The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 3)

Writing

This is the chapter three of my online episodic story, The Reserves.

For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!

Clay walked into Pizza Pi through the pizzeria’s circular doors and took a deep breath through his nose.  He believed to his core you could tell how good the pizza would be at any given restaurant from the smell, and Raynor’s place was on track for greatness.

After a quick chat with a charming hostess, Clay weaved his way through the customers to an open seat at a community bench.  He snagged a menu with the pizzeria’s mathematical looking logo on it and looked around, catching site of Raynor in a spotless apron laughing with a group at a table halfway across the room.  Certain that he had time, Clay scanned the menu as he thought about what he would say.

“I recommend the calzones.”

“Gah!” Clay jerked back, startled.  Raynor sat grinning across from him, now in a flannel.  “How did you do that?” Clay said, doing a double take to the apron-clad Raynor on the other side of the room.  “Wait, how are you still doing that?”

Raynor laughed.  “That’s my brother, Jeff.  Identical twins.  We own this place together.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Me, obviously—I was born first.”  Raynor winked.  “Glad you swung by.”

“If the pizza tastes half as good as it smells, so am I,” Clay said.  “What do you recommend?”

“Calzones,” Raynor repeated.  “Partly because they’re amazing, mostly because it drives Jeff insane.  He’s the purist.”

“Do you make a Hawaiian one?”

Raynor grinned.  “We don’t, but I’m going to make him make one just for you.  Thank you for this.  Back in a sec.”

Clay watched Raynor walk around a nearby couple staring into each other’s eyes and approach his brother.  He threw an arm over his brother’s shoulder, waving towards Clay with his other hand.  Jeff gave him a look of such misery, Clay felt guilty for his order. 

As Jeff and Raynor headed back to the kitchen, Clay put his hands on the table and tapped his index fingers, his thoughts turning back to his last few sleepless nights.

Raynor eventually made his way back and slid back into the seat across from Clay.  “Ok,” he said, “let’s talk.”

“What do you want me to say?” Clay asked.

Raynor shrugged.  “Whatever you need to.”

Clay looked down at his hands and thought about it.  Raynor let the silence between them stand, and Clay was grateful for the space.

“I don’t want to be in the reserves,” Clay said. 

“Why not?”

“Because they’re a joke,” he said without thinking.  As he realized what he said, he looked up in alarm.  To his relief, Raynor didn’t look offended.

“You’re not the first to think that,” Raynor replied.  “Won’t be the last, either.  We all grow up watching Alliance highlight reels, right?  When your abilities start to manifest, who wouldn’t want a little bit of the limelight?

“Thing is though,” he continued, leaning forward, “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  We only see the what their media folks send out—life in the Alliance has a lot of darker elements that don’t make it to the press releases.”

“I know all that,” Clay said.  He started folding and unfolding a paper napkin.  “My grandma served in the Alliance.  She’s told me plenty of stories.”  Mentioning his grandma made his guilt flare.  She had sounded supportive the last few weeks, but Clay still felt her disappointment.

Raynor raised an eyebrow.  “Then you know better than most what the reality is.  And you still want that?” 

Clay noted that Raynor didn’t ask about his grandma’s identity and chalked up another point for the man as a good person.  “Who wouldn’t?  Yeah, it has its rough parts, but still…”

“So when you get assigned to the reserves, you think your life is over.”

“Yeah,” Clay murmured, crumpling up the napkin.  “Something like that.”

“You’re right,” Raynor said.  Clay looked up and saw the man looking at him with open empathy.  “That’s a hard break to take.”

“Not going to try and convince me otherwise?”

“It’d be a little jacked up to try and convince someone that their dream failing to materialize isn’t tough,” Raynor said.  “Kinda sounds like that’s the situation here.  Am I wrong?”

Clay shook his head, but Jeff’s arrival spared him having to elaborate.

“Your abomination,” Jeff said, sliding the calzone in front of Clay.  “Please don’t ask me to make another, I feel dirty after making one.”  He shuddered.

“Thanks,” Raynor said.  “Think we can get a side of ranch, too?”

“Philistine,” Jeff said.

“It’s alright,” Clay said.  “Thanks for making this even though you didn’t want to.”

Jeff gave him a smile.  “Hey, least I can do.  Raynor says you’re going through a rough spot.  Helping people is always worth a little sacrifice.”  He nodded and turned back towards the kitchen.

“He seems like a good guy,” Clay said.

Raynor smiled.  “Best one I know.  He convinced me to sign on with the reserves.”

Clay narrowed his eyes in confusion.  “You had a choice?”

“Wildcards like me are in a unique position.  We’re not as dangerous as the sort that have no control at all, but we’re also not useful for the FBMA.  They like to have us register, but generally waive obligatory service in exchange for a commitment not to use our abilities.  You should eat that before it gets cold.”

Clay gave a start and grabbed his fork, cutting into the calzone.  “So you could, what, just live your life without the ten year service bit?”

“Yep, easy as that.”

“Why didn’t you?” Clay asked as he shoved a forkful of calzone into his mouth.  His eyes went wide.  “Wow.”

“Good?”

Clay nodded with excessive force, going for another bite.  “Your brother is a level ten pizza wizard.”

Raynor grinned.  “I’ll be sure to let him know—he’ll be thrilled.  I volunteered because Jeff reminded me that it doesn’t take super strength or the ability to fly to help people.  All you need is someone willing to pick someone else up when they need it.”

Clay scoffed.  “By sitting on cordon duty while the heroes do the real work?”

“If that’s what the situation calls for, yeah,” Raynor said.  “I’ve worked cordons for seven minor events and three major ones, and I’ve managed to help people every time.”

“What were the major events?” Clay asked, perking up at the thought of serious action.

“Doesn’t matter,” Raynor said.  “People needed help and we were there to give it.”

Clay sighed and shoveled more calzone into his mouth.  He chewed and swallowed before pointing the fork at Raynor.  “Ok sure, you helped a few old ladies cross the street.  Is that supposed to make me feel better when I could have been out there saving lives?”

A sad smile crossed the man’s face.  “Three.”

Clay blinked.  “Three what?”

“That’s how many lives I’ve saved since I joined the reserves,” Raynor said.  “But it’s the ones I lost that stick with me.”

Clay stared at the man, his calzone forgotten.  His mouth opened and closed a few times before his brain caught up.  “I had no idea…”

“Most people don’t,” Raynor said.  “Who has time for the little old ladies when they can focus on the Alliance instead?”

Clay squirmed.  “Is it too late for me to try and take my foot out of my mouth?”

“Given how little calzone you have left, I’d be surprised if there was any foot left in there.”

Clay gave a little laugh.  “How did you save those people?  I didn’t think you had control over your abilities.”

“I don’t,” Raynor confirmed.  “Just normal first aid skills.  The Captain is a big believer in getting us trained as first responders.  Most of us aren’t as good as an EMT, but we know how to stop bleeding and treat for shock.”

“What’s his deal?” Clay asked, grateful for the change in subject.  He started in on the calzone again.  “The guy had never seen me before, but he treated me like something you scrape off your shoe.”

Raynor winced.  “The Captain has his flaws, no one will deny that.  He’s not exactly the touchy-feely sort of team leader.”

Clay just raised an eyebrow.

“Ok,” Raynor said.  “He’s not touchy-feely in the least bit.  He’s irritable, judgy, and runs our chapter like it’s the Marines.  But he has his good side, too.”

Clay snorted.  “Sure he does.”

“I know you got the short end the other day, but there are people alive today only because of what the Captain teaches us.  Besides, he—” Raynor cut himself off.

“Besides what?” Clay prompted.

Raynor hesitated, then blew out a breath.  “You’d hear about it eventually.  The Captain used to be in the Alliance.”

Clay’s fork clattered as he dropped it on his plate.  “No way.  If he has the abilities to be on the Alliance, what’s he doing running a reserve chapter?”

“He burned out,” Raynor said in a soft voice.

“Oh,” Clay swallowed.

Burn out terrified most people with abilities.  To reach for your abilities one day and feel them a little weaker, a touch less responsive than they used to be.  Sometimes it took years, sometimes days, but without fail, they degraded to the point of uselessness.  It didn’t happen to everyone, but as far as anyone knew it struck at random and could happen at any time.

“Yeah,” Raynor said.  “I know he can be a jerk, but at least try to see some of the good in him.  The man still serves the community, even after burning out.”

“Sounds like maybe he’s got a problem letting go of what he had,” Clay replied.

Raynor shook his head.  “Anyone else, I’d agree with you.  The Captain only cares about giving help when it’s needed.”

“How do you know that?”

Raynor started ticking points off on his fingers.  “One, he’s been in the reserves for over fifteen years now.  Add that to his Alliance time and he’s way past his ten-year commitment.  Two, he’s here in the reserves instead of cashing in on a posh FBMA gig they hand out to Alliance retirees who want to keep looking important.

“Three,” Raynor continued, locking eyes with Clay.  “The man is not in it for the glory.  He’s a ghost online.  No interviews, no pictures, nothing.  The only chapter event I’ve ever seen him miss was when a local reporter planned to show up for a neighborhood Metas fluff piece.”

“Could be an introvert on a power trip running his own little fiefdom,” Clay countered.

“Four,” Raynor said, “During my time with the chapter, the Captain has volunteered to deploy in every single tier one, two, and three disaster outside our area of responsibility as a front-liner, not in a leadership role.”

Clay blew out a breath.  “Then I stand by my statement that he’s got issues letting go.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Raynor allowed.  “But if a man is going to be obsessed with something, he could do a lot worse than helping people.”

“Doesn’t have to be such a jerk about it, though,” Clay muttered, shoving the last bite of the calzone into his mouth.

Raynor opened his mouth to respond, but a yell and the sound of breaking glass interrupted him.  Both men looked over at the source and saw a huge man with a buzzcut standing at the nearby table with the lovesick couple Clay had noticed earlier staring up at him in fear.

“I said get up!” Buzzcut yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Leave us alone before I call the cops!” the woman said.  “You know I have a restraining order!”

“I need to handle this,” Raynor said, getting up from the table.  Clay watched as he jogged over to the trio, holding his hands up with the palms out.

“Let’s settle down, everyone.  No one wants any trouble, right?”

Buzzcut shifted his eyes to Raynor.  “Piss off, this is none of your business.”

“You’re standing in my restaurant.  That makes this my business in a few ways.”

The giant turned to face Raynor and loomed over him.  “Back off,” Buzzcut said.  “Before I make you.”

Clay found himself standing.  He didn’t know Raynor’s plan, but he felt the situation teetering on the edge of broken dishes turning into broken bones.  Fear bubbled up from his stomach to block his throat, and he struggled to swallow.

“Can’t do that,” Raynor said.  “You need to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until this whore apologizes to me,” Buzzcut said, thrusting a finger out at the woman sitting at the table. 

The woman gave a scornful laugh.  “Could you be more of a joke?  You just listen to sexist podcasts all day and pretend you’re alpha now because you found a weightroom and started yelling at anyone who disagrees with you.”

Buzzcut’s face turned ugly as his anger shifted into fury.  Clay felt his fear go septic—he knew the situation had tripped face first over the tipping point.

Raynor must have known it too because he reached out a hand to grab Buzzcut’s shoulder.  “Let’s go,” he said, trying to pull him away from the table.

Buzzcut turned into the pull and threw a vicious uppercut right into Raynor’s stomach.  The man crumpled over with an audible whooshing noise and fell to his knees, fighting to get air into his lungs. 

Shouts erupted throughout the pizzeria.  The giant turned and planted a foot right into the seated man’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards over his chair.  Then he reached down and grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, jerking her to her feet.  She screamed in terror, and Clay saw Buzzcut’s mouth turn into a satisfied smirk.

Clay felt a cold anger freeze his fear, then he was there without crossing the intervening distance.  His hand gripped Buzzcut’s wrist and squeezed, and Clay felt bones grinding under his fingers. 

Buzzcut’s squeal went through octaves ranging from toddler to piglet.  His hand fell open, dropping the woman back into her seat. 

“They worked,” Clay whispered in awe.  “My abilities actually worked.”

He was so distracted by the sudden change in fortunes that he missed the wild haymaker Buzzcut made with his other hand. 

Buzzcut didn’t miss.  One second, Clay stood triumphant as the hero he always wanted to be.  The next, he sprawled out on the floor next to a still-gasping Raynor with a throbbing temple and flashing lights telling him it was an excellent time for a nap.

Clay managed to fight off unconsciousness and turn his head upward with a groan.  Buzzcut stood over him now and placed his boot on Clay, his previous goal set aside in favor of crushing a would-be savior’s chest.

“Should learn to mind your own business, freak,” Buzzcut said, leaning down hard.

“Ack,” Clay replied, clawing at Buzzcut’s boot.  Any control he had over his abilities had vanished, and all he accomplished was tangling the giant’s laces.

Then what Clay could only describe as a war cry sounded from behind the giant crushing his ribs, and a small foot swung hard up into Buzzcut’s groin.  Clay had an excellent view of the man’s face from under his boot.  He watched it contort as it transitioned from blinding rage through a daze of confusion to a finale of all-consuming pain.

Buzzcut let out a quiet whimper, then toppled over and curled into the fetal position.  Clay coughed as he tried to regain his breath and looked up at the lovesick woman now standing where Buzzcut had.

“Nine years of club soccer!” she shouted at the whimpering man rocking side to side on the ground.  “Good luck walking right ever again!”

Clay wheezed out what it would take a charitable man to call a laugh.  Hands reached down to grab his shoulders and lift him to a seated position.  He looked up and saw a familiar face wearing a white apron.

“Let’s get you upright,” Jeff said.  “Think you can stand?”

Clay nodded, then leaned on Jeff as the man helped him to his feet.  After another moment to catch his breath, he looked over at Raynor.  His fellow reserve member laid on his back with his knees up and his feet on the ground, no longer gasping.

“You good, Raynor?” Clay asked.

Raynor gave a weak thumbs up and worked on breathing.

“Brave of you to jump in,” Jeff said.  “Not the smartest move, maybe, but brave.”

“Least I could do after you asking for the Hawaiian calzone,” Clay said.

“I’m not going to say you deserved to get punched in the head…”  Jeff trailed off, but his smile made it clear he was joking.  Mostly.

Raynor managed to get to his feet.  “Someone should take out the trash,” he said, gesturing to the still-mewling Buzzcut.

“Called the cops as soon as it all started,” Jeff said.  “They should be here in a few minutes, and I don’t think he’s going anywhere in the meantime.  Nice kick,” he added to the woman.

She beamed.  “I’ve wanted to do that for years.  Felt just as good as I hoped it would.”

“Maybe tone down the enthusiasm when the cops take your statement,” Raynor said.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” she said before turning back to her date.

Raynor looked at Clay.  “Thanks for jumping in,” he said.

Clay gave him a sheepish grin.  “Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Raynor laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder.  “We’ll make a Jackrabbit out of you yet, my friend.”

Clay’s smile got a bit wider at the thought.  Maybe the time at his chapter wouldn’t be as painful as he thought.

It wasn’t until he got home that night, though, that he realized that was the first time he thought about the chapter as his.

On Christmas

Musing

Tomorrow is my 34th Christmas.  I have had Christmases full of joy, and some tinged by sadness.  One year involved cutting down our own snow-covered Christmas tree with thermoses of hot chocolate holding off the crisp winter air.  Another saw a small, tired tree with a single ornament on it.  I’ve celebrated with family, and I’ve endured alone.  Christmas is many things to many people, and it changes for each of us every year.

These 34 years have taught me something.  It may not be your conclusion (few self-realized epiphanies translate one-to-one), but I believe there is a core of truth for all of us in it.  Christmas benefits from simplicity, and so do we.

Those of us in America see Christmas’s growth.  It’s not unheard of now for Christmas merchandise to go on display before Halloween, and nearly 22% of Americans go into debt every Christmas.  Similar statistics appear in other countries, but the largest excesses exist here in the United States.  The gifts, the decorations, the holiday themed treats, the novelty ugly sweaters—these things add up. 

What we often fail to see, though, is the point.  As the expression goes, we miss the forest for the trees.  We get so wrapped up (pun intended) in getting the perfect gift, we forget that the point is to express our love for one another.  We worry over whether our outfit for the neighbor’s Christmas party will be a hit and lose sight of finding gratitude for the relationships in our lives.  Christmas should be a time of peace and love, yet it often turns into anxiety and acrimony.

This phenomenon is by no means limited to Christmas.  Organizational psychologist Adam Grant speaks on an explosion in perfectionism starting in the 1990s guiding us to fret over the trees at the expense of the forest.  The Washington Post published an article yesterday titled “Fun is dead.”  One of the quoted sources in the article states, “There are expectations of what I want people to believe that my life is like rather than what my life is actually like.”  Christmas is just another casualty in this ongoing spiral that increasingly defines modern life. 

The good news is that it doesn’t have to be this way.  Men and women have grappled with this fight between forest and trees for millennia, from the writings of Socrates to modern wellness studies.  The environment has changed, true, but the solution’s foundation remains the same: simplicity.  Simple does not mean lesser or worse, it means the preservation of precious resources like our time and attention for what really matters.  One could argue that is the essence of wisdom—using hard-earned experience to look at our complex lives and honing it to the essentials

Bringing it back to Christmas, simplicity is, well, simple.  The namesake of the holiday has a few lessons for us we’d be wise to heed.  Focus on what Christ taught: gratitude, charity, and love towards all.  For Christians, this holiday carries special significance due to our beliefs.  The beautiful part of Christ’s teachings, however, is their universal nature.  One does not need to be a believer in Christ to know his teachings have merit. 

In fact, one does not even need to be religious to recognize these truths.  Multiple studies have shown the benefits of gratitude, charity, and love on one’s own well-being.  Whether you rely on cutting edge behavioral science studies or the exhortations of the Apostle Paul to “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ”, the sentiment is the same.  When we show gratitude for what we have, give of ourselves charitably to others, and find love for those around us, we are all made better.

Christmas, then, can be simplified into this wondrous trifecta.  Even a so-called “War on Christmas” is no threat because these virtues cannot be defeated by an external force.  Even if every company in the world stopped Christmas-themed marketing and every person you passed on the street refused to acknowledge the day, you can carry gratitude, charity, and love in your heart wherever you go.  Your ability to feel and express the Christmas spirit is an individual choice, and you determine if it is a gift you choose to open and give.

This Christmas, remember to see the forest through the trees.  Set aside the concerns of the world and focus on that which elevates.  Through your thoughts and actions, bring us all a little closer to peace on earth and good will toward men.

The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 2)

Writing

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.”

I Have Questions

Absurdity

Isn’t it odd how occasionally the answer to a strange question results in stranger questions?  You think you’ve answered your bovine conundrum only to find yourself tumbling down the Holstein hole.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My wife and I took our son on our usual Sunday morning walk today.  We enjoy the outside air, he enjoys yelling at chickens, everyone wins.  Today, however, the barnyard festivities did not end with our feathered friends.  To our surprise, a full-grown cow stood alongside some traffic off the little side road where we take our walks.  It chewed on grass and stared back at us much as I imagine it would stare at an oncoming car. 

Having been around cows sporadically throughout my youth, I immediately took charge of the situation. 

“That’s a cow,” I told my wife, a full-grown human being with a functioning understanding of basic animals. 

“It certainly is,” she replied sweetly, likely rethinking years of marriage. 

Now, this isn’t necessarily the shock it would be in most areas.  Our little town is on the border of where Oahu turns from city to country.  In fact, our walking path had a “Missing Cow” sign posted on it over a year ago.  My first thought went to the missing cow of yore, but this specimen was no hard-bitten renegade living life on the ragged edge after a year on the lam.  No, this cow looked content as it watched us approach.  It also looked like it had a leash on.

This, dear reader, is where my questions began.  I could rationalize away a cow wandering from its field through a broken fence to chew the greener grass on the other side.  What I could not wrap my head around was someone taking their cow for a walk and then…forgetting their cow.  Cows are, after all, rather large. 

Where had the owner gone?  Where did he or she come from?  Why were they walking a cow?  Should we call animal control?  What do you even tell animal control when someone forgets their cow on a walk?  Do cows need walking?  Was I a bad grandson for not walking my grandpa’s cows when visiting his ranch in my youth?  Why was I so worried about the logistics and rational behind cow walking?

The questions kept coming as we passed a few feet from the cow.  The cow, of course, provided no answers.  We continued on our way, and I decided that if the cow remained upon our return, I would call animal control and let them debate the philosophical ramifications of the situation.

When we made the loop back around, however, the situation resolved itself.  As we approached the cow for the second time, a man walked across the small road from a house on the other side.  He waved at us, then moved towards the cow.  I waited for a visceral reaction, much like I would have gotten from my grandpa’s cows. 

This cow apparently had not received the same training as grandpa’s cows.  Instead of bolting for safety, it came up and nuzzled the man’s hand.  I blinked.  This was new information, and it did not mesh with my understanding of the bovine breed.  Clearly, he was the cow walker, answering one train of questions but setting in motion several more.

Why leave a cow standing next to a road with its leash not tied to anything?  Why put out traffic cones?  Were the cones an imaginary fence?  Did he train the cow to stay within an imaginary fence depicted via traffic cones?  How does one train a cow?  Can cows formulate the concept of an imaginary fence?  

Does this cow like being walked?

We turned the corner and lost sight of both man and cow, but the questions still remain.  Maybe one day I will have answers, but I suspect that those answers will only lead to stranger questions still.

The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 1)

Writing

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.”

Introducing The Reserves

Writing

Salutations, well met, and alternative third greeting!  I’m excited to announce that soon these Wanderings will occasionally be graced by an episodic fictional story told by yours truly.  While I’ll still be working my novels offline, I’ve always appreciated the authors bold enough (and crazy enough) to publish stories directly online.  To that end, please allow me to introduce The Reserves.

Clay has always dreamed of joining the heroes of the world that battle the forces of evil in high-definition glory.  When his chance comes to make the cut, though, he blows it.  Now stuck in a ten-year commitment to the backbench civil hero reserves, he is up against his worst nightmare—obscurity.  Clay will have to find a way to make his dream a reality in circumstances he never imagined and situations that draw a line between what society deems as a hero versus what is truly heroic.

There’s the blurb!  If it’s something that catches your eye, I hope you’ll join me on this journey where both Clay and I will learn a lot.  The plan is for at least one installment a month, so stay tuned for the first round to come soon.  Welcome to the Reserves! 

We Have No Songs for Great Halls and Evil Times

Current Events

The past few weeks have been heartbreaking.  Russia continues its unjust invasion of Ukraine, purposefully targeting civilians in an effort to break the Ukrainian’s spirit.  Azerbaijan launched another attack against Armenia.  And just last night, Hamas crossed from Gaza into Israeli territory en masse to murder and abduct civilians. 

These are only the events that made significant news—we cannot and should not forget about the tragedies occurring in Sudan, Syria, North Korea, Xinjiang, Afghanistan, Myanmar, Haiti, Somalia, Mexico, Ethiopia, and everywhere else the scourges of conflict and oppression leads to human suffering.  The world appears to be on fire, and that doesn’t even include the literal fires and storms brought on by climate change.

In the midst of this, one of the two political parties of the United States has decided to self-immolate.  Regardless of your thoughts on what the U.S. provides for the world, it is inarguable that decisions made by the U.S. have significant ramifications on the global stage.  To have one portion of its government crippled at this time could not have happened at a worse time had our adversaries planned it. 

There is a line from the Lord of the Rings that comes to mind.  Pippin, speaking with the Steward of Gondor, says, “We have no songs fit for great halls and evil times.”  Our great hall of the House of Representatives sits empty and paralyzed.  Evil men and women make decisions born out of their pride that inflict untold suffering on millions of their brothers and sisters.  It is hard to find the words to think about these times, let alone sing for them.

In the Lord of the Rings movie, the quote I mention ends with the Steward making the comment “And why should your songs be unfit for my halls?”  In the book, however, he continues:

“We who have lived long under the Shadow may surely listen to echoes from a land untroubled by it?  Then we may feel that our vigil was not fruitless, though it may have been thankless.”

Though our land is not untouched by troubles, they are entirely self-inflicted.  The cost of that is weighed in our own peace, stability, and yes, lives, but it is also born by those abroad that might have been saved had the power hungry and tyrannical not felt so emboldened. 

There are those that think America should cease its vigil.  More often than not, those thoughts are fueled by populist rage rather than logic, a shortsighted prioritization designed around campaign fundraising instead of actual statesmanship and strategy.  But America—with all its faults and blemishes—has the potential to do so much for so many across the world. 

I believe that Americans in their hearts wish for their neighbors to be well.  I believe that given the chance and freed from the steady drip feed of hatred and division so carefully delivered by algorithms and manipulators, service to others would become the norm instead of the exception.  Perhaps I am naïve.  But that is the world I wish to live in, so it is the one I will set as my standard.

I’ll finish with another Lord of the Rings quote, this time from the movie.  After a significant setback, Frodo asks his companion Sam what they are holding onto to keep going forward.  Sam replies, “That there’s some good in this world, Mr Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”

Fight for that good today.  Fight for it tomorrow, and the day after, and every day you can until you have no days left.  But most importantly, recognize that we only make progress in that fight through serving others.  Rage, spite, and pride give us Hamas and Putin.  There is no victory down that path, only pain.  Fight with service, humility, and charity.  It’s when we reach out to others that we become strong, and the world needs that strength now.

Pun Times

Absurdity

There are times when you have nothing to add to an already perfect moment.  When you get to sit back and appreciate the spectacle before you, a simple audience member enjoying a work of art.  Today, I had that moment.  Today, I watched my wife embrace her inner corn and unleash a pun for the ages.

I enjoy making my wife roll her eyes with corny humor.  It is the way of things—I have a son to raise, after all.  Generally, the puns in our house travel in a strictly one-way direction.  But earlier this week, my wife took me be surprise when she unveiled a pun of her own making that rivals anything I have ever come up with.

Being the kind soul she is, she provided a big selection of s’more themed items for her coworkers.  But her presenting the idea to me is where I saw her true greatness.  Brace yourself: she called it the s’mores-gasbord.

I know, right?  It’s a close call on if I was prouder of her in that moment or our son when he took his first steps.

That, however, was not the moment of perfection.  No, that came later.  My wife and her mother videochat on a weekly basis because they have a wonderful relationship and we live in an era where technology is basically wizardry.  I mention this because it allowed us to witness her mother’s reaction when my wife revealed her true punistry. 

To say her mother’s reaction was exquisite does not do it justice.  Not since Caeser uttered the words, “Et tu, Brute?” has there been such a palpable sense of betrayal.  This poor woman has raised four sons and is no stranger to the pun.  Her daughter had been an oasis of standards in a storm of corn, but the power of the pun cannot be denied.

She came.  She saw.  She conquered.

I Love her so much.

On the Ingratitude of Birds

Absurdity

As has been remarked upon by literally every parent, having a child changes things.  In this case, it resulted in a child’s obsession, a wall of chickens, and my growing resentment towards ungrateful birds. 

My son loves birds.  I nurtured this feeling as I once shared his fondness.  Growing up, I had a cockatiel named Bird that screeched sweet songs to the entire family at all hours of the day.  As a young boy, this was a wonderful situation that brought me great amusement.  So of course, I wanted to shepherd my son’s journey down a similar path.

Birds, though, have the gift of flight.  Toddlers, thankfully, do not.  This made it difficult for him to observe his avian friends, as his excited shrieking and flailing sprints towards them has a 100% success rate at scaring them away.  What he needed was a way to observe them from inside the house.  A station of sorts for the birds to alight upon, where he could behold their majesty without instilling panic in their little hearts.

He needed a bird feeder.

Into the car we went, off to the local Petco whose website assured me had multiple bird feeders in stock.  Even better, this Petco also has cats from the local adoption agency (cats being my son’s favorite creature, because I’m raising him right).  We would find much joy and merriment there, I figured, then return home to settle in for an afternoon of bird watching.

Alas, it was not to be.  The cat area sat as empty as my hopes soon came to be, and the promised bird feeders failed to materialize.  We wandered the aisles in a forlorn stupor, shocked that a corporate behemoth would have the audacity to lie to its customers.  I did, anyways—my son burbled with excitement every time he saw a package of cat food with a feline pictured on it.

Many would shrug their shoulders at this point and head home, but not I.  I am a good father, and like all good fathers, the appropriate course of action was to take my 15-month son to the back corner of a sketchy looking strip mall to what Google maps assured me was a vendor of fine bird feeders. 

We couldn’t see what awaited us at the facility as it sat behind a decrepit stairwell and the chain link fence that kept the monster contained in The Sandlot.  But what we couldn’t see, we could certainly hear—a cacophony of bird sounds.  It was as though a Taiwanese parliamentary brawl had erupted just around the corner, but with words replaced by bird noises.  And legislators with birds.  Really, it was nothing like that, but I was excited to see it nonetheless.

Yet when we rounded the corner, what we saw instead was an entire wall of chickens.  Dozens of them, stacked up in neat little rows, staring right back at us.  If you’ve never felt the gaze of a hundred chickens, I assure you that it is an experience worth noting.  It carries a palpable weight, as if to say, “Had this meeting occurred 80 million years ago, the roles of diner and dinner would be forcibly reversed.”

Once past the poultry descendants of mightier beings, we entered the store itself.  A quick glance revealed feed options for a variety of farm animals, a triplet of workers confused to see a toddler in their place of business, and a lack of bird feeders.

One of the workers asked what they could help me with in the tones of someone trying to calm a spooked animal, which I appreciated.  I asked if they carried bird feeders, to which they asked if I meant for chickens (of which they had a startingly wide variety).  Once we clarified I meant wild birds, one of the workers perked up.

“Yeah!” he said, my new hero striding forward to save the day.  “I think we’ve had these hanging here for three years now.”

Undeterred by the underwhelming sales pitch, my son and I waited for our hero to retrieve the Grail of our quest.  He then proceeded to knock the bird feeder off a ceiling hook with a stick.  “Ten bucks,” the modern Sir Lancelot said, handing over the cheap plastic.

Bird feeder and five pounds of bird seed in hand, we returned home in triumph.  My son did his happy toddler dance as we hung it up right outside his favorite window.  The stage was set for hours of happy birdwatching, now all we had to do was wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Three days have passed, and not a single winged creature has taken us up on this generous offer of free food.  I’d think we had entered a birdpocolypse if not for the hundreds of other birds I’ve seen flying around our house.  They appear content with being everywhere except for where the birdfeeder sits, to include slamming headfirst into the very window the birdfeeder sits in front of.

On day one, I thought perhaps our birds needed time to adjust.  There are plenty of neighborhood cats, after all—can I blame them for wanting to scope out the situation to make sure it isn’t a trap?

On day two, I thought perhaps our birds are just stupid.  Their cranial capacity would struggle to contain a moderately sized peanut, after all—can I blame them for their inability to process higher order thoughts like my generosity?

Sitting here on day three, staring out the window near my desk at the still-unused bird feeder, I now have a different theory. 

These birds are spiteful.  They see my offer, this olive branch of kindness in exchange for nothing more than their presence at the feeder to fill a young life with joy, and they scoff.  They laugh at my naiveite, scorning both my food and offer of shelter with their beaks in the air.  I knew the animal world was cruel, but this…this is too much.

I am a creature of the internet, so I have turned to Google for advice on how to proceed.  The first result?  “Be patient.” 

Birds, man.

Someday

Musing

Tom Cruise is apparently this week’s muse.  My initial idea for today’s Wandering was to review the latest Mission Impossible movie.  When I talked through it with my wife, though, the conversation strayed into territory covered by a separate Cruise movie—Knight and Day.  In it, Cruise’s character makes the following comment: “Someday.  That’s a dangerous word.  It’s really just a code for ‘never’.”  Someday has been on my mind a lot, lately.

There’s nothing particularly deep about either that quote or the movie it comes from.  You’d be tempted to write it off as another teen exploring the depths of their shallow angst.  But I think we’re too quick to dismiss simple concepts as somehow beneath us.  It’s as if we’re so desperate to appear wise and mature that we automatically scoff at the simple clichés of youth.  Yet we forget that some of the most impressive figures in history have praised the value of simplicity.  Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Bruce Lee—all people who led lives steeped in excellence with a fixation on simplicity.  Sometimes, what we need most is a simple truth.

Someday hovers in the no-man’s land between a wish and a goal.  We use it when we let ourselves taste the anticipation of an accomplishment, but refuse to put in the effort required to earn it.  Someday I’ll travel to that exotic locale.  Someday I’ll get that promotion.  Someday I’ll write that book. 

But not today.  Never today, because today has challenges and obstacles too numerous to count.  Today we are burdened with the reality of need instead of the hope of want.  When faced with today, we take whatever comfort we can in the ethereal nature of someday.

I see this in myself.  There’s a calligraphy pen set next to my computer that remains virtually untouched, an editing checklist for my novel stalled at the halfway point, and a host of other concepts and desires waiting for their someday.  As long as they have that wisp of an anchor to cling to, I can pretend that they are a part of me.  My identity claims them as future accomplishments, regardless of how much time goes into achieving them.  After all, someday I will.

Let us all strive to be a bit more like Tom Cruise this week.  Trade in your hundreds of translucent somedays for the heft and realism of one solid today.  Who knows—maybe someday it’ll pay off.