The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 1)

This is the beginning chapter of my online episodic novel, The Reserves.

For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!

Clay looked at himself in the mirror and practiced smiling again.  He sighed as it turned into a grimace and slid off his face.  “You look like a beaver that lost a fight with a parking curb,” he said to his reflection.

“Clay!” a voice called from downstairs.  “You’re going to be late!”

“Be there soon!” he yelled back, taking one last look in the mirror.  Today was the most important day of his life.  He wondered if he should be wearing a polo.

“Clay!”

“Coming, coming!”  He opened the bathroom door and hurried down the stairs of his parent’s house.  Clay’s dad stood at the front door, bouncing the van keys in his hand.  Clay’s mom and younger brother stood to the side getting their shoes on.

“Where are you two going?” Clay asked his mom and brother.

“With you, of course,” Joey said, coming over to grab his brother’s shoulder.  “How could we miss such a formative milestone in your meteoric rise to greatness?”

Clay looked at his brother.  “You’re going to grab food after you drop me off, aren’t you?”

“We’re going to grab food after we drop you off,” his brother confirmed.

“What about grandma?”

“She’s feeling a little tired today,” Clay’s mom said.  “We’ve got her order.”

Clay frowned, then jogged toward the living room.  “Back in a second,” he said over his shoulder.

“What part of ‘late’ do you not understand?” Clay’s dad called after him. 

Clay found his grandma sitting on the couch, playing a game on her phone.  “Those screens will rot your brain,” he said.

“That’s long gone,” his grandma said.  “Oh, shoot!”  She turned the phone around to show Clay an animated character being violently disemboweled.  “I can’t get past this boss.  Any tips?”

“Try not dying next time, always works for me.”

“Smart aleck,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled.

“You feeling alright, grandma?” Clay asked, sitting next to her on the couch.

She waved his concern away.  “Oh, I’m fine.  Get as old as me and you’ll look for excuses to nap, too.”

“Is that all it is?”

Clay’s grandma reached out and patted his leg.  “I promise.  Haven’t burnt out yet.”  She snapped her fingers and an aurora borealis burst into technicolor brilliance across the ceiling. 

Clay laughed.  “Careful, grandma.  Keep showing off and the Alliance may call Starshade back onto active duty.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I put myself out to pasture a long time ago, Clay.  Better to have a new generation to take over.”  She smiled at him again.  “It’s your turn, now.”

He tried to match her smile, but dropped his head instead.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I…” His voice trailed off.  Clay cleared his throat and started again.  “I’ve always wanted to do what you did.  To be in the Alliance so I can be a hero.  What if I don’t measure up?”

She reached over and gently lifted his head up, nudging him to look her in the eye.  “Clay, the Alliance has only been around for fifty years or so.  People with abilities like us have been helping others all throughout history.  There’s more to being a hero than fancy costumes and media appearances.”  She poked him in the chest, hard.  “I spent a lot of time working on that heart of yours.  Don’t let your head get in the way of it.”

He nodded.  “I’ll try.”

“Clay!” his dad yelled again.  “If you still want a ride, we’re leaving now!”

Clay jumped to his feet, then looked down at his grandma.  “You sure you’ll be alright?”

She shooed him along.  “Go ahead, I’ll be fine.  You’re just distracting me anyways.”  She picked up her phone and tapped on it, eyes going back to the screen.

Clay chuckled and ran to catch up with the rest of his family.  They had already loaded up in the family minivan, so he hopped in to the middle row.

“Glad you could join us,” his dad said.  “Not like this whole thing was your idea.”

“Sorry,” Clay said.  “I’m still living out of my bags and forgot where I put most of what I needed for today.”

“Make sure you lead with that for the testers,” Joey said from where he laid across the back row of the minivan.

“Joey, someday you’ll go far,” Clay said.  “We all just hope you’ll stay there.”

“You wound me, brother,” Joey said, placing a hand on his chest.  “And I was just going to compliment you on your outstanding hair.”

Clay ran a hand through it.  “Really?”

“Obviously.  How did you get it to come out of your nostrils like that?”

Their banter went back and forth for most of the ride.  Clay grew quiet as they approached their destination, though, his mind churning over the worries he’d felt building for weeks now.

The battered minivan rolled up to the community college parking lot.  Signs and streamers lined the sidewalks, costumed heroes smiling out from them with teeth so straight they would work as a level in high-end construction work. 

“My teeth will look like that,” Clay muttered to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, mom,” Clay said.  He straightened up as his dad eased the van towards the curb.  “Thanks for the lift, I’ll take it from here.”

“Did you hear the subtle tenor of command there?” Joey said.  “The comforting swaddle of assurance?  All your catch-phrase practice in the mirror paid off!”

“Joey,” their mom said, her tone like a museum guard’s who has seen too many children touch the exhibit to have much hope this time will be different.

The van came to a stop, but before Clay could open the sliding door, his dad looked over his shoulder from the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, son?”

Clay smiled like the heroes on the signs.  “I was born ready.”

Joey howled with laughter.  “You’re gonna get eaten alive, man.”

Their dad frowned, his eyes still on Clay.  “I mean it.  Your powers have never been …consistent.”

“I’ll be fine,” Clay insisted.  “I have it under control.”

His parents exchanged a look.

“What?” Clay said.

“You know we love having you back home with us,” his mother said, “but it’s only because you set your apartment on fire.”

“That was an accident!”

“And we’re dropping you off because your car is in the shop after you ripped its door off,” his dad added.

“Also an accident.”

“And we still don’t know where the cat is after you skipped her into another reality,” Joey said from behind him.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Clay muttered. 

“All we’re trying to say is you don’t need to do this,” his dad said.  “There are plenty of other ways to help people.”

“Appreciate the pep talk, everyone,” Clay said, sliding the door open hard enough his breath caught in case it went the way his car door had.  He hid his relief it stayed on its track and stepped out into the parking lot.  “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Clay shut the door and turned away from the minivan.  He walked across the baking asphalt, its tar-like smell filling his nose.  He heard a window roll down behind him, then back up.  A few steps later, he heard the van move forward and out of the parking lot.

Ahead, the signs of Clay’s future beckoned him forward.  He recognized every hero on display as members of the Alliance, America’s premiere hero organization.  Defiant, Eclipse, Tempest Knight, the Warden—all household names he’d grown up hearing about. 

“And now it’s my turn,” he said, taking the stairs up to the campus two at a time.  Clay stumbled at the last step and looked around to see if anyone noticed before hurrying along the path marked out by more smiling heroes.

A giant banner with METAHUMAN REGISTRATION printed on it hung over a side entrance to the campus’s administration building.  Clay pushed the door open and walked inside.

A small crowd of people stood chatting in the small foyer.  Past them, plastic folding tables blocked off a maze of pop-up cubicles with numbers taped to their cheap fabric.  A couple of people gaggled in the center lane dividing the cubicles.  One wore a Federal Bureau of Metahuman Affairs windbreaker.

A voice cut through the ambient chatter like an overused sawblade.  “If you haven’t registered yet, get over to the desk.  Anyone not signed up in five minutes won’t be processed.”

Clay scurried around the milling people in the foyer and stopped in front of the FBMA agent who made the announcement.  She was large enough the metal chair she sat on disappeared beneath her, and her hair was pulled back into a bun so severe Clay wondered if she summarily executed any stray strands that escaped. 

“Name,” she stated, less a question than a statement indicating she didn’t care about the answer.

Clay leaned across the table.  “Which one?” he whispered.

The agent stared at him.  “No one cares about your muppet name.  Birth names only and your social security number.”

Clay looked over his shoulder at the small crowd, then leaned a little closer.  The agent didn’t flinch.  “But what if someone hears it and my secret identify is blown?”

She took his concern with the level of indifference only a lifetime of government service could foster.  “Kid, I woke up at three this morning so I could drive two hours out here to set this up.  If there’s a villain in this room, it’s whoever didn’t restock the instant coffee.  Put your information down or leave.”

Clay pursed his lips, then grabbed a pen off the table and started filling out the form.  He saved his name for last and covered it with his hand as he wrote.  The agent sighed.

“Go wait with the rest of them,” she said, making a point of putting his form on top of the small stack to her right.  “We’ll start soon.”

Clay considered the group of people waiting for the registration to start, then opted to stand off to the side.  They’re the competition, he thought to himself.  Everyone knew the teams like the Alliance only took the best of the best.  The rest got delegated to the Regionals.  Or worse—the Reserves. 

A few minutes of people watching made him feel better about his odds.  Most of the Metas in attendance kept their abilities under wraps, but a few put on little displays.  Clay thought they capped out at tier four abilities, maybe tier three if the testers felt generous. 

One young girl struggled to keep a sputtering flame lit in her cupped hands.  A pair of twins clearly had some sort of telekinesis they used to keep a stapler hovering in the air.  The most unique one he saw was a man well into his golden years putting on a show with tiny clouds he formed into shapes.  If anyone had abilities that might qualify as tier one, they weren’t advertising them.

“Please do not be dumb enough to use any unregistered abilities at an FBMA function,” the agent said.  The young girl’s flame went out with a loud bang and the agent closed her eyes, visibly counting to ten. 

“Last call for any stragglers,” the agent continued, opening her eyes.  “Anyone else want to sign up?”  She waited for a few seconds, then plowed on.  “Alright, gather in.  We have a few admin bits to cover before we start testing.”

Clay joined the other Metas in a rough semi-circle around the agent.  Her coworker with the FBMA windbreaker rolled a TV on a stand next to her and hooked it up to a laptop on the table.

“Thanks, Christian,” she said.  “Any ESL folks here?  People who’d prefer the legal stuff in a language other than English?”  A few hands went up.  “Head off with Christian, he’ll get you sorted.”  The windbreaker agent smiled and waved, then coaxed a few Metas like lost sheep back towards the cubicles.

The lead agent turned her gaze back on the remaining Metas.  “We do that for a reason.  What follows is your last chance to step back from the legal obligations that will follow if you choose to continue, and we make sure to cross every T and dot every I so anyone who claims they didn’t know gets laughed out of the courthouse.”  She hooked a thumb at the TV, now displaying the faded gray triangle of a play symbol.  “After the intro fluff, this video is going to articulate a choice you have to make.  You will have five minutes to make your choice, which I will time to the second.  If you choose to bow out, no harm, no foul.  You can always come back at a future registration if you change your mind. 

“If you choose to move on, though, that’s it—you’re in the system whether you want to pull out or not.   I cannot stress this enough: this choice is irreversible.  Does everyone understand?”

Clay nodded along with the rest of them.  It had been hammered into everyone’s head from an early age that once you signed on with the FBMA as a Meta, you were in until your term was up.

“Good,” the agent said.  “Now pay attention.”  She tapped a button on the laptop and the TV screen went black. 

A chorus of horns played out of the speakers, then an image of the American flag waving in the wind came onto the screen.  Someone snorted a laugh and someone else shushed them.  The FBMA logo flashed on the screen, followed by the horns fading as a narrator took over.

“Citizens of the United States, thank you for your attendance today.  Your country is grateful for your desire to serve.  As Metahumans, you have been gifted with abilities beyond those of the rest of humanity.  To take those gifts and help others is a noble calling, and your fellow countrymen salute you for taking this step.”

The flag and logo disappeared, replaced by a rotating montage of pictures at least fifteen years old, based on the animation style and the subjects of the photographs.  “For as long as there have been Metahumans, there have been those willing to use their abilities for the good of others.  Heroes from every walk of life, reaching out with a helping hand to lift up the downtrodden.

“But just as there are those who do good, there are those who use their abilities to hurt others.  Villains put themselves above everyone else, often at the cost of lives.” 

An antiquated who’s who of villains played across the screen, most of whom had been captured or killed years ago.  By sheer coincidence, the video focused in on one who remained at large, though he hadn’t been seen in decades.

“Villains like Abyss, whose actions have caused billions of dollars in damage and thousands of deaths.  If not for the brave efforts of Metahumans like Captain Avalanche and the Alliance, the damage such villains inflicted would be immeasurable.”

Grainy footage from the New Years Eve fight between Abyss and Avalanche played out, a titanic struggle between two of the most powerful Metas of the modern age.  Clay felt chills as he pictured himself in Avalanche’s place, trading blows with the villain.

“Your country—no, this world needs heroes to stand against those who would do it harm.  Perhaps the next Captain Avalanche is in this room, ready to take on that responsibility.”  Clay puffed up a little.  “But help comes in many forms, each as valuable as the rest.”

The fight footage finished, replaced with the logo of the FBMA at the top of a blank screen.  “In response to a rising tide of Metahuman-imposed violence, Congress passed the Metahuman Act in 1921, establishing the Federal Bureau of Metahuman Affairs.  Our mission: to organize, train, and equip America’s Metahumans for the betterment of all.”  The mission statement flashed onto the screen.  “The agents assisting you today work hard to accomplish that goal.  They are all heroes.”

Clay looked at the agent standing next to the TV with her arms folded.  She looked bored enough by the proceedings Clay wasn’t sure if she was conscious.

Three lines extended down from the FBMA logo before they attached to new logos.  “As part of its duties, the FBMA directs the efforts of the three Tier One Metahuman Organizational Constructs: the Foundation, the Visionaries, and the Alliance.”  Each logo expanded as the narrator mentioned its organization’s name. 

“The Foundation focuses on the well-being of citizens during a crisis, with humanitarian assistance and disaster relief efforts as its core competencies.”  Clips of Metas wearing the orange Foundation uniforms scrolled across the screen as they used their powers to help in the aftermath of hurricanes, fires, and villain attacks,

“The Visionaries use their unique skills to look towards the future, bringing it closer with every advancement.”  The footage shifted to men and women in a variety of laboratory or industrial settings.  Clay recognized some of the cutting edge tech of fifteen years prior from equipment sitting on his parent’s kitchen sink.

“And finally, the Alliance stands as America’s shield against Metahumans who use their gifts with criminal intent.”

Clay’s heart raced as he watched the highlight reel of Alliance members fighting the forces of evil.  He was so close to being a part of that world now, the one he had dreamed about for as long as he could remember.

“While these three organizations handle the most pressing emergencies,” the narrator continued, “they could not do their work without the tremendous support from the Tier Two Metahuman Organization Constructs aligned to functional groups or different regions of the country.  This allows for specialization, like the Hermes Collective of flyers, or the San Francisco Rumblers earthquake response team.

“Of course, no discussion of Metahuman contribution to national security and prosperity is complete without mentioning the Metahuman Auxiliary Reserves, America’s Tier Three Metahuman Organizational Constructs.”

Clay rolled his eyes.  Everyone knew the Reserves are where the Metas without real powers got stashed away.  They did things like tell civilians to back away from barricades while the real heroes did the work.

“To serve at any level is a great honor,” the narrator said, “but with honor comes responsibility.  Your registration session proctor will now hand out a form for your signature.”  The FBMA agent took a stack of papers off the TV stand and started passing them to the waiting Metas.  “This is your official Federal Registration of Metahuman Capabilities form.  By signing it, you are registering your abilities with the FBMA and volunteering your services for a period of no less than ten years.”

The agent walked past and handed Clay a form without looking at him.  He glanced at it, a little disappointed with its plainness given its role in his origin story.

“As a reminder, federal law prohibits Metahumans from using their abilities outside of their home unless they have registered with the FBMA.  Failing to abide by this law will result in fines and sentencing proportional to the damage caused, with minimum sentencing requirements of ten years.”

There’s the rub, Clay thought to himself.  The Feds got ten years from you either way, so most Metas chose to sign up for their little tour of duty without much fuss. 

“Most importantly,” the narrator said, “the FBMA will determine your assignment and it is non-negotiable.  While Metahumans may submit their preference, allocations are determined by the needs of the FBMA.

“Your proctor will now give you five minutes to make your decision.  If you decide against registering, please turn your blank form into your proctor and enjoy the rest of your day.  If you choose to proceed, please wait until the five minutes have elapsed to turn in your form.  Again, thank you for your service.”

The video trailed off with another patriotic fanfare, complete with the same flag waving footage from before.

“Timer starts now,” the FBMA agent said, clicking a stopwatch with fingers the size of sausages.  “If you’re out, come let me know.”

A couple of Metas worked through the small crowd and turned their blank forms in.  Clay shook his head and filled his out, signing it with a flourish he’d been practicing for future autographs.  He spent the remainder of time scoping out the competition.

As he convinced himself his biggest threat was the old lady crocheting in the corner, the agent raised a hand.  “Five, four, three, two, one, time.”  She lowered her hand and pushed the TV stand away from the table.  “Welcome to the FBMA.  Turn in your forms here, then wait for us to call you back to an inspection area.”  She gave a vague wave towards the cubicles taking up the floorspace behind her.  “An FBMA agent will assess your powers and input the results into a Visionary-developed system for assignment to the Tier One, Two, or Three level.  We’ll provide results after all testing is complete.  Get moving.”

Clay rushed up and slapped his form down on the table first, right in front of the agent.  Her eyes drifted down to the form, then back up to Clay.  “I take it you’re ready, then.”

He grinned.  “I was born ready.”

***                  ***                  ***

Clay sat on the parking lot curb with his head hanging between his knees, gripping an envelope between two dangling fingers.

He heard a vehicle roll up, then come to a stop.  The door on the opposite side opened up, then gentle footfalls worked their way toward him. 

“Clay?” his mom asked.  “Are you alright?”

Clay grunted and kept staring at the asphalt.

His mom waited for a moment, then sat down next to him on the curb.  “What happened, honey?”

He grumbled something incoherent.

She put her arm around him and gave him a quick squeeze.  “That bad, huh?”

Clay looked up at her, his eyes haunted.  “I set the tester on fire.”

His mom blinked.  “The test?”

“The tester,” Clay repeated.  He already knew that memory would forever lurk in his subconscious, waiting to bubble towards the surface.  Decades from now, as he tried to sleep, it would strike.  He’d lie there alone, wallowing in shame and staring at the ceiling as it judged him for his every failure in life.

“Oh,” she said.  She rubbed his back a little.  “That doesn’t sound good.  Is everyone ok?”

“One of the other Metas being tested had healing abilities,” Clay said.  “The lead agent had her follow me around.”  She impressed the FBMA team so much with her ability to rapidly assess and triage wounds of a startling variety, they offered her a position with the Alliance on the spot.

“I’m sorry, Clay,” his mom said, pulling him into a hug.  They sat there together for a moment in silence.  Clay appreciated her not forcing him to relive all of the last few excruciating hours.  He had no idea what he was going to tell his grandma.

“What’s that?” his mom asked, pointing at the envelope in Clay’s hand.

“The next ten years of my life.”  He lifted it up and stared at the nondescript harbinger of his fate.  “I haven’t been able to force myself to open it.”

“Do you want me to?”

He handed it over to her without a word. 

His mom ripped the side of the envelope open and slide a few sheets of paper out, flicking the first one open and scanning it.  “This one is labeled ‘Assessment of Metahuman Abilities’ and has a few charts on it.”  She paused, then said with a little more excitement, “They say you have four tier one abilities!”

Clay lifted his head, eyes widening.  The FBMA rated ability strength on a one through five-tiered scale, with one as the high end.  The fact he scored so high was a good sign.  Maybe there was hope after all.  “What did they rate my control?”

“Hmm, control, control…”  She flipped through a few more pages.  “Ah!  Here it is.  You got a—”  She cut off abruptly.

“What?”  Clay said, his hope dangling by a thread.  “Why’d you stop?  What did I get?”

She winced.  “Tier five.”

Clay dropped his head back down between his knees and moaned.  He heard his mom rustling through a few more pages before stopping.

“At least you’ll be doing your FBMA service close to home,” she said.

Dread filled his stomach.  There were no Alliance outposts near where they lived.  “With the Foundation or the Visionaries?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“The regionals, then, right?” he continued, voice desperate.

Instead of answering, she handed over the last sheet of paper to him.  Clay took it and read the couple of lines on it several times, refusing to process the information.

“You have been assigned to the local chapter of the Metahuman Auxiliary Reserves, Western Division, California Sub-Division 13,” he said, his voice monotone.

“I’m in the Reserves.”