PREVIEW - 208 (Patreon)

[Note: Guys, the end of this chapter isn't good enough yet, and I'm not smart enough to keep working on it tonight. But the first half is finished, and it separates out well. So here's the beginning of 208. It's 1600 words I think, for those of you who like to know in advance. If you want to wait and read the whole thing together, expect the finished chapter by Friday.

I hope I'll actually have it to you tomorrow, but just in case, let's say Friday...

As always, if any delay of mine ever coincides with a subscription expiration date that will make you miss a chapter, send me a message! I'm happy to email the finished version.]

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It was Monday night in Chicago, and in the kitchen of a small apartment, two cereal bags crinkled as a teenager in a stained and faded T-shirt poured what was left of the contents into a red bowl that said “POPCORN TIME.” From the living room came the sound of a television on low volume. A woman’s voice was saying, “…and the return of things lost to us. For example, Ectopistes migratorius. The last confirmed member of the species in the wild died in March of 1901, near Oakford, Illinois, but today, in parts of the US and Canada, if you step outside and look up you may see a flock darkening the sky. The woodlands needed to support this species have also—”

Boe shook his head when he realized he was moving his lips along with the show’s narrator. After crumpling the empty bags and trashing them, he pulled up a talk channel on his interface and increased the volume with a thought. 

What’s the Whether? was for unregistered Avowed, by unregistered Avowed. It had been verified authentic by way of an Artonan ambassador to China back in the late twenties saying that she knew the Avowed who’d started it and she thought it was a great idea.

Boe still avoided trusting the news they delivered too much, but he did think the station was more reliable than most sources that claimed to be voices for unregistereds. Some of them were definitely traps. A lot of them were run by bored people and creeps who didn’t have any powers beyond their ability to gull others into paying attention to their fakeass stories about life on the run from the authorities. 

And the What’s the Whether? speakers weren’t intolerable in any of the ways that some real, online-infamous superhumans in hiding tended to be. Boe preferred to feel like he was a reasonable criminal among reasonable criminals while he ate his supper. He didn’t want to hear a bunch of other unregistereds, or wannabes, whipping themselves up to new heights of Avowed supremacy or down to new lows of self-pity and loathing. 

He ate a chocolate oat star and listened to a man who was going through daily reports of Avowed activities around the world. Right now, he was talking about a few nations that wanted to expand Avowed Zones to include the C and B ranks. And Healers. Someone always wanted to scoop up the Healers. 

The man was sounding so upbeat about the news. Boe didn’t know why.

Like the noisy bigots inside every country don’t crush these plans out of existence whenever they come up. Like Anesidora doesn’t smash them to dust from the outside.

Anesidora smashed more elegantly and righteously. With gorgeous superhuman faces and concern for the safety of Avowed in places where they would be in the extreme minority. 

But they still did their part.

Sure, invite tons of Avowed away from our island and lure them into separate spots all over the globe so that they have less collective identity and power. Your country gets a handful of the safer ones to parade around, and Avowed get more living options…right up until you decide you want to keep them forever in the new cage and demand magical services from them.

Superhumans are dangerous. Superhumans are useful. We like to watch them, we want to be them, and we don’t want them to be too close. They are us, and they are not us. We gave them to the Artonans, and the Artonans gave them powers. Aren’t they lucky? Aren’t they obligated? 

Same stuff bubbling up for decades, in barely different flavors, thought Boe.

He wast just glad the conversation was on more ordinary news today instead of Matadero and SAL. There was a growing amount of murmuring about what would have happened to Earth if the attack had destroyed the cube and Anesidora with it.

Since Boe had ended up naked in the jungle with a bunch of people who had first class tickets out of here, he doubted the answer was, “Nothing too serious.”

Alden’s alive. He’s all right. I’m supposed to be figuring out how to use half of his money to take care of everything here in Chicago. Just give me millions and trust me to use it wisely, why don’t you?  Because that’s not an extreme act of faith at all. 

He picked me to go with him if Earth ends, but he didn’t show up to join me because he was being heroic. Again. 

He’s so damn fucking impossible to live up to. If he somehow manages to find another person just like him in the hero program and they hit it off, they will lead each other straight into early graves.

Is he really all right?

Boe opened the fridge. His hand had just closed around the cold handle of the milk jug when a message arrived. It was a picture of a bright blue frog sitting on a palm frond, with the words “Missing You” underneath it.

A call followed it before he could think of an appropriately snarky reply.

I shouldn’t answer the asshole.

He did.

“You miss them, don’t you?” Alden said the moment his face appeared. He clearly thought he was so funny. 

“Miss who?” Boe had grabbed his phone off the counter with his free hand, and he held it to his ear automatically, even though nobody here in his own kitchen was going to notice or care if he was talking to thin air.

“Ribbit,” said Alden.

Boe did his best to look confused. “Why are you ribbiting?”

“Did you not open my message and get the picture?”

“What picture?”

Green eyes narrowed at him. “Liar,” Alden announced confidently. “You always read my texts when you’re awake and…present. I know it’s because you miss me almost as much as the frogs.”

Boe let the milk thump onto the counter beside his bowl and unscrewed the cap with one hand. Alden was probably inside Matadero. The System liked to blank out his background when he called from there. It looked like his head and shoulders were floating in front of the nearest cabinet.

What’s he doing there tonight?

Boe glanced at the time. Alden should have finished his Monday evening class on how to magically inflict and endure harm about fifty minutes ago. He usually did homework at a spa with the Brute roommate afterwards, but if he was already at the cube, then he’d skipped that. 

“I was just thinking about you,” Boe said.

“Of course you were!”

“I was thinking that you probably injured yourself saving three or four people and an orphaned whale calf today, and that I might never catch up if I don’t go faster.”

“Five people. All human. No whales.” 

Boe knew this was a joke. He could tell. But at the same time, there was a kick in the pulse, a brief wondering, too much milk going into the bowl before he caught himself.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” he said. “That’s how funny I think you are.”

“That was a dark, slow laugh.” 

“Was it?”

“It was villainous.”

“If the name fits…” Boe muttered.

“Yes, you’re very evil and all that,” said Alden, leaning back in a way that confused Boe for a second before he realized that his friend must be sitting on something. 

Or slouching in bed? Is the System refusing to let me see Matadero’s pillows?

He’d bother it about that when he was bored sometime.

“Are you at the cube?”

“I am. My goal was to take a nap before I headed to Artona I to see the healer. I thought it would be better to nap here and then teleport over.”

The mind healer. 

At home, at night, Boe often had his barriers down. Most of the neighbors were on the bland side. The ones who weren’t were familiar enough or distant enough that feeling them was more irritating than terrible. It could even be nice, at times. The woman in the apartment next door brushed her furry mop of a dog almost every night, and it was a simple enjoyment. 

His parents were on the sofa, watching the show. 

They weren’t feeling much of anything.

“I managed to shower, fly here, and shove a couple of tacos in my mouth in less than an hour,” Alden was saying. “The Keeper of Hot Potatoes only beat me by four minutes this time. Smug little jerk. I should take away his meditation pillow so that he has to sit on the floor.”

“Are you talking to yourself, or was I supposed to understand that?” Boe asked.

Alden hadn’t told him about the mind healer until he’d already made the first trip. He didn’t want me to try to talk him out of it.

Boe wanted to talk him out of it. And wanted to tell him he hoped it worked for him. And wanted to ask him lots of questions about it. He wasn’t doing any of those things for some reason.

“I have planning software! Hot Potatoes is my avatar.”

“You’ve entered middle age prematurely. And you have obsessed-person eyes right now.”

“No, it’s good. I’m learning to use it in moderation. And my day was still very efficient.”

“Oh yeah?” Boe shoved a spoon into his bowl. “What did you do?”

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To be continued soon!