Chương 4: Cyborg Charity

After the clean up on Aisle Humiliation, I sat at my table during lunch and I wasn't alone. You know, I kind of lied before about having no friends. There was one person with whom I regularly ate in the cafeteria with and talked to, even occasionally met outside of school, and in this way could be construed as a friend. Her name was Mavis Bertram and for her, the word superhero was like saying Voldemort in the wizarding world.

Her mom had been collateral damage in a fight when a novice super cranked up their fire power a little too close. They didn't even notice until it was too late. And poor Mavis, only three years old, had been watching the whole time. She still had burn marks on her hands and arms from when she clung to her mom's body. They sued- it went nowhere- supers are legally untouchable when they can say they were 'saving lives'. Accidents become collateral, not crimes.

They got a small settlement, but Fireball continued to serve the public and Mavis had to live without her mom for the rest of her life. Understandably, the experience had quite the impact on her and she wasn't the biggest fan of supers. She still sees a psychiatrist every Tuesday, and she's made a lot of progress. Now when the word superhero comes up, she taps her fingers on her knees- small, constant. Better than when she used to curl up in a ball, crying. So, that's probably why she was friends with me.

She knows I'm not going to sprout new and scary powers someday, nor do I want to talk about any of that. I was pretty much the only benign spot in an otherwise minefield. We eat lunch in the back corner of the cafeteria where, theoretically, people won't bother you as much. I sat down on the bench and dug through my lunch with one hand. It was a tuna fish sandwich day which was much better than ketchup and cracker days.

Around us was the usual cacophony of teenage noise: yelling, giggling, loud burps that echoed across the walls. There might as well be namecards and seating arrangements because everyone sat at the same place every time. The popular crowd was talking about the events of last night and the unpopular crowd weren't much different. Except for the technological geeks who have always found inanimate objects far more gratifying than humans. I could learn some things from them.

"Dad was watching the news last night," Mavis said, auburn head down as she sifted her cafeteria peas with a fork. She has to be careful navigating conversation since there are certain words she doesn't like to use. It has its own name, called the language of Subtlety.

"Oh yeah?" I said, taking a big bite.

"Bet he caught that Charmin commercial- you know, when will those bears learn to not leave toilet paper on their butts?" I have my own language, it's called Avoidance. She was not smiling.

"If you get into that kind of situation, you should just run away, Cass." I chew my tuna fish for awhile, mulling it over.

"I would have, but then I just had this sudden nap attack and the asphalt was surprisingly cozy. Think I'm going to give it a five star rating on airbnb."

"So cozy you broke your arm?"

"Look it's not my fault Chameleon Boy didn't know how to properly throw a civilian. Hopefully he retakes that course at the Academy." She looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

"It wasn't-""Nope. Not Dark Beam. He really just wanted to ransom Chief Executive Pee Pants there. Although I don't think it would have been worth it what with all of the laundry bills."

"So it was the hero, huh?" Mavis nodded, stabbing at a pea with her fork.

"Not so heroic after all, are they?" I shook my head, finishing off my sandwich.

"Villains and heroes, who can tell the difference?" Brandon "Meat Tower" Taylor sat like Zeus at the Olympus table with all of the other gods otherwise known as jocks. Athletes always thought that they were destined to become supers, and to be fair, people often treated them as if they were. A fair amount of them do become supers and there were all of these crazy conspiracy theories suggesting that they're getting a little extra help somehow.

But mainly, it just allowed them to act like a D-list celebrity, with all of the ego and desperation for more fame that that implied.

"I would've just tackled Dark Beam as soon as I got there," Brandon told his followers.

"Like seriously, what was Vigilance waiting for?"

"I mean, he had a captive hostage…"

"He could've just thrown him to the side." He grinned and paused, looking out over the crowd to lock eyes with me.

"Just like he did with Cass. Hey Zero, arm still hurting from when you fell on the ground?" Some of his friends started doing old lady impersonations, falling down and whining that they couldn't get up. Meat Head here loved pain; he was the most unapologetic sado-masochist around. His arms looked like maps with the way scar lines and bruises crisscrossed over them, but the guys he bullcharges on the field looked even worse. It's how he became captain of the football team because he will just not stop.

It was like Rudy in a six-foot-five body and instead of wanting to play for Notre Dame, his one wish was to turn the whole world into Fight Club. And boy was that a bad combination. I glanced down at my injured arm, then smiled at him.

"Are you jealous because Vigilance touched me and not you?" Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"I am!" There was Henry again. I could hear tapping on denim, Mavis had started her ritual. I should wrap this up.

"Were you trying to kill yourself because you don't have powers?" He shrugged.

"Can't blame you."

"And you'll just spend your whole life being afraid that you don't. Have fun with that." I turned my head away to signal the end of our friendly little chat. Brandon stared at me, mouth turning into a line as his expression soured. You could practically see his pupils turn into death skulls. Why was I stupid enough to taunt titans who were a whole foot taller than I was? It was a good question. But mental gymnastics was the one sport Brandon was not adept at, so he acquired a new target.

"Hey nerds!" He called out before squeezing a water bottle at a group of Silicon Valley hopefuls. Brandon would win today, but they would inevitably win tomorrow. I turned to Mavis.

"You ok? I think it's over." Her fingers stopped tapping and she stretched them out flat, before dropping her arm. She smiled finally.

"Yeah, good to go." I was just polishing off some potato chips when a shadow fell over our table. Orion Lennox stood there with an oversized DaVinci shirt covering his lanky frame, glasses slipping down his nose. He pointed a finger at my sling.

"I have something that could help with that." I don't think I've spoken twenty words to Orion before, probably because he was known for conversing more with robots than people. He was probably more interested in me as a scientific specimen than any kind of humanitarian aid. My shoulders shrugged which was a huge mistake.

"Is it a new arm? Especially one that could earn me Olympic gold?

'Cause then I'll take it." He pushed his glasses up.

"It's actually a servo-assisted brace. You know, like microservers at the elbow joint? There's also a pressure sensor on the forearm strap and it runs off a compact Li-ion pack. They pick up when you start to move and then help carry the load. Could stabilize your arm, maybe even give you a little bit of strength back?" My eyes cut to Mavis who looked back with a baffled expression.

"That's, um, nice and all, but I'm not exactly captain of the tennis team here. I really don't need my "strength" back" -yes, I made the quotation marks with one hand- "In fact, I'm really looking forward to getting out of gym for it." Doubt rippled across his face.

"Well, you do a lot of shrugging and it's kind of impeding that, right? I mean, seriously, you just did it a few seconds ago and it looked pretty painful." I felt called out. Who were these people studying the amount of times that I shrugged? Was this a thing? Could I sign up to study who picked their nose the most? I already had the test results. It was Kevin McGregor.

"Okay," I placed a potato chip in my mouth and crunched it loudly.

"Tell me about this contraption. Is it going to make me look like a Terminator?" He bent his head to the side, lifting up a hand.

"Slightly, but I don't see that as a bad thing. It looks like a regular brace, just bulkier. Straps onto your arm, wires tucked into a printed frame. The servos whine a little- they're not subtle- but if it works, it could stabilize your grip and keep your elbow from screaming at you." I raised my eyebrows.

"And you want me to be your guinea pig?"

"Just for a test run. Worst case scenario: it buzzes and flops around. Best case: you get some function back while your arm's healing." I tilted my head, staring at him. The truth was I was highly suspicious of people who seem to offer something for nothing.

"I appreciate your concern, but I'm not sure I'm ready to become part of the robot revolution quite yet." I patted my sling.

"I think I'll let my arm heal the old fashioned, pain-filled way." Orion shrugged, probably to throw it in my face.

"Alright, suit yourself." He walked off and I turned back to see Mavis' eyebrows hitting her hairline.

"That was weird," I said.

"That was nice. Why not just let him do the experiment?" I rolled my eyes.

"With my sloth-like lifestyle, I really don't need two arms. I'm considering just having a doctor slice it off as is." Mavis shook her head.

"One of these days, Cass, you're going to have to let people help you." —-- I shoved through the front door of Gran's apartment, my hoodie still smelling of stomach acid and humiliation. Gran was in her chair like usual, the faded recliner that looked like it had survived three world wars and a tornado. The TV flickered with some black and white western, the volume cranked loud enough to wake the neighbors. She looked away from the screen and gave me a once over.

"You look like hell."

"That's the new fashion rage: look like crap and I'm killing it," I muttered, kicking off my shoes. One landed sideways. One hit the coat rack. The coat rack fell on me. Perfect metaphor for my life. Gran raised her glass of iced tea to her lips for a long drink.

"What happened this time? Did a super blow up the gym? Aliens land on the football field? Or was it just the regular torture chamber?"

"Option D. All of the above," I said, collapsing onto the couch. The springs squealed in protest.

"Except swap aliens for peanuts." Her eyes narrowed.

"Peanuts?"

"Trevor nearly died. Embry saved him. The class applauded. I threw up." I rubbed at my hoodie like the friction could erase the stain.

"So, you know, just another Tuesday." Gran snorted, reaching for the remote. She muted the cowboys mid-gunfight.

"Well at least you didn't die. That's something. That's exactly what I say every morning when I wake up, and I'm grateful."

"Social death is a thing, Gran, and it is a rising epidemic."

"Pfft." Gran waved her hand like she was swatting a fly.

"High school doesn't count. You could grow a unicorn horn out of your head and those kids would still find a reason to make fun of you. Might as well save your energy for things that matter. Like staying alive. Or doing your laundry." I said nothing. In part because she was referring to the pile of clothes so high on my bedroom floor that scientists were concerned about its erosion. She leaned forward, resting her skinny arms on her knees.

"Cass, listen to me. Nobody cares." Gran gets to sit all day in her dilapidated apartment, watching TV shows that played almost a hundred years ago, blissfully waiting out the clock for when she gets to exit this party. She gets to pretend that the things that happen outside of her little world don't matter, but in reality, they do. She could remain the same all she wants, but outside, the world will relentlessly change. Gran killed the TV which was my signal that she was about to boss me around.

"Speaking of laundry, we're out of detergent. And milk. And bread. And toilet paper. So congratulations, you just won yourself an all-expenses-paid trip to the grocery store." I groaned into the couch cushions.

"I can survive on ramen and despair for a whole month, thank you." Gran was already clutching her purse.

"Good luck using ramen to wipe your butt. Move."