gaze burns into my eyes, unrelentingly judgmental. My heart beats three times.

With a surge of anger, I bring up my left arm and break his chokehold while shoving my fist under his ribcage hard enough to hear a satisfying crack of rib bones. He dives forward and I lunge out of the way, stopping to smile in satisfaction when his head bashes into the wall. He stands, wiping the blood off his forehead as the tear in his skin heals instantly.

I pull a sweatshirt over my sports bra and step into a pair of training boots. “Let’s go, asshole.”

We take the KAPOW into Central and Max tells me all these ridiculous things that are supposed to be inspirational and make me feel positive about my impending answer from the examiners. But since I’m not a five-year-old who still believes in Santa Claus, it doesn’t make me feel anything other than annoyed.

Max steps out of the KAPOW and I follow him up the stairs that lead to the Specialized Learning center of Aptitude Mastery. SLAM is a huge arena of sorts, bigger than the human’s stadiums and a thousand times more complex. It intimidated me as a child, but now it feels like home.

Max takes the steps two at a time, still running his mouth and talking with his hands. “Like I said, so the last five days were miserable. But when you think positive you—”

“Oh friggin hell, it’s been five days?” My hand slaps my forehead. I ignore whatever kind of crap he’s talking about as I add up the days in my head. I knew the TV Guide on my television kept changing to new days, but I never considered TV watching time as real time. I must have been really out of touch with reality. “Tomorrow is the seventh day. Oh, god. Oh—my god.” I grip the sides of my head. “I can’t do this.”

“Breathe,” Max says, his hands on my shoulders. “The waiting is almost over. You should be happy.”

My mouth hangs open but no words come out. I spent
five days
in bed. Ugh. I’m not fit to be a Hero. “We might as well practice Retriever training while we’re here,” I mumble.

Speaking of not being a Hero … Max’s BEEPR lights up. He gives me an apologetic look before viewing the screen. “Another one?” He rolls his eyes as he types something on the screen. “Like anyone could breech that kind of security.”

“Duty calls,” I say with an annoyed sigh.

“Sorry Mace, I’m out.” Max heads toward the KAPOW, taking the stairs three at a time. “Shouldn’t take long—just get started without me.”

I don’t watch him leave. When I reach the familiar steel door of SLAM, I place my hand on it and take an instinctual step forward. Only the door doesn’t open like usual and my toes crack as they bash into an unmoving door. I touch the door again. Still nothing.

The MOD to my right lights up as a message scrolls across it. identity: maci might – suspended access until further notice.

“What the
what
?” I yell to no one, pressing my hand repeatedly to the door, that stupid message popping up each time. I kick the door just because I freaking feel like it.

Of course they would suspend me. Of
course
.

Turning on my heel, I run down the stairs so I can get far away from here before anyone sees me. The only thing more humiliating than banishment from my favorite place is having someone witness it.

Once I’m around the corner, I revert to walking at a pace slower than a human, staring at the marble floor beneath my feet. The world feels bigger, heavier when moving this slowly. My instincts tell me to hurry and zip off to wherever I need to be, but for the first time in my life I don’t have anywhere to be. All those years of Hero training had me trudging home only to fall asleep, wishing I had some free time. Now that time is all I have, well I’d like to go back. I should be performing Hero duties right now. Instead, I’m just an outcast. A girl on hiatus.

A voice I don’t recognize calls my name. I turn around. “What?” I don’t mean to sound so rude, but then again, maybe I do.

Some guy jogs up to me, wearing tan cargo shorts and a white t-shirt with a backpack over his shoulders. Not exactly Hero attire. His shoulder-length blonde hair hasn’t seen a brush in … probably ever. He waves as he approaches, his smile bursting with super white teeth. This time I recognize him. Probably because I’m not obsessing over Aloki. “Hey, Evan.”

“Hello,” he says, brushing hair behind his ears. “I never expected to see you twice in one week. It’s been a long time since Hero training.”

And boy has it. Maybe it’s the close proximity to SLAM, or maybe I’m just thinking clearer without Aloki around, but I definitely remember him from Hero training now. He was a grade higher than I was and dropped out of the class when I was twelve. I remember him as tall, lanky and—to put it mildly—a total nerd. Coming of age did wonders for him. His shoulders have filled out. Lean muscles pack his arms and chest.