The first thing Benny Pluzeski ever did that morning was steal my drink.
I watched his hand cross the lunch table, wrap around the bottle beside my tray, and pull it toward him with all the confidence of someone retrieving his own property.
I let him get as far as opening it.
“That’s mine.” Benny looked at the bottle.
Then at me.
Then back at the bottle.
“No.” I’d known Benny long enough to understand that this was his entire defense.
“You watched me buy it.” “I watched you buy a drink.” “You asked what flavor I got.” “Making conversation.” “You said mine looked better.” “Compliment.” “You are currently holding it.” He took a sip.
“Evidence is circumstantial.” Across the table, Kenya lowered one side of her headphones.
“That’s not what circumstantial means.” “Thank you, Beth.” “I’m Kenya.” Benny froze.
Kenya stared at him.
Slowly, Benny turned toward the actual Beth, who was sitting two seats away with a book open beside her lunch.
Beth didn’t look up.
“Don’t involve me.” “I knew which one you were.” “No, you didn’t.” “I was testing Kenya.” Kenya put her headphone back over her ear.
“You failed.” I reached for my drink.
Benny moved it away.
Metal scraped softly against the table.
The bottle slid another six inches without him touching it.
I stared at it.
Then at him.
“Using your ability to steal is probably illegal.” “Only if I get caught.” “You’re doing it in front of nine witnesses.” “Eight.” I looked around the table.
“Who’s not testifying?” “Me.” I hated him.
Unfortunately, he was my best friend.
“Give it back.” “No.” “Benny.” “Akio.” “Benny.” “Akio.” Something brown disappeared from the edge of my tray.
I stopped.
Slowly, I looked to my right.
Threya was chewing.
She didn’t look at me.
My last fried potato was gone.
“Seriously?” She finally turned.
“What?” “You took my food.” “No, I didn’t.” “You are chewing it.” She covered her mouth with one hand.
“Prove it.” Benny slapped the table.
“That’s my girl.” Threya pointed at him.
“Don’t ever say that again.” “Understood.” I looked between them.
“This entire table is full of criminals.” “Future heroes,” Montiro corrected.
He was sitting across from me, spinning a fork around one finger like it was a revolver.
“We’re future heroes.” “You’re holding a fork.” “And?” “Your power literally gives you guns.” “Can’t use them in the cafeteria.” Paul looked offended.
“Why does your restriction only apply to the cafeteria?” Montiro stopped spinning the fork.
“Why does yours apply to the entire eastern wing?” Everyone looked at Paul.
Paul quietly continued eating.
That answered the question.
Emory School of Magic and Powers liked to call our class exceptional.
Our instructors used words like promising and unusual and, whenever Frank broke something expensive, concerning.
There were ten of us.
Ten students selected from across the country for Emory’s accelerated junior program.
Nine of us had abilities.
Then there was me.
“Are you staring at your hand again?” I looked up.
Threya was watching me.
“No.” “You were.” “I have hands.
Sometimes I look at them.” “Why?” “To make sure they’re still there.” She reached under the table and took my left hand.
I raised an eyebrow.
Threya turned it over.
Inspected the palm.
Then the back.
“Good news.” “What?” “Still there.” “Thank God.” She smiled.
There were some smiles Threya gave everyone.
Big ones when she laughed.
Polite ones when teachers were talking too long.
A particularly dangerous one whenever she said she had an idea.
This one was smaller.
I liked this one.
So naturally Benny ruined it.
“Can you two stop being disgusting while I’m eating?” “You stole my drink.” “And somehow that’s less gross.” “Give it back.” He lifted the bottle to take another sip.
It stopped halfway to his mouth.
His arm hadn’t stopped.
The bottle had.
Benny frowned.
He pulled harder.
Nothing.
Across the table, Frank had one finger pressed against the metal cap.
The skin from his fingertip to his wrist had turned dark silver.
Benny’s eyes narrowed.
“Frank.” Frank kept eating with his other hand.
“Benny.” “Let go.” “No.” “It’s my drink.” I looked at him.
“It is absolutely not your drink.” “Stay out of this.” Frank’s mouth twitched.
Benny tugged.
The bottle didn’t move.
A faint metallic squeal came from the cap.
“You’re gonna break it,” Toma said.
Everyone stopped.
Toma sat at the end of the table beside the window, white hair falling close to his eyes.
He usually spoke just enough to remind us he could.
Benny released the bottle.
Frank did too.
The bottle shot backward.
Directly into my chest.
Cold liquid spilled down the front of my uniform.
Silence.
I looked down.
Then up.
Benny slowly raised both hands.
Frank looked away.
Threya pressed her lips together.
“Don’t.” Her shoulders shook.
“Threya.” That finished her.
She laughed.
Kenya pulled one headphone off again.
Montiro immediately pointed at Benny.
“His fault.” “Traitor.” Paul was already moving his tray away from me.
Smartest thing he’d done all week.
Emi sighed.
“You people are exhausting.” “You sit with us voluntarily,” I said.
“Because observing failure is educational.” That sounded like something Beth would say.
Beth apparently agreed, because I saw the smallest movement at the corner of her mouth.
I grabbed some napkins.
“You know what?
When I’m a famous hero, none of you are getting free merchandise.” Benny stared at me.
“You don’t have a power.” The table went quiet.
Not dramatically.
Nobody gasped.
Nobody stared at me with pity.
They’d known me too long for that.
Benny realized how it sounded a second later.
“I meant…” “I know.” “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” “Benny.” He stopped.
“It’s fine.” And it was.
Mostly.
I dried my uniform.
The conversation moved on.
Montiro started arguing that magical firearms required more skill than a lance.
Emi informed him that he was wrong.
He asked why.
She said because she had decided he was wrong.
Frank agreed with Emi purely to annoy Montiro.
Paul made the mistake of saying a sufficiently large explosion made weapon skill irrelevant.
Everyone immediately reminded him why he wasn’t allowed to demonstrate that theory indoors anymore.
Normal.
Everything was normal.
But my eyes dropped to my hand again.
I closed it.
Opened it.
Nothing.
No light.
No fire.
No sudden rush of power.
Nothing I’d been waiting fourteen years to see.
Nine students at the table had awakened.
I hadn’t.
And every year, it became a little harder to pretend I wasn’t worried.
“Again.” I hit the floor.
Hard.
The practice sword bounced out of my hand and slid across the training mat.
I stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling did not offer advice.
“Excellent,” I said.
“I think I’m getting worse.” Emi appeared over me.
Her blonde hair was tied back for training, and the padded practice lance rested against her shoulder.
“Your right foot crossed behind your left.” “I noticed when I fell.” “You did it three times.” “Consistency.” “Get up.” I groaned.
Around us, Training Hall Four was loud with the usual afternoon chaos.
Metal rang against metal.
Abilities flashed inside marked lanes.
An instructor shouted at someone for damaging a barrier that was specifically designed to be damaged.
Frank was wrestling with a reinforced combat dummy.
His arms had turned completely to steel.
The dummy was losing.
Toma stood farther down the hall with frost spreading across the floor around his boots as he tried to control the exact radius.
Kenya had summoned something that looked vaguely like a fox, except its body was translucent and its tail kept passing through the floor.
Paul was outside.
For obvious reasons.
I sat up.
Emi offered me the practice sword.
I took it.
“Your grip’s wrong too.” I looked at my hand.
“You told me that grip was right yesterday.” “It was.” “So what happened?” “You changed it.” I stared at her.
“Why would I do that?” “I don’t know.” “Great lesson.” Emi tapped my wrist with the shaft of her lance.
“Here.” She adjusted my hand.
“Not so tight.
You’re trying to stop the sword from moving.” “I thought controlling the sword was the point.” “Guiding it is.” “That sounds suspiciously philosophical.” “It’s basic weapon handling.” “Same thing.” She stepped back.
I stood.
Emi lowered her lance.
“Again.” I raised the sword.
It wasn’t real.
Not really.
Blunted alloy.
Weighted close enough to a standard short sword for beginner training.
I liked weapons.
That surprised people sometimes.
The powerless kid enjoying combat training apparently sounded depressing.
Maybe it was.
I didn’t care.
There was something comforting about a sword.
Abilities were personal.
Strange.
Unpredictable.
You either had one or you didn’t.
A sword didn’t care who your father was.
It didn’t care whether your Core had awakened.
Hold it wrong and it punished you.
Hold it correctly and, at the very least, you had a chance.
Emi moved.
I barely got the sword up.
Her lance struck my guard.
My arms jolted.
I stepped back.
She thrust.
I moved sideways.
Too slowly.
The padded tip hit my ribs.
“Dead.” “That’s dramatic.” “Your lung would’ve been punctured.” “Less dramatic than I thought.” “Again.” I reset.
This time, I watched her shoulders.
Emi had a habit.
Before a straight thrust, her right shoulder dipped.
Barely.
I’d noticed it yesterday.
She moved.
Shoulder.
I stepped before the lance came.
The thrust passed beside me.
Emi’s eyes widened.
I swung.
She rotated the lance.
Wood met alloy.
My sword flew out of my hand.
Again.
I stared after it.
Emi lowered her weapon.
“Better.” “I lost faster.” “You avoided the first attack.” “And then lost.” “You noticed something.” I looked at her.
Her expression had changed.
Interested.
“What?” “Nothing.” “You looked at my shoulder.” I said nothing.
Emi smiled.
“Thought so.” “You’re dropping it before you thrust.” “Sometimes.” “So stop.” “No.” “Why?” “Because you noticed.” That made absolutely no sense.
Before I could tell her that, the instructor called the rotation.
Emi walked away.
I retrieved my sword.
“She destroyed you.” Benny appeared beside me.
“Thank you.” “Like, badly.” “I was there.” “I got worried.” “You were laughing.” “I laugh when I’m scared.” “You’re very brave.” He put an arm around my shoulders.
I shoved it off.
Benny had been assigned axe fundamentals months ago.
Nobody knew why.
His ability manipulated metal, which meant technically he could use almost anything.
According to him, the axe “felt right.” According to our instructor, Benny had picked it because he thought it looked cool.
Both explanations were probably true.
“You’re getting better,” he said.
“So is everyone else.” “Yeah, but they have powers.” There it was again.
This time he said it carefully.
I looked across the hall.
Frank’s steel.
Toma’s ice.
Kenya’s spirits.
Beth standing completely still while an instructor placed cards facedown in front of her.
Threya at the far end of the room, one palm against the floor as a line of stone rose smoothly from the training lane.
She caught me watching.
Smiled.
I looked away first.
Benny nudged me.
“You’ll awaken.” “You don’t know that.” “Sure I do.” “Medical specialists don’t.” “Medical specialists don’t know everything.” “And you do?” “Obviously.” I picked up the sword.
Benny’s smile faded slightly.
Most people said the same thing.
You’ll awaken.
My teachers.
Doctors.
Classmates.
My mother.
Nobody ever meant anything bad by it.
My father hadn’t awakened particularly young either.
At least, that’s what people liked reminding me.
Lutoro Kita.
Former number one hero.
One of the strongest awakened humans ever recorded.
The man who had supposedly died stopping something most people didn’t even like talking about.
My father.
Sometimes I wondered if I’d have cared so much about awakening if I’d been born to anyone else.
Probably.
But maybe not this much.
“Benny.” “Yeah?” “What if I don’t?” He didn’t answer immediately.
That was why he was my best friend.
Everyone else answered immediately.
Benny thought about it.
Then shrugged.
“Then you don’t.” I frowned.
“That’s it?” “What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know.” He picked up his axe.
“You’d still be annoying.” “Thanks.” “You’d still be weirdly good at noticing stuff.” “I’m not weirdly good at noticing stuff.” “You knew Frank was cheating on the written exam last month.” “He kept looking down.” “His answers were written on his shoe.” “Exactly.” “You figured out Toma liked Kenya before Toma did.” From across the room: “I can hear you.” Benny winced.
I looked toward Toma.
He was staring at us.
Kenya wasn’t.
She still had her headphones on.
“Sorry,” Benny called.
Toma raised one finger.
A tiny shard of ice formed above it.
Benny immediately moved behind me.
“Protect me.” “Why?” “You’re powerless.
He’ll feel bad.” “Fantastic.” The ice shard flew.
I got home a little after six.
“Mom?” “In here!” I dropped my bag near the door.
“That’s not where that goes.” I picked it back up.
Sometimes I suspected my mother had an ability she hadn’t told anyone about.
Not super strength.
Not flight.
She simply knew whenever I put something where it didn’t belong.
I carried the bag into my room.
“Wash your hands!” “How do you know I haven’t?” “Akio.” “Doing it.” I washed my hands.
Dinner smelled good.
That was normal too.
Komi Kita stood at the stove with her hair tied back, moving between two pans while a news broadcast played quietly from the wall display.
Something about monster migration in northern Montana.
A highway had been temporarily closed.
No casualties.
A Class II pack had changed territory earlier than expected.
The reporter moved on to weather.
Rain tomorrow.
Monster advisories and rain.
That was life.
I sat at the counter.
Mom looked over her shoulder.
“Training?” “Emi killed me seven times.” “Only seven?” I stared at her.
She smiled.
“Benny?” “Alive.” “Threya?” “Also alive.” “The others?” “Mostly alive.” “Paul?” “Outside training today.” “Good.” Everybody knew about Paul.
Mom placed a bowl in front of me.
I immediately reached for it.
She slapped my hand away.
“Hot.” “I’m fourteen.” “And apparently that makes you immune to soup.” “I’ve developed resistance.” “You haven’t developed common sense.” I waited.
She sat across from me.
For a while, we ate.
The news continued quietly.
Then a photograph appeared on-screen.
I stopped chewing.
Dad.
It wasn’t unusual.
Not exactly.
Lutoro Kita had been dead long enough for the world to turn him into history.
There were documentaries.
Anniversaries.
Interviews with heroes who had known him.
Arguments about whether anyone had surpassed him.
The photograph showed him younger than I remembered.
Black hair.
Straight posture.
That stupid calm expression he wore in almost every official picture.
SEVENTEEN YEARS SINCE LUT0RO KITA’S FINAL MISSION I looked down at my food.
Mom reached for the remote.
“You can leave it.” She paused.
Then lowered her hand.
The report talked about his career.
His accomplishments.
The lives he’d saved.
Nothing I hadn’t heard before.
Then came the usual phrase.
Former number one hero.
I hated that phrase.
Not because it was wrong.
Because sometimes it felt like those four words had eaten everything else he had been.
Nobody said he snored.
Nobody said he couldn’t cook.
Nobody said he once spent two hours assembling my bed incorrectly and blamed the instructions.
Number one hero.
That was what remained.
Mom muted the television.
I looked up.
“You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to.” Silence.
Then she nodded toward my hand.
“Anything?” I knew what she meant.
“No.” “Okay.” That was another thing I liked about Mom.
She never said maybe tomorrow.
Never told me Dad had awakened late.
Never promised something she couldn’t know.
Just: Okay.
I pushed food around the bowl.
“What if it doesn’t happen?” Mom didn’t answer immediately.
Apparently Benny had learned that from her.
“What do you want to happen?” I frowned.
“My power.” “That’s not what I asked.” “I want to awaken.” “Why?” “Because everyone does.” “Not everyone.” “Everyone at Emory.” “You’re at Emory.” “You know what I mean.” “I do.” She leaned against the counter.
“But I want to know if you do.” I hated when adults did that.
Turned simple questions into annoying ones.
“I don’t know.” Mom nodded.
“That’s a better answer.” “How?” “It’s true.” I looked at her.
“What if I can’t be a hero?” “Do you want to be one?” Again.
Annoying question.
Dad had been a hero.
My classmates wanted to be heroes.
Our entire school existed to produce heroes.
People had been asking me what kind of hero I wanted to become since I was old enough to understand the question.
Nobody had ever really asked whether I wanted to become one at all.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Mom smiled.
Not disappointed.
Not worried.
Just Mom.
“Then you have time.” I looked toward the muted television.
Dad’s photograph was still there.
Seventeen years since his final mission.
“I don’t think people are going to give me time.” “People don’t live your life.” “Feels like they do.” “I know.” She reached across the counter.
Put her hand over mine.
“You are allowed to become someone slowly, Akio.” I stared at our hands.
Hers over mine.
Warm.
I didn’t know why that sentence stayed with me.
Maybe because I wanted to believe her.
Maybe because some part of me already knew the world wasn’t particularly interested in waiting.
Threya was outside my window at 10:17.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
We were on the second floor.
I opened the window.
“Why are you here?” “Move.” “How did you get up here?” She pointed down.
A narrow column of stone had risen beside the house.
I leaned out.
“You’re going to get arrested.” “For visiting my boyfriend?” “For creating unauthorized geological structures.” “That’s not a real crime.” “It should be.” “Move.” I moved.
Threya climbed inside.
She wore a dark jacket over normal clothes and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.
I looked at the clock.
Then at her.
“No.” “You don’t even know what I’m asking.” “It’s after ten.” “So?” “Curfew.” “So?” “I hate you.” She smiled.
There it was.
The dangerous one.
“I found something.” “Absolutely not.” “Come on.” “No.” “Akio.” “Threya.” “Akio.” “Threya.” She grabbed my jacket from the chair and threw it at me.
I caught it.
“Where are we going?” Her smile widened.
I sighed.
Five minutes later, I was climbing out my own window.
I didn’t know it then, but years later I would remember that night in pieces.
The cold air.
Threya trying not to laugh when I nearly slipped off the stone column.
My mother’s kitchen light glowing downstairs.
The distant city beyond the houses.
Benny sending fourteen messages to our group chat because nobody had answered his first one.
Nothing important happened.
No monster attacked.
No alarm sounded.
The sky didn’t split open.
Nobody died.
It was just another night.
Back then, I thought I’d have thousands of them.