The Team Of Ten

Part Six

The American flag hung from the wall, pinned there with care and love. The buzz of a razor was the only sound as the old woman trimmed her grandson's hair. The boy gazed over at the flag, like he found himself doing so often. 

That flag stood for so much. 

It's the flag the boy's mother died for. It's the flag of the country many people in his family had died for. The military ran through out his family tree. Behind him, cutting his black hair, was a veteran of the army. His grandmother had served, his grandfather, their parents. A long line of fighters. 

"Sit up." The old woman snapped. The boy straightened his back, and fought his sigh. His grandmother's face softened but he couldn't see it. She finished and patted his back, "There you go Frank." 

"Thank you, Grandmother." He stood up and rotated his shoulder. The TV was on low but he could still make out the voice of the newscaster. Like a faint memory, the murmur of the man echoed around the silent apartment. Story after story of terrible things happening, by Villains and to Supers. 

Frank's grandmother turned the volume up, she had a philosophy that no matter how bad the news-you needed to hear it.  So she sat down on the sofa and watched the stories unfold. Instead of following her lead, Frank stood quietly and studied the flag. 

Inside his head echoed the last words he ever heard of his mother's. Today had just been bad. Usually he can keep the grief at bay, but something about the day just ate at him. Maybe it had been the mother and son pair he'd seen on his way to school. Or was it the smell of the coffee shop that he had passed that day, reminding him of his mom drinking coffee while he drank hot cocoa?

He had his mother's black hair and brown eyes. He also had her determination and brain, a trait passed down in his family as much as military. 

"She died for a country she loved." The old woman said quietly but not meekly. She was still watching the news as Frank stared down the flag. "Keep that in mind." That's all his grandmother ever said about his mother's death. That and that she would want them to be strong. 

But what is strong? 

Is it not crying over a lost one? Feeling okay to cry? Knowing when the crying is over and actions need to be taken? 

The country his mother died for went down the drain every day. Supers trying to prove they're not Villains, and Villains being made by Supers who give up. Crime skyrocketing, because normal police can't deal with criminals that have super powers. No Super was permitted to be on the Police force, that would cause too much discomfort from the regular humans. Healers were allowed to be doctors or nurses, people with water powers could be firemen, those who could talk with animals were welcomed in biology or other fields like it. 

That was about it. 

Frank bit the inside of his cheek, mulling over what he wanted, what he needed to do. 

He looked over to his grandmother, her features were schooled into still stone. Nothing unusual about that, but the tension in her jaw was new. Frank let out a soft snort. 

Setting against the wall in the corner of the room, was a bow. His mother had taught him, he had always loved archery. Frank picked up the bow and went to his room. Across the small bedroom was a block of Styrofoam, with a target ring and holes all over. He picked at his bow strings and paced, his head running through idea after idea. 

With gritted teeth Frank took an arrow out of his quiver set on his bed and fired it at the Styrofoam square. He slung the quiver over his shoulders and kept firing. His breath steadied out, his mind calming. He had to do something. 

The country his mother, grandfather, so many others had died for, couldn't just stay like this. His instinct was to run, not away but forward-like some dog trying to save its owner from an inferno. 

On his dark wood dresser sat an army hat, his mother's. He had warn it when he was young, parading around as he commanded troops of stuff animals into battle. He grabbed it as he sat on his bed, trying to figure out what he could do. As much as he wanted to rage and roar like a bear fending off hunters, he wanted to curl up and cry like a tiny puppy who lost its parents. 

As he laid there clutching his mother's cap, he listened to those last words of hers. 

I love you my tiger, always fight for what you believe in.

And so he would.