The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 2)

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

For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!

Clay pulled into a spot and put his car in park, letting it idle as he stared at the aggressively nondescript county office building in front of him.  He considered driving away, but the county jail next door served as a poignant reminder of what would happen if he skipped out on his FBMA commitment.

“You can do this,” he told himself.  “It’s just ten years of your life you can’t get back living in your personal nightmare.  Easy.”

He banged his head on the steering wheel a few times, then tried again.

“If you don’t get out of this car and into that building, you will go to jail.  There is no scenario where that ends well for you.”

He paused for a moment, seeing if that would stick.  He remained seated with both hands still on the steering wheel.  Desperate, he gave one last try.

“Joey will never let you hear the end of it if you can’t even get out of the car.”

That got him moving.  He turned off the ignition and forced open the unpainted door of his otherwise blue car.  The mechanics had done their best, but they could only do so much with the hinges Clay had accidently ripped out. 

Clay took a deep breath, adjusted his cape, then marched towards the building.  He pressed forward to the double doors and threw them both open, striding through like he had practiced.

A dozen people stood in small groups around an open room with chairs arranged in a half circle next to a row of tables with store brand snacks.  Tacky motivational posters hung on the walls, the kind that middle managers across the country thought qualified as disruptive leadership.  The smell of stale coffee and bulk discount carpeting hung over everything, giving the whole arrangement a hint of depression.

Clay’s eyes opened wide as he noted that each of the twelve people staring back at him wore regular clothes. 

A girl half Clay’s age tossed her bubblegum-colored hair back and sighed.  “Hussah, we’re saved.”

The crowd laughed and Clay felt his face go warm with embarrassment.  “Where are your costumes?” he sputtered.

“What do you think this is, the Alliance?” another of the group asked.  She was a middle-aged woman, and the once over she gave Clay made him feel like a half-dressed mannequin at Ross.  “Though I have to admit, you certainly went all out.”

Clay looked down at his costume, a mixture of leather, Kevlar, and the all-important spandex.  His grandma had it made for him when his powers started manifesting the previous year, and it matched her purple and blue motif from when she still went by Starshade.  “Isn’t that the point of a costume?”

“The point of a costume,” said a man holding a donut in one hand and a paper cup in the other, “is marketing.  Hard to capitalize on your merch if people don’t recognize you at a glance.”

“Go easy on the new guy.”  Clay turned to see a young woman walking towards him.  She stuck out her hand and smiled.  “I’m Kara.  What’s your name?”

He opened his mouth to reply, only for the donut man to interrupt.  “You’re real name.  We don’t do muppet names here.”

“Why does everyone keep calling them muppet names?” Clay asked.

“Because the only people who use them have hands so far up their—”

“And we’re done listening to Viggo,” the young woman said.  She waggled her still-extended hand and Clay took it.  “Name?”

“Clay,” he said.  “Clay Rickers.”

“Nice to meet you, Clay,” she said, shaking his hand.  “Welcome to the Jumping Jackalopes.”

Everyone in the room groaned.  “Please stop calling us that,” the middle-aged woman said.  “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s our official mascot, Gwen.  Don’t blame me that the Captain didn’t choose your idea.”

“The Class Acts would have been so much better,” Gwen muttered.

“Ignore her,” Kara said to Clay.  “Let’s do intros.”

She led Clay on a whirlwind round of greetings with the rest of the team, firing off an unending stream of words.

“You’ve already met Gwen and Viggo, resident cynics.  That’s John by the snacks double fisting donuts.  Samantha, Royce, and Cindy are the ones sitting in the corner trying to act like they’re not interested.  Zach is the brooder over there, and Tiff is next to him—the one rolling her eyes.  Ophelia is on her phone, Aaron is the confused looking guy coming out of the bathroom, and Raynor is asleep on the couch.  That’s everyone!  Everyone, this is Clay.”

Clay stared at Kara.  “Did you even breathe during all of that?”

“Nope!” she said, smiling.  “That’s my ability—I don’t have to breathe.”

He frowned.  “How does that work?”

“Don’t smother the new guy, Kara,” John said around a mouthful of donut.  “Other people do need to breathe.”

Zach crossed his arms and glared.  “Captain’s not going to like this.  You know how he feels about costumes.”

“It’s his first day,” Kara replied.  “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Derisive snorts came from half the people in the room like a pen of hogs staring down a lone truffle.  Kara winced.  “Ok, maybe not.”

“Wait,” Clay said, raising his hands.  “Can we just slow down a second?”

“Captain inbound!” Gwen said. 

Everyone not already seated hustled over to the chairs.  Clay stood in place, as lost as he could remember being in his short adult life. 

“Sit down!” Cindy hissed at him. 

Clay hurried over and took an open chair right as a grizzled man stalked into the room.  He was middle aged but looked far fitter than anyone else in the room.  His flannel shirt had rolled up sleeves that revealed whip-cord muscles across his forearms and a network of scars on both hands.  Gray hair kept in a high and tight haircut gave him a severe look, one that his expression did nothing to soften.

The Captain’s eyes scanned across everyone in the room, then focused in on Clay.  He gave him a once over that made Gwen’s look like she had been viewing the Mona Lisa.  His face twisted in obvious disgust.

“If justice still existed, I would have gone blind before stepping into this room and having to see whatever that is,” he said.  “Since I am left without such mercy, I assume you are the newest member of Sub-Division 13?”

Clay tensed up and took an instant disliking to the Captain.  Everyone else’s comments had the sense of gentle teasing.  The Captain’s seemed vindictive.  “Yes,” he said, voice clipped.

The Captain’s eyes narrowed.  “Do we have a problem, conscript?”

“Only if you make it one,” Clay shot back.

The Captain nodded, as if settling a matter. “Show up in that suit again and I’ll report you as truant.”

Clay’s shook his head in disbelief.  To make sure Metas didn’t skip out on their ten-year commitment, the FBMA maintained a point system based on participation.  Get hit with too many truancy charges in a short enough timeframe and you could find yourself behind bars. 

Threatening to report Clay for an outfit choice was beyond extreme.  Based on the uncomfortable reactions of the rest of the team, Clay knew the others felt that way too.  But no one came to his defense and only Kara would meet his eye, offering a sympathetic wince. 

Clay stood up and started towards the door.  He didn’t need this—the FBMA could find somewhere else for him to serve his time.

“Step out that door and you might as well keep going to the county jail across the parking lot,” the Captain said.

Clay stopped and stared at the door, his hands balling into fists.  Calm down, he thought to himself.  When his emotions got the better of him, his abilities tended to behave oddly.  More oddly, he corrected himself with a touch of shame.

The hint of embarrassment turned into a flood as he realized the Captain was right.  Clay desperately wanted to leave the room, get into his car, and forget the Reserves existed.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option—FBMA assignments were non-negotiable except in extreme circumstances, and he imagined a rude boss didn’t qualify.  Clay took a breath, turned around, and threw himself into an open chair.  He crossed his arms and glared at the Captain.

Clay expected another scathing comment from the Captain, or at least a gloating smirk on his face.  Instead, the Captain surprised him by ignoring him.  What’s more, the man looked tired.  Not the kind Clay felt after staying out too late and waking up too early, but the kind he saw on his grandma’s face when she talked about days the good guys didn’t win.

“Jackalopes, today we’re doing ability checks,” the Captain said, moving on like nothing had happened.  A chorus of groans from the reset of the group made it clear they intended to do the same.  Clay fumed in his chair, struggling with the unfairness of it all.

“Come on, Captain,” Viggo complained.  “No one else does the checks as often as us.  Can’t we do a few trust falls and call it a month?”

“Regulations dictate frequent ability checks to assess any burn out indicators so leadership elements can effectively coordinate Metas in a crisis,” the Captain rattled off, sounding like the audio version of a government handbook.

“It’s a waste of time,” Viggo said.  “No one burns out young, unless—”

Viggo clamped his mouth shut, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. 

If the Captain’s glare at Clay had been frigid, the one he gave Viggo now was glacial.  “Burn out can hit at any age or any time.  Checks show us the warning signs—loss of strength or control from the baseline.  And I will not take a single Meta into a crisis without a full understanding of their abilities.  Is that clear?

“Yes, sir,” Viggo muttered, refusing to make eye contact.  Everyone else tried to look anywhere but at the Captain or Viggo, leaving Clay sure he had missed the importance behind what had just happened.

 “We’ll go in order of seniority,” the Captain said.  “Kara, you first.”

“I haven’t taken a breath for going on 36 hours,” she said.  “Assuming I don’t by the end of our duties today, I’ll be within baseline.”

The Captain nodded.  “John?”

“Still eat like garbage,” the skinny man said, licking frosting off his fingers.  “Still exactly 150 pounds.”

The next thirty minutes passed by in a blur of oddities and mediocrity.  Clay had assumed the only Metas who got sent to the Reserves either had no control like him or had such weak abilities they’d be useless in a fight.  What he hadn’t considered were the Metas with abilities that didn’t fit anywhere else.

Royce could take any material and turn it into an anatomically precise origami crane that could fit in your palm—lab tests confirmed that each one measured the exact same height, width, and depth.  The Captain had him fold an empty pizza box, an opened can of soda, and a broken chair.  Clay held them in his hands afterwards, surprised to find that they each seemed to weigh the same as the original item.

Tiff had a form of precognition, but it only let her know the exact amount someone would tip her.  She showed the Captain a handful of receipts from her bartending job.  Judging by the luxury clothing brands Tiff wore, she happily used her ability in her day job.

“What’s his deal?” Clay asked Kara, nodding his head towards Raynor.  The guy in question had one arm flung over his eyes as he let out a rumbling snore on the ratty office couch.

“Raynor?” she said.  “Captain won’t have him do an ability check.  He’s a Wildcard.”

Clay’s eyes went wide and he jerked back.  “A Wildcard?  What’s he doing out in public?”

“Relax, it’s not what you think.  Most Wildcards don’t make the news, you know.  It varies a lot depending on ability and circumstance.  In Raynor’s case, he can control when his abilities activate, but not what they do.”  She pointed at a corner of the room where one part of the wall was off-color from the rest.  “See that circle?”

Clay squinted.  “Yeah, almost looks like it’s made from a different material.”

“Carrara White Statuario marble,” she said.  “Probably the most expensive stone in the world.  Last time the Captain had Raynor do a check, that whole corner of the room turned into the stuff.  I’ve got a really nice marble water jug as a conversation piece in my apartment now.”

“And the time before that?”

“We think he may have caused that semi-truck to explode into confetti on the freeway last year.”

Clay eyed her.  “Are you messing with me?”

Kara shrugged.  “We don’t know for sure, but the timing matches up.  Captain decided it wasn’t worth the risk to experiment and gave him a pass on any further checks.”

“How does he control when his abilities activate?”

She grinned.  “He divides by zero.”

Clay snorted.  “Now I know you’re messing with me.”

A loud bang broke up their conversation and the pair looked over at its source.  Ophelia stood in front of the Captain with a nonplussed expression, her hair sticking out in every direction.

“Localized static electricity burst,” Kara explained.  “Like getting rubbed with a balloon all over.”

“I had no idea abilities could be so…”

“Unique?” Kara finished.  She smiled and shook her head.  “It’s not all flying capes and laser eyes.  For every Meta with the Alliance that can lift a train car, there are dozens more with abilities like ours.”

“Conscript,” the Captain barked.  “You’re up.”

Kara gave him an encouraging nod.  “You got this.  Show us what you’ve got.”

Buoyed by her support, Clay got up from his chair and walked to the center of the half-circle.  The Captain gave him a flinty look, then pulled a folded sheet from his pocket.  Clay caught a glance as the Captain unfolded it and recognized it as a truncated form with his initial evaluation report.

The Captain scanned through the report.  “Impressive strength numbers.  Too bad you have no self-control.”

Clay gritted his teeth.  “I have self-control.”

The Captain raised an eyebrow.  “Could have fooled me.  Start from the top—hover in place for thirty seconds.”

Flight took intense concentration and Clay’s mind was anything but focused, but he knew he had one shot to make a first impression.  He took a deep breath to calm his heartrate, then gently willed his abilities to manifest through his feet.

“Any day now,” the Captain said.

A surge of annoyance flared through Clay’s head, and his focus wavered.  One heel shot out in front of him in a high arc, flinging him over backwards to land hard on his stomach.  He groaned in pain as the gritty carpet scratched his face.

“Both disappointing and meeting expectations, how novel,” the Captain said.  “Get up.  We’ll check your strength next.”

The next fifteen minutes rivaled his initial evaluation as the most embarrassing moment of his life.  The only difference was that this time he had an audience to witness every failure and the Captain’s caustic comments as an infuriating soundtrack. 

After the Captain gave a scorn-laced sigh when Clay’s x-ray vision failed to see how many fingers Zach held behind his back, Clay finally snapped.  “This would be a lot easier if you had more to offer than sarcasm and judgement.”

The Captain just checked something off on the paper he held.  “Last ability check,” he said.  “Temporal displacement.  Begin.”

Furious, Clay thrust a hand out at the Captain and twisted his fingers in a counterclockwise motion.  Dropping the man through an unending loop of displacement fields on the floor and ceiling would wipe that condescension off the Captain’s face.

But the Captain’s shocked expression didn’t come as he fell through a displacement field at his feet—it came as a cat dropped onto his head.

Bedlam broke out in the room as the Captain, the cat, and the rest of the Jackalopes tried to make sense of the situation.  The Captain’s swearing mixed with Gwen, Kara, and Viggo all trying to shout over each other to take control of the situation.  The large orange tabby, meanwhile, clawed its way down the Captain’s back until it clung to his leg, howling in distress.

Clay stood stock still, his limp hand still outstretched.  “Mister Snuggles?” he said, staring at the cat. 

The Captain took advantage of the cat’s lodgment on his calf to reach down and grab it by the scruff of its neck.  The tabby gave a few fitful twists and meowled piteously, but otherwise drooped in defeat, staring up at the Captain.

The Captain stared back, then directed his eyes towards Clay.  “Explain.”

“That’s, uh… That’s Mister Snuggles…”  Clay squirmed under the Captain’s glare.  Mister Snuggles rotated slightly in the Captain’s grip and stared at Clay as well, pupils wide.  “He’s the family cat.”

“You just used your family cat to attack me?” the Captain said, no inflection to his voice whatsoever.  The lack of visible anger did little to quell Clay’s foreboding.  His grandma had the same tell when she was truly pissed off.

“No, of course not!  I tried to…” Clay’s voice hitched.  “Demonstrate my ability and it went wrong, that’s all.”

“How did that result in Mister Snuggles getting dropped on my head?”

Clay desperately wished he had Captain Avalanche’s powers at that moment so he could force the earth to open up and swallow him whole.  “I may have accidently misplaced him practicing with temporal displacement a few weeks ago.”

   Silence reigned as everyone processed what Clay had just said.  Then a single snort of laughter cut through it like an ill-timed joke.  “If I had a dollar for every time my cats got caught up as collateral damage to my abilities, I’d have seven and a half bucks.”

Raynor sat up from the couch and shook his head, still chuckling to himself.  “You sure this kid isn’t a Wildcard, Captain?”

The Captain’s eyes didn’t leave Clay.  Mister Snuggles meowed and kicked a leg.  “Not according to his paperwork, all evidence to the contrary.”

Clay swallowed and reached out his hands.  “Can I have my cat back, please?”

The Captain’s arm moved like a machine as he swung it towards Clay, dropping the tabby in Clay’s arms.  “No temporal displacement while doing Reserves duty, conscript.”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said, stroking the cat to keep him calm.

“Dismissed.”

Clay trudged back to his seat, shame pouring off him in waves so thick he thought it might be visible.  He sat in a daze for the rest of the day’s events, barely paying attention as the Captain lectured the Jackalopes on updated Reserves policy and changes in local villain activity. 

“That’s all I have,” the Captain said as the day’s events wrapped up.  “Any questions?”

The rest of the Metas shook their heads.  Clay dropped his and trailed his fingers through his cat’s fur. 

“Same time next month, then,” the Captain said.  “Stay safe.”

“Stay safe,” the Jackalopes replied in ragged unison.  Noise washed over Clay as multiple conversations started up, but he ignored it as he made a beeline for the door, cat in arms. 

Clay had made it halfway across the parking lot when he heard the door open behind him.

“Wait up!” a voice said. 

Clay half turned to look over his shoulder and saw Raynor jogging to catch up.  “You’re going to miss our monthly run to the local Chinese buffet,” the Wildcard said.  “We take bets on how many dumplings John can eat before the staff notices.”

“Not in the mood,” Clay said.

Raynor gave him a sympathetic smile.  “I get that.  Getting to know the team probably won’t hurt though, right?”

Clay shook his head.  “Not today.  Not after all that.  Besides,” he said, nodding to the cat in his arms, “I’ve got to get this guy home.”

“Fair enough,” Raynor said.  He reached out to scratch the cat’s ears and Mister Snuggles arched his head into it.  “Tell you what—you want to talk, come see me at my restaurant.”  He slipped a business card between Clay’s chest and the purring cat.  “I think we might have a few things in common.”

Raynor turned back towards the building and waved over his shoulder.  Clay looked down at his cat and sighed.  “Let’s go home.”