THOOOOM!

  Wind rushes past me with enough force to send a grown man flying, the cavitation causing a temporary vacuum which implodes with a blast akin to high explosive going off right next to my ear. I’m sent careening to the side, eardrums rattled and ringing, and a dull ache blooming in the right side of my head. Still, even through the pain, I smile.

  A month ago, I wouldn’t have even been fast enough to dodge that.

  “Again!” a harsh yet feminine voice barks out—the Captain. She’s been supervising ever since she learned of my plan, and by ‘supervising,’ I mean making things exponentially harder by keeping me under constant pressure from her ability. In all fairness though, I’m improving much faster because of it. I would be even faster if not for what happened to my arm. Shame about that, losing a full week of practice stung almost as much as the physical pain.

  I see the windup once more, but as always I don’t brace myself. Regardless of the full purpose, this is still training, and building bad habits like relying on the fact I know an attack is coming won’t serve me well later down the line. Half a second later, some of the hair on my neck stands on end as Superhuman lazily warns me about the danger. It’s been sluggish for the last week or two—almost like it knows by now that no matter how deadly the punch is, I’m not really in any danger.

  THOOOOM!

  My eyes catch maybe a frame of the blurred fist as it passes by my head, but I’m still out of the way well in time. The resulting shockwave sends me reeling regardless, but it honestly doesn’t feel half as bad as before. Maybe because I’m already in too much pain to notice a small increase, or more generously, maybe I’m getting better at taking it.

  “Again!” The Captain orders once more. This time, however, I hold up my hand to signal a halt. Elias lowers his fist mid-windup. He looks almost grateful—and rather winded.

  “Something the matter, recruit?” the Captain asks, walking up to the two of us.

  “That’s sixteen in a row under five gees,” I reply, “And Elias’ arm looks like it’s about to fall off. I think we’re ready to call it a day.”

  I’m not feeling much better physically myself, even if I’m actually quite pumped mentally. However, the Captain is the type of drill sergeant that makes you run laps if you say you’re getting tired, and even if I could probably do a few more before getting beaned, I have a vested interest in having an intact face by the time I leave this particular session—plus, having a few more minutes for my ears to heal will make my life a lot easier.

  “…Fine,” the Captain assents, “But tomorrow we don’t stop until you reach twenty, even if it stops being ‘tomorrow,’ clear?”

  “Yes, Captain,” I reply gratefully.

  She grunts noncommittally and stalks off.

  “Thanks for the-” Elias begins.

  “No time!” I cut him off, “I gotta go, see you tomorrow!”

  I rush past him, waving behind me without even stopping to look.

  “Tell me about your date when it’s over!” Elias shouts at my back as I leave.

  “Not a date!” I scream back at him, still not bothering to turn around.

  At least, I don’t think it is.

  —

  I really have to stop sprinting everywhere.

  Sure, it was fine back in the day, when even without my suit on I was too slow to really need to worry, but things have been rapidly changing. I’m now fast enough that my equivalent of a jog outpaces most cars, especially on busy city streets, and staring at the hole torn in the leg of my pants, it’s obvious that I may have been pushing just a little too hard. It’s lucky that I’m wearing jeans—most people wouldn’t see the tear as anything more than a fashion statement. Plus, it’s over the knee, and not somewhere more…compromising. Which is good, considering I’m not sure I could find a replacement on such short notice.

  Especially short, as not a moment later, still absorbed in my predicament, I feel someone lightly tap on my shoulder.

  I look up to find a familiar, smiling face, and I’m briefly very confused by the sight of it. It probably doesn’t help that the signature pink curls I expect seem to have been replaced by a very simple black color with just the tips dyed red, but I have to admit that’s not really why my heart almost seems to stop.

  Somehow, in that moment, I almost feel like the smile on Rowan’s face is more real than I’ve ever seen it before.

  “Charlie,” she greets me, “Am I interrupting…whatever it is you’re doing?”

  “Nope,” I reply hastily, "Just distracted. You, uh, look…different.”

  “Not bad, I hope,” Rowan replies, “Rhea’s never been very good at fashion, so there’s not many people who can tell me if I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

  I realize she’s talking about the hair, and shake my head, “No, it’s fine. I meant more that you look…happier, somehow.”

  She waves dismissively, “I’m two months into therapy, did you think I’d become more withdrawn?”

  I clamp my mouth shut—no idea how to respond to that.

  Rowan chuckles, “I’m teasing. Thank you for the compliment, princess. Now, where are we headed today?”

  “There’s an out-of-the-way cafe near here that carries synth coffee. It’s a real hidden gem—most of the good places are swarmed with heroes 24/7,” I explain, beginning to walk in the direction of the place I’m referring to, which is just down the road, “I mean, I get it; there aren’t many other ways to deal with the schedule, after all, I just wish evil did sleep, you know?”

  “We do,” Rowan quips, “It’s just easier to take heroes by surprise after dark.”

  I roll my eyes, then hold open the door for her as I lead her into a tiny, brick coffee shop in a quiet corner of the city. Soothing instrumental music fills the air and all of two other patrons sit in a room decorated with string lights and flowering vines—real ones, on account of the manager’s ability, Bloom.

  Said manager takes our orders, and the two of us slip into a booth as we wait for the drinks to arrive, just chatting quietly. For all that Elias was teasing, we had just been planning to hang out as friends for the first time ever. All our previous encounters had involved fights or some form of significant stress. It’s nice to take some time to relax.

  “Speaking of a different vibe, you seem a bit less stressed yourself,” Rowan comments after a little while, “Finally got used to everything being different?”

  I bite back a wince, hoping she doesn’t catch the reaction, “I haven’t had a reaper job in…a while—just training and the occasional spot of hero work. I guess I’d expected it’d be more hectic given how I was introduced—not that I’m complaining of course. I just might be starting to be lulled into a false sense of security. At this rate, the next mission’s going to feel like a hammer blow to the face compared to everything else.”

  “I know what you mean,” Rowan agrees solemnly, then clears her throat, “but anyway, it is kinda hard to argue that a lack of reapers jobs is a bad thing, in any case.”

  “Agreed,” I reply, “Let’s just hope it lasts until the Hero Exhibition.”

  Rowan cocks her head curiously, “What’s that?”

  I blink in confusion, “Right. Sorry, sometimes I forget you’re actually new to this.”

  “It’s my confidence,” Rowan quips, smirking.

  I clear my throat, “Anyway, the Hero Exhibition is an annual performance done by the most promising or impressive heroes of the USC. They set up these big stadiums, where heroes get to show off their powers to a massive audience—and many also set up outside in a big carnival-esque way to host miniature shows and sell merchandise. It’s a really big deal; not only does it drum up a lot of support for the heroes involved, but there’s a lot of tourism money involved for whichever city hosts it. I’m participating this year, actually—one of the important reapers wants me to get famous so I can be more of an asset.”

  The explanation is a bit reductive, but Rowan seems to follow along well, nodding as I speak. When I finish she takes half a beat to sip from her drink before continuing.

  “So it’s all about making an impression?” She summarizes, “Seems pretty in line with the BCCSI’s general strategy from what I know. Any special plans for this event?”

  “No spoilers,” I tease, “but I am training hard, and there are a few preparations I need to undergo. For one, I am in dire need of a new hero costume.”

  Rowan perks up, “I can help with that. The person who did my costume is great—I can’t recommend her enough.”

  “I dunno,” I resist, “The designers at the Bowl have all the best synth materials, and I really do need something that can hold up under some pressure.” Absentmindedly, I place a hand on the tear in my pants I was worrying over not a moment ago.

  Rowan gestures dismissively, “My designer has an ability that can do far better than the standard synth stuff—and besides, whatever fraud set you up with that boring grey jumpsuit deserves to be fired for sheer negligent incompetence.”

  “Says the one who was walking around dressed in bright pink,” I tease, “and besides, I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Who do you think gave me the idea to use pink as a psychological tactic?” Rowan shoots back, “And yes, it was that bad. Sure, it didn’t look objectionable in a vacuum, but I don’t think you understand just how bland it was for a hero. If you want to succeed in this ‘exhibition,’ then you need to stand out, and all prior evidence suggests the Bowl’s designers are going to fail you in that regard.”

  “…fine,” I relent bitterly, sensing a losing argument.

  “Great,” Rowan acknowledges cheerfully, “And, while we’re at it, we can get you some decent formal wear.”

  “I-I already have-” I sputter.

  “Nope, we’re doing this,” Rowan interrupts, “Or do you seriously expect me to believe there isn’t some kind of after-party you’ll need to attend?”

  “I-” I hadn’t considered that. “Maybe.”

  “Thought so,” Rowan takes another sip from her drink.

  A few heartbeats worth of mostly awkward silence passes as the two of us just sit there, each sipping at our own drinks. The cafe around us is mostly quiet—we were the only ones really talking. Thankfully, I have little fear that the other patrons might overhear something problematic. They’re probably all heroes anyhow, and we haven’t given any hint that Rowan isn’t one yet. I take one final sip from my drink.

  “So…it’s occurred to me that neither of us really knows the other all too well,” I begin, “I mean, I’ve got a good grasp of your personality by now—at least, I think so—but I’m not sure I know much about you. Something tells me that goes both ways.”

  Rowan considers this for a moment, “I guess I can see what you mean. Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?”

  I shrug, “Anything you feel like revealing. I’m not picky.”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” Rowan replies, “You already know I was born in Asia, and moved to the USC recently. I have no idea exactly how old I am, but I’m probably in my early twenties. I’m an orphan, and probably have mostly Russian heritage, with no more than a quarter Chinese blood. I don’t know much about my family or where I came from, only that I was found beneath a tree—hence my name.”

  “Really?” I reply, a little shocked, “But you have a last name.”

  She shrugs, “I picked it myself. ‘Ward,’ as in ‘ward of the state.’ I was raised by my country, in the closest thing to a state-funded orphanage that still exists outside the USC. It’s not like I had that surname back in China. Same as ‘Rowan,’ I picked it myself when I moved here to help me blend in.”

  “Huh,” I reply articulately, “Well, there you go: that’s something interesting I didn’t know about you. See what I mean?”

  “What about you?” Rowan prompts, “Like you said: this goes both ways.”

  “Well…” I begin, “As you know, like most people here, I was born and raised inside the USC. I’ve never left—obviously, and spent most of my life here in Newest York. I’m twenty-three—almost exactly as old as the USC itself, actually.”

  “Wait, really?” Rowan interjects, “Weird coincidence. Sounds like there’s a story there.”

  “Eh…kind of,” I reply noncommittally, “I was born on the same day as the Battle of DC, that’s all.”

  My response earns me nothing but a blank stare.

  I clear my throat, “You, uh…you don’t know what that is, do you?”

  Rowan shakes her head.

  “How much do you know about what happened to the USC during the Upheaval?” I ask.

  “Mostly the broad strokes,” Rowan answers, “The bulk of the country comes from a nation once called ‘The United States,’ which maintained stability in the early days of the Upheaval via the tried-and-not-so-true method of implementing martial law. Some renegade SAU you call ‘the Prophet’ ended up overthrowing this nation’s government and becoming a bit of a tyrant. You rebelled, killed him, and joined with the desperate surrounding nations to form the Union for the Survival of Civilization, or USC.”

  I nod, showing my agreement. Her understanding is mostly accurate, just lacking in details. Considering she lived elsewhere most of her life, her knowledge is actually a lot better than it could be. Not that I’ve met anyone else who wasn’t raised on this history, so I don’t have much to compare her to.

  “That about sums it up,” I reply, “but there is a lot more context. For starters, calling what the Prophet did an ‘overthrow’ isn’t doing it justice. He basically just waltzed into the capital, killed all the important people, and just started telling everyone else what to do. The rebellion—which had already been blooming on the western side of the US in response to the former government's liberal use of the military—took little more than days to start pushing back. If it wasn’t for his uncanny level of tactical prowess, the Prophet would likely not have managed being a tyrant for more than a week.”

  Rowan nods, following along.

  “The war to depose him was pretty long and hard-fought,” I continue, “but the ending actually happened rather swiftly. The rebellion had been pushing west for years to no avail, but then they ended up making a deal with Panama for usage of the famous canal so they could slip ships around the continent without going overland. That deal eventually became the foundations of the USC—which is why Panama was the southernmost country to end up joining. Anyway, the rebels launched a three-pronged assault on a trio of the most important cities: The Foundry, a city once known as Chicago; Saintsport, a city once known as St. Louis; and the former capital of the US, Washington DC.”

  I take another sip of my drink to force myself to slow down.

  “The most important target was DC,” I continue, “They needed Saintsport largely to give them a way to attack it without continuing their brutal overland campaign, but the Panama deal changed that. A small force of rebels landed in the Chesapeake along with a band of nearly forty SAUs—including both Jonathan and, notably, my father. Three hours earlier, my mother had gone into labor at a hospital in the Angel’s City—once called Los Angeles—which was the rebellion’s home base.”

  I take a deep breath and settle my rising discomfort; Rowan watches me intently.

  “At approximately eleven in the morning on June 12th, a pitched battle began to retake DC. The Prophet, along with a number of his inner circle of powerful SAUs—notably including such figures as the Night King, Oberon Vasile—fought to defend it. Nearly two thousand regular soldiers died, and a number of SAUs. One of them…”

  I take a deep yet shaky breath.

  “…one of them was my father, who was shot in the head by the Prophet himself.”

  The cup in my hand creaks as it threatens to break under my steadily increasing grip. It’s a damn good thing that it was made for SAUs. Even steel would’ve crumpled already.

  “The fighting continued into the late afternoon, when Jonathan located and engaged the Prophet in battle. Their duel tore up most of the city; surviving soldiers describe fleeing shoulder-to-shoulder with men from both sides as everyone tried to get out of their way. In the end, Jonathan slew the Prophet, and the battle came to a close when the remaining stragglers of his inner circle were mopped up by the rebels.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding in.

  “I was born that night, at 9:27 pm, never even getting to share a second of my time in this world with my father. My mother wouldn’t even receive the news until two days later, when the surviving rebels finally managed to get correspondence past the heavily contested midwest. Officially, the war wouldn’t end for another seven months, but that was the finishing stroke. The USC was, in accordance with the Panama treaty, officially formed in the week following the death of the Prophet. Hence, I am, give or take a week, as old as the country itself.”

  At last, I finish, leaving myself a little breathless. Realizing I’d been looking down, I glance back at Rowan. She smiles as she notices me do this; there is sadness in her eyes—pity.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “I don’t think I ever considered that you probably also went through some shit. I guess everyone did, with the Upheaval—even those of us who don’t really remember it.”

  I clear my throat, coughing into my hand to discreetly hide my flushed face, "No, I should be sorry. I didn’t mean to trauma dump or anything. Naturally, I didn’t actually experience any of this, I just pieced it together over the years from history books and testimony from old soldiers and heroes. It’s really not that big of a deal, all that matters is I didn’t grow up with a father.”

  Rowan smiles a little more, obviously sensing my discomfort, “Well, you’d certainly make a good history teacher. That was a very detailed description for someone who’d never actually seen any of that stuff.”

  “Eh, it’s just my enhanced memory,” I say, gesturing dismissively, “Superhuman is responsible for any and all intelligence I have ever demonstrated.”

  “Your ability really does a lot, doesn’t it?” Rowan asks, “You mentioned your father was a SAU too, do you know what his ability was?”

  I nod, “Speed. He was absurdly fast—faster than I am now by a large margin. He used this speed to save lives on the battlefield by moving soldiers out of the way of danger or taking the wounded back to the medics. He was a pacifist, actually. To hear people tell it, he never once raised a hand against anyone else, even if it would’ve made him a much more useful soldier. Even in war, he refused to do harm. I never knew him, but I still look up to him in a way. I always wanted to be a hero like him—saving lives, not taking them.”

  “Sounds like he was a good man,” Rowan says comfortingly, “I’m sorry you never got to meet him.”

  I smile sadly, “Yeah well, you can blame the Prophet for that. Not sure anyone else would even have been capable of hurting him.”

  Rowan cocks her head curiously. I sigh, realizing that now that I’ve said that, I kind of have to explain, “He was faster than me at a time when the strongest people on the planet were barely as strong as a city champion now. He could literally dodge bullets and pull people out of the way of actual explosions. Even with early anti-SAU weaponry, nobody could react quickly enough to shoot him. He was practically unkillable.”

  “Then how…?”

  “The Prophet,” I reply, “is no exaggerated moniker.”

  A moment of awkward silence, then Rowan clears her throat, “Sorry…for asking.”

  “It’s fine,” I reply quietly, “I brought it up.”

  Then I hear the telltale buzz of a notification. We both perk up, and I see Rowan check her phone before her eyes widen.

  “Oh, shit,” she says, “Is it already five? I have to go—I have an appointment with my therapist in thirty minutes. Sorry, I thought we had more time.”

  “It’s fine,” I reply, “Don’t worry about it. You go; I’ll handle the bill.”

  “Thanks,” Rowan says back, standing, “I’ll see you later, and don’t forget about the costume.”

  “I won’t.” I wave back as she exits the cafe and swiftly disappears from the view of the storefront windows. Sighing, I put my cup up to my lips only to find it empty. I realize with a start that we truly have been here a while. I flag down the cafe owner to pay and quickly make my exit as well.

  The direction of our conversation leaves me with a series of whirling thoughts, my mind all abuzz with excitement. It’s been a while since I’ve seriously thought about that whole mess—definitely not since before learning about the reapers. Everything that’s happened in recent months provides some strange new context to the old story.

  For one, as I now know, Oberon Vasile is actually alive. The Night King—easily the most feared SAU of the pre-USC era—was never actually killed in battle like I learned in school. It makes one think, that's for sure. If they captured him, who else did they not actually kill? Could more of the Prophet’s inner circle be alive? Or even…

  A shiver goes down my spine, and all at once every hair on my body stands on end. I whip my head around, searching for a hint of the danger Superhuman is warning me against, but I see nothing—just the peaceful city around me.

  Normally the warnings come with some sense of direction. They’d hardly be useful otherwise, but as the feeling begins to fade, I realize with a start that it’s oppressive weight almost seems to be coming from all around me. I’ve sensed something like this before—only in two cases. Both were high-level SAUs: Jonathan and Rhea. Both gave me feelings of danger despite never actually making a move.

  Considering what I was just thinking about…

  I shake myself. This is absurd. I’m just hysterical, or there was a freak breeze. There’s no way it’s actually true. Jonathan and the reapers are horrible, but even they aren’t stupid enough to consider something like that. I must be imagining things. Not all goosebumps are a warning from Superhuman. It was just a coincidence.

  Still, as I make my way back to the Bowl, I never do quite shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

  —honestly, I'm not sure I really managed it here—but I love writing these big lore dumps and showing off my worldbuilding. It may just be the history buff in me, but I can't help but want to write in that sort of lore-explanation style more often. Maybe I'll find some more places to put stuff like that later on. We'll see.