“In this case,” she continued, “most support classes work paired with combat classes as side—sponsored partners. The Academy is very competitive, up to and including rank challenges, which will affect your placement when you graduate. The Champions, for example, won’t even accept someone who is not a Class Four and ranked in the top ten of their graduating class. There are frequent competitions in all aspects: widgeteering and support, crafting, combat, scientific, or even artistic pursuits for those who use them as part of their Hero identity.”
“But every hero needs support, and even support needs to know how to fight. Thus, we have sets of ranks. Any student may challenge another student for their rank in their particular category, and teams have ranks as well. As a sponsored student, if someone challenges you in a combative or obstacle course event, and it’s a team challenge, Glacier Girl steps in as the primary combat role. If it’s a combat hero challenging you directly, she may choose to take your place, since support is not expected to go toe-to-toe with things that have more teeth than sense.”
“What challenge categories are there?” I asked, my mind already spinning this into a risk-assessment matrix.
She smiled, clearly in her element. “Single combat, group combat, single obstacle, group obstacle, technological competence, magical competence, artistic, gearing, criminology, survival, and stealth. Each student has a rank in each category, though scheduled competitions often blend them. Different teams in the real world have different foci. The Watchers look for those who excel at single obstacle, stealth, and survival. The Champions want single and group combat and criminology tops. The Monster Hunters out of Denver try to nab anyone with high ranks in group combat, group obstacle, and either technological or magical competence.”
“What about groups like The Flare?” The name left a bitter taste in my mouth.
She sighed, a hint of professional disdain creeping in. “More than a few teams are put together strictly for popularity. We certainly have public relations and media appeal classes—it’s an important part of the job—and the artistic category feeds into that. But groups like the Flare don’t care as much about rankings. It’s more about how photogenic they are, as long as they are reasonably competent and have a decent power category.”
GG nodded slowly. “Groups like the Flare, Summer Wild, and Olympus are the ones that make the big bucks and keep the public interested, especially when they are in movies and stuff. But when there’s a wall breach, it’s the Champions or the Hunters that the city calls. I sorta want to be in the Flare because it’s my home team, but that’s because I wanted to make my career and then get out, just be on emergency call. Maybe find a nice guy and settle down.” She said it with a hopefulness that felt achingly naive. I knew exactly what kind of ‘nice guys’ hung around that scene.
“How about you? What’s your end goal, Blueprint?” Subvector asked, turning her curious gaze on me.
I couldn't resist. I slipped into a hammy, theatrical voice. “The same thing we do every night, Pinky… Try to take over the world!” Her utterly blank, confused look was crushing. Glacier Girl was snickering into her hand, but Subvector just stared. I wondered if it was a generational thing or if the Academy simply beat all the fun out of you. “Right. Sorry. Pop culture reference. Seriously,” I said, dropping the act and sliding back into my meticulously constructed persona of boring ambition. “I am hoping to get a good job in supply and manufacturing logistics, maybe play the chair guy for a team or two, and then, once I have a civilian job in a good place, retire to the emergency reserves. Of course, if my abilities pan out, it might be nice to run my own super-gear or transportation production company, but I am not really interested in a family until I am totally solid and stable, maybe in my thirties or forties.” It was the perfect cover story: modest, pragmatic, and soul-crushingly dull.
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She looked at me oddly, like I’d just described wanting to be an actuary. “That is… really thought out. As a Class Six support, though, you might not need to wait that long. Some of our students already have trademarked materials worth millions.”
I nodded, layering on the earnestness. “Sure, and I already have logistics chain training, but I was halfway through my degree. I still need the paperwork—the degrees—so I can get the right start with the right company.” It was all about the paperwork. The world ran on it. Even superheroes needed a good filing system.
She nodded slowly. “This is getting outside of my area of expertise, but most standardized courses can be tested out of if you’re already grounded, with full accreditation. You’ll still have to put in the full four years for Alpha-specific courses, but I applaud you for having a plan. You should have a master’s degree when you leave in your civili… standard career.”
“So they are looking at keeping me in a full four-year scholarship?” I asked, trying to sound hopeful instead of calculating the exact monetary value of this windfall.
She smiled a little. “As a Class Six? They’d keep you here for a doctorate if they could. But most Alphas choose to do what they can to keep their civilian identities quiet and peaceful, or they go full-time hero. Between the salary for being on a team and various bounties, keeping in the black is absurdly easy for someone higher than a Class Three.”
I nodded, because it was the expected response, but I had to add the counterpoint. The reality. “If you survive. The Monster Hunters have a turnover rate of what, fifteen percent annually? And that’s not from retirement or transfers.” It was probably higher. They just didn’t advertise the numbers.
She sighed, and for the first time, she looked her age. The weight of that statistic was real for her. “That’s not a lie. I actually retired from the Monster Hunters myself. I’ll admit that far too many kids leave in a box. That’s why I am here. I train unarmed and creative power courses. I keep hoping that a little common sense might sink into more students before they learn the hard way.”
“That being said,” she continued, shifting back into professional mode, “You are coming in mid-term. From my information, you are both going to need some minor remedial power courses to get up to speed for your first year. Unfortunately, no team suites are available until second year, which means I need to put you in the unpowered dormitory. Because she’s your sponsor, I think I can get you rooms on the same floor, but you are going to have to remember rule number one.”
“Rule one?” Mindy asked.
“Yes. The academy has a lot more unpowered students than powered. Keep your abilities close to your chest. You’ll receive special uniforms, and you are not to use any powers higher than Class Two when you aren’t in your uniform and your alpha identity. It’s not really a secret that there are powered students, but once you are in uniform, you are ONLY your alpha identity… to other students in the dorms, you are just a Class One or Two enhanced, not an Alpha. Got it? Your civilian life is a shield. Don’t break it.”
We both nodded, the gravity of the instruction finally cutting through the absurdity of the day. With that, Subvector led us out of the transit terminal and into the gilded cage of Kellar Academy.
