I thought I’d walked straight into a martial arts movie trope, the kind where the plucky, morally-conflicted hero meets the wise, ancient master in a temple of spiritual betterment. The only thing missing was a gong and some incense that smelled like regret and poor life choices—my two signature scents.

  The room was a classic dojo, if the dojo was designed by an architect who expected its occupants to regularly bench-press sedans for fun. The floors were polished hardwood that probably had a higher tensile strength than my future prospects, and the walls were lined with mats thick enough to cushion the impact of a thrown Buick. Then again, that’s probably precisely what they were for. At Kellar Academy, gym class was less about dodgeball and more about dodging concussive force blasts.

  Sitting at one end, perched on a mat like a mountain that had decided to take up meditation, was an old man. Or at least I think he was old. He had a magnificent white beard that would make a wizard jealous and a web of wrinkles around his eyes that spoke of either profound wisdom or a lifetime of squinting at really disappointing students. The guy was huge, though. Not just tall, but built like a professional wrestler who’d won a genetic lottery I hadn't even been allowed to enter.

  I glanced around the empty room, my cynicism already prepping its opening arguments. “Eastern studies?” I asked, my voice echoing slightly. Because nothing says ‘enlightenment’ like a cavernous room that doubles as a superhuman crash-testing facility.

  He was sitting cross-legged, or maybe in the lotus position. I’d never really paid much attention to the mystical side of martial arts. I got the philosophical implications—the whole ‘learning to fight so you never have to’ shtick—but it always struck me as the height of hypocrisy. We’re Alphas. We have great power. The whole ‘chi’ and ‘invisible energy’ stuff was proven to be a complete bucket of hogwash the second real, quantifiable Alpha abilities entered the picture. You can’t ki-blast someone when a Class Four bio-enhancer is using your face to recalibrate the structural integrity of the north wall.

  “Are you my teacher?” I ventured, because stating the obvious is a cornerstone of my conversational style.

  He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. “For this, yes. Not going to be your ancient mentor, though.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked, already imagining a montage of me catching flies with chopsticks while he spouted koans about the wind.

  He coughed a little, a sound like gravel grinding in a cement mixer, and then pushed his way to his feet with a fluid grace that belied his size. Geez, he had to be seven feet tall. I felt like a garden gnome standing at the foot of a redwood. “Couple of reasons. First, I’m not as old as I look.”

  I nodded, opting for a strategy of blatant, transparent lies. “You don’t look that old.”

  He laughed, a rich, booming sound that filled the room. “Don’t try kissing my ass, kid. I own a mirror. I know what I look like. I didn’t awaken till I was thirty-five, spent half my life before that in the Sandbox killing kaiju-worms for a paycheck. Your age tends to slow down when you awaken, but if you pop late, you start late. I got the power, but the warranty on the chassis had already expired.”

  “You were killing sandworms as a normie?” The sheer, suicidal audacity of it was impressive. “That’s… pretty impressive that you are still alive, I mean. You must have been obscenely good at it.”

  He nodded, a flicker of something hard and cold passing behind his eyes. “Yep. The second reason is that I know the tropes. I am not going to try and convince you to be a superhero—your failed attempt at that is a matter of public record, son. I plan to teach you exactly the secret technique rather than acting like you aren’t ready for it, and I don’t plan on dying to the super-evil dude or monster in order to let everyone know that the situation is serious and to give you the drive to triumph with only memories of my wisdom to guide you. My retirement plan is significantly better than ‘noble sacrifice.’”

  “Secret Technique?” Now he had my attention. My life was a monument to cutting corners; a secret shortcut was basically my love language.

  He nodded. “Yep. Have a seat, grasshopper.”

  I shrugged and sat down cross-legged, my joints complaining about the indignity. So far, this class has been at least entertaining, which already puts it in the top ten percent of my educational experiences. “So is this the part where I start calling you Sensei and fetching your tea?”

  He shook his head and flopped down opposite me, his descent accompanied by a low thump that I felt through the floor. The man had density. A lot of it. “Naw. The correct term would probably be close to Senpai.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, a sensei is more of a revered teacher. Not necessarily older, but definitely the master. The senpai, though, is more like… I guess, a tutor? A more experienced student who’s just far enough along the path ahead of you that they can help you get your bearings without the whole ‘mystical wisdom’ baggage. And that’s just the Japanese I know from watching anime when I was a kid, so take it with a grain of salt.”

  I nodded. “Is this the class? Just… us?”

  He smiled slightly, showing off a couple of missing teeth that lent his grin a piratical charm. “This is YOUR class. You are in a unique position, which I am betting you are acutely aware of, but don’t think we are aware of.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  I instinctively glanced over my shoulder to make sure I knew where the exit was. Yep, right where I left it. Still looked like a door and not the entrance to a dimensional oubliette. A small victory.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  I looked at him closely. The face was vaguely familiar, like a celebrity from a documentary I’d half-watched while eating ramen. “You look familiar, but I am having trouble placing you. I bet you are… a teacher!” I said, with the triumphant air of a detective solving an especially easy case.

  He chuckled. “Good guess. Right now I am teaching the tactical math and combat resilience classes, and now this.”

  “Combat resilience?” I asked. “What’s that, how to ice your knuckles after punching a bank vault?”

  He nodded. “Fighting after someone breaks your nose, dislocates your shoulder, and is actively trying to use your spine as a wishbone. Probably not a course you are going to need, all things considered. It mostly involves pain suppression, making hard choices under pressure, and concentration through extreme distraction, all things you have proven again and again you are not a slouch at.”

  I blinked. “What are you talking about?” The list of things I’m not a slouch at is short and exclusively features ‘metabolic despair’ and ‘poor financial planning.’

  He rolled his eyes, a gesture that seemed comically large on his features. “You are a very clever kid, but Vilnet is actually RUN on BSA servers. It’s a pressure valve, letting people blow off steam with a minimum of fuss and property damage. Don’t worry, you aren’t on the hook for umm… Diabolus, or Technotron, or even Earthmaster, although I recommend leaving that one dead and buried."

  "You did, however, piss off some real baddies with the laughing gas stunt. One of the nastier cartels had to evacuate a major drug processing plant, which let half their network get pulled in by the DEA and cost them almost four billion in lost profit and product. They are very cross with ‘the jester guy.’”

  “Really?” A cold knot of dread formed in my stomach, which was impressive given the three burritos already occupying that space. “I am just off the hook like that? How did they even find out? I covered my tracks. I used a VPN and everything.” The height of modern criminal tradecraft.

  He laughed, a sound that was equal parts amusement and pity. “You see, that’s why you are in this school. You covered your tracks reasonably well for a civilian. For an Alpha, though… let’s just say that anything on a computer can be traced by a technopath with a grudge and a caffeine addiction."

  "If you are a real villain, you can’t trust any machinery you haven’t custom-built yourself from a box of scraps. If you write things down, you’re vulnerable to information manipulators. If you keep it all in your head, you’re a juicy target for any clairvoyant having a slow Tuesday. If you even keep your schemes from yourself somehow, you can still be noticed and thwarted by seers who get a migraine from your potential future.”

  He leaned forward. “In your case, though, the only felony that could be legally traced back to you is malicious mischief, and even that is debatable since SSS is a fully-accredited stunt company. You’re a performer, not a felon. Mostly.”

  “I did a lot of property damage…” I pointed out, feeling a weird need to defend my non-criminality.

  He smiled. “Yes, you did, and you always got at least a verbal agreement from the owners of those properties. THEY could be charged with insurance fraud, but that’s their problem. Hiring those out-of-work crisis actors from behind the hardware store to be your ‘kidnapping victims’ was a particular stroke of genius. Two hundred bucks apiece for two hours of work. A pretty good return on investment.”

  I was a little surprised he knew that. “How did you…?”

  “They were doing a video spot for a manufactured protest against Buddy Time mechanicals hosted by Six News. Your ‘victims’ were their ‘protesters.’ The meta-irony is beautiful.”

  “Huh,” I said thoughtfully. My life was just layers of fiction supporting other fictions. I was a matryoshka doll of deceit.

  He shrugged. “Not really important in the grand scheme. But after the third Technotron appearance, The Champions wanted to recruit you. Their seers told Chrome that if she tried to pull you in, you’d run for the hills and probably accidentally collapse a gas main on your way out. But if she waited, you’d show up here. So here you are. The long con.”

  I nodded slowly. “Still thinking about running. I tried to do the hero thing, and it didn’t work. I work better behind the scenes. Less property damage. Usually.”

  His eyebrow raised, a feat of facial gymnastics. “Do you? You are aware that filming your exploits for hero PR was the whole point of pulling your capers, right? And nothing is ever truly lost on the hardware internet. Your greatest hits are still out there, waiting for a savvy opponent to do their homework.”

  “Shit,” I replied, with the profound eloquence of a man who has just realized his entire criminal-villainy-for-hire career was essentially a publicly available audition tape.

  “That’s why you are here. This is not a history class. This is an intervention. So, do you want to learn how to actually use your power? To share its effects better than you did when you were trying to get one over on a bio-controller who was playing you from the start? Or should we just keep pretending that all you can do is cheat on coin tosses and heal minor boo-boos for a fee?”

  “I don’t want to be a superhero,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “Not anymore. I am perfectly, fundamentally fine with being an assistant. It’s a growth industry.”

  He nodded, not arguing. “That’s fine. I’ve seen your tapes. You’d make a third-rate superhero anyway.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “Really? Reverse psychology already? That’s a little on the nose, even for a trope-aware sensei-senpai.”

  He grinned. “It’s not reverse psychology, it’s an assessment. You’d make a third-rate superhero right NOW. So, how long does the metabolic burn last after a full restoration? The real cost.”

  I sighed, the memory of that particular flavor of misery washing over me. “If I am at low energy, which is my default state, like a phone permanently at 1%, if I am hurt badly enough to need a full restore, I get to look forward to being a functional zombie for at least a week. Maybe more. And that’s followed by at least another week or two of non-stop eating to get back to what passes for my ‘full energy.’ It’s less a recovery and more a hostage situation negotiated by my digestive system.”

  “So,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “If you had unlimited energy, or at least the kind of passive pull that most Class Fours have, how far could your powers actually go? What’s the ceiling? That’s what this class is going to be about.”

  I laughed, a dry, brittle sound. “Is that before or after I get a golden unicorn from Santa Claus and a sincere apology from my ex?”

  “After,” he said, completely deadpan.

  “Got a pencil and paper? This might take a while and involve math, which is its own special kind of horror.”