Hero Types

Prologue

Kit was a freshman by the time she really figured it out.
Even then, it was a total accident.
"Speaker's hot," a girl whispered while they took their seats in the auditorium. There was a pamphlet. On the cover was a cartoon graphic of a road and several smiling multiracial representatives, with bubble letters spelling out, 'Road To Success!'
Budump.
"Can you guys hear me?" The blond man grinned and tapped the mic again. He straightened his tie. "Wonderful, great, great. I'm Lucas Floyd, from Barten Incorporated. We've got some great stuff here for you guys today."
It had been six minutes, and Margot and Ron were already making out in the corner. A guy blew a spitball at the back of Ms. Hale's neck.
"Now, if you'll open up your pamphlets, you'll see...um..." He had dropped his notecards. He flashed another blinding smile and knelt down.
The lights flickered. Somebody screamed. The others cheered.
"I don't think it's raining..." said the girl next to her, twisting around in her seat. Kit looked up.
The lights came back on. Mr. Floyd straightened with his cards and smiled into the mic.
"Sorry about that," he said. Maybe, she thought, he hadn't noticed the lights. "Anyway. Where was I. The pamphlets. If you open those up, you'll see some possible careers in business."
A guy behind her complained loudly that he didn't give a shit about business.
"I understand that not everyone has the same interests," Mr. Floyd said. "Obviously. That would be boring, wouldn't it? We just want you guys to really start thinking about your futures. And fill out those forms. Please include your email."
She scribbled down her name and number on the card, purposely keeping it unreadable. Gran already got enough junk mail from all her accidental magazine subscriptions.
"And maybe some of you don't really know what business is," he said. "It's a whole lot more than a briefcase and a suit, believe it or—" The lights flickered again. He looked up. "Huh. No worries. We can always get flashlights."
"Oh my god, I want to go home," a girl whispered. Kit ignored the kid kicking the back of her chair and tried to pay attention to Mr. Floyd and his flashcards. His attractiveness only went so far. It had been a long day, and nobody wanted to sit in the auditorium for an hour and listen to him talk about the Future and Dreams and Reality.
"Choosing to pursue higher education is your choice," Mr. Floyd said. A slide came up on the curtain behind him. He gestured. "However, it's a proven fact that those with degrees make, on average, up to forty-thousand dollars more annually than those who—"
The lights shut off.
Noise rose up. Kit heard people moving and somebody screamed again. She pulled her knees up to her chest while people shoved past and somebody's fingers caught in her hair.
"Hey, hey, hey!" A light came on on the stage. Mr. Floyd directed the flashlight at his face, waving his hand. "It's okay, just a technical difficulty. Everyone take their seats."
It took a minute, but everyone sat back down. The principal was on the stage talking to Mr. Floyd. They waited. People checked their phones.
"We're cancelling the presentation," Mrs. Germaine called. "Everyone will please report to the gymnasium until the buses come, thank you."
There was a collective groan. They filtered slowly down the isles and up to the two exits, all five hundred of them. That was when Kit noticed that her pants were wet. She put her hand down and red showed up on her fingers. She tried to keep her head down and avoid being noticed.
"Fuckin' loser."
Too late.
He shoved her between the seats and pointed her out. A group of girls laughed and snickered, hiding their own faces as if in embarrassment. She curled her knees to her chest and tried to hide as the crowd went by, tossing bewildered glances her way. She hid her face.
Great start to high school, Kit.
She stayed very still. She listened to the footsteps and the voices until it was quiet. Then she stood up and looked around.
Shlunk.
The door slid closed. It was pitch black. The auditorium was silent.
She felt her way down the row of seats. She wondered if she should stay there for the next hour instead. At least she was alone.
She tripped on the rug and fell onto the other section. The springs in the seat fought her while she scrambled back up. She got down on her knees and crawled up the slope, patting around to make sure she didn't hit her head.
Fwick.
Lights clicked on behind her. The stage lights had come on. There was a spotlight focused on the center, and no one to claim it.
She waited. There was no other noise. She would have called out, but the last thing that she needed on top of everything was a trip to the principal's office for playing hooky from assembly.
She got up and hurried toward the door. The handle rattled. She shook it harder.
The door didn't budge.
FWOOM!
Kit gasped and spun around. There was a hole smoking in the curtain.
"Vortex!"
She ducked back between the seats. A man was striding quickly down the other isle, a giant firearm held out before him.
"Come out, come out!" he shouted. He fired at the ceiling. A row of lights fizzled, snapped, and hung loose by their wires.
Presently there was a low humming, deep and vibrational, all the way up from the ground. Kit was holding her breath. She watched as the armed man spun around, glaring at the walls. The lights flared up. Several bulbs popped. They went out again.
"Coward!" the man shouted. He fired at the walls. The plaster melted and dripped till it cooled. Kit covered her mouth. She hoped that he couldn't smell blood.
She flattened herself to the ground. She frowned.
Mr. Floyd, his head pressed to the floor, held a finger to his lips. She opened her mouth, and he shook his head. He waved, mouthed, 'Stay down,' and slowly picked himself up.
Another shot was fired. There was a crash! and Kit assumed that some lights had fallen on the stage. She had lost sight of Mr. Floyd's dress shoes. She clamped a hand over her mouth and raised her head. She peeked between the seats.
Mr. Floyd had crept out of the aisle and was now crouched behind the man with the gun. The man shouted, "Vortex!" and turned around—and he pounced.
Kit's cry was muffled by her own hands. He latched himself around the attacker's neck—and they both began to spark.
Kit's eyes widened. She was hypnotized. The man dropped to his knees, his body shaking. Mr. Floyd's hair swirled on end, sizzling with lightening. His eyes glowed.
"AAHHHHH—"
Thwunk.
The man whacked Mr. Floyd over the head. He flew to the side and laid still on the ground, curls of steam rising up from his singed suit.
"Ugh." The man spat on the floor and got shakily to his feet. He cocked his gun, speeding up the rotation, and aimed it at the unconscious man. A whimper escaped her.
He turned quickly. The barrel of the gun was enormous and blue. She ducked and heard footsteps.
Her breathing seemed to fill the whole room. She scrambled to the aisle and ran as he threaded his way through the seats. She sprinted, stumbling and tripping, to the stage.
FWOOM!
She screamed and halted in her tracks. The curtain was on fire.
"Don't you move!"
She raised her hands. Her knees were shaking and her heart was pounding. She turned around, very slowly. The man slunk up to the stage, his whirring weapon trained on her. She gulped.
"Hey!"
Mr. Floyd was crawling back to his feet, a chair in his grip. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the attacker.
"Give it back," the man snarled, "or I smoke her!"
"I don't have it!"
"You want this blood on your hands?"
He revved his glowing firearm and lowered his head.
"Fine!" Mr. Floyd held up a large golden medallion. He came forward slowly, hands raised. "Just put the gun down, okay? Nobody needs to get hurt."
The man backed up so he could keep his gaze on both Kit and Mr. Floyd. Kit was paralyzed. She didn't think she could have run if she'd had the chance.
"Here it is, okay?" Mr. Floyd held out the medallion. The man moved forward and snatched it up quickly. He stuck it in his pocket.
"You have it. That's what you wanted, right? Congratulations. You won. You can go now."
"Hmm," the man said. He patted his pocket.
He abruptly turned and shot.
"Whoa!" Kit yelped. She threw up her hands. There was a flash of soft golden light and her palms were hot. She screamed and fell on her butt.
"Shit!"
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. She crawled to the edge of the stage. Mr. Floyd was knelt over the man, who was gasping over the stumps of his hands. There was a glowing blue puddle on the floor.
"What—I—"
Mr. Floyd looked at her, tucking the medallion in his pocket.
"I don't know what happened," she said. "Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my—"
"That," he said, "was interesting."
He straightened and nudged the man with his foot. He put his hands on his hips. "Hmm."
"I didn't mean to." She staggered down the steps and over to the sobbing man. "Oh my god. It was an accident."
Mr. Floyd was eyeing her. He crossed his arms and tilted his head. He was a tall, slender man. His lemon hair stood on end, jagged and still rippling with waves of electricity. His blue eyes seemed to be threaded with white lines of lightning. They narrowed.
"What's your name, kid?"
She sucked in a breath, staring at the man on the floor. "...Kit. Kit Folly."
"That's one hell of a name, isn't it. Hmm." He shook his head and took a slip of paper and a pen from his suit pocket. He leaned over the stage and scribbled something down. He held it out. "Take my card."
"I'm not interested in business."
He grinned. "Not that card."
She took the slip of paper.
"We gotta get out of here," he said, looking around. "Leave this one for the authorities, all right? I'd shake your hand, but it might kill you, so..." He tipped his hand to his forehead. "Bye for now, Kit Folly."
He walked up the aisle.
"Wait, but—"
"Just come by," he said, opening the unlocked door. He shrugged. "I think you'll be interested in seeing what we do."
The lights flickered one final time and he was gone. Kit was left with the whimpering antagonizer and the paper in her trembling hand. She read it.
Dr. Lucas Floyd,
Director of Vigilante and Superhuman Acts
51 Brooke Avenue,
Park's Breach, Boonesville, NY