Stasis 2.4

The next morning, I headed home from training with Miss Militia early. It was a school day, and I needed to get ready. Take a shower, get dressed, have a good balanced breakfast, and make sure I had my things in order. Find a post-it pad to write notes on, and keep a mechanical pencil on me, make sure my phone was charged up. The usual stuff.

I really didn't want to continue going to school, but homeschooling wasn't an option for us. Our house was nice, but the only reason we could afford it was thanks to the high parahuman crime rate in the city. Property values were low, but even with that we barely made ends meet most months. It was one of the upsides of Wards membership; my meager college fund would be going towards digging us out of debt, and my pay as a Ward would be our house's second income. Cutting our primary income to teach me wouldn't do anything but drive us into a financial pit.

Or so I had been informed when I asked about it.

We headed off to school, David being dropped off at the city bus stop, and Jordan and I directly to Lord Elementary. This was an involved process for my mom, taking fortitude, patience, and the will to make me walk Jordan to his classroom because the line for drop-off was too long and she needed to get to work.

The day began as many had before. I sat down at my assigned desk after dropping off my backpack at the back of the class, placing it on a hook near the teacher's desk so no one stole the hook and dropped my bag to the floor. My desk had been scribbled on while I was away; I got out an eraser and cleaned up the shiny patch, unhappy with the smudge. I got up to get a wet paper towel, and wiped the desk clean. Now, I wouldn't get in trouble if my teacher checked the desks or something.

I sat down, digging out the book I had brought to school with me, glancing up as other students filed in out of the halls. Most students went to the cafeteria before class; They served breakfast, and you could chat with your friends. I had breakfast, and no friends to speak of; besides, the cafeteria was crowded and loud, since it wasn't meant to house more than half the school at once comfortably.

There was Sarah, leader of the pretty girls; Zach, the big guy of the class; Other Michael (They always called me Mikey, and I hated it); Emily, also of the pretty girls; Geoffrey, the drummer in beginners' band – I knew I forgot to withdraw from something – and so on. Twenty-five kids, one teacher – Mr. Marcus Tallbert, a totem to the idea that names influence people. He was a 6'6" black man with a voice that boomed and a small, well cropped afro-goatee combo. A good guy, a smart teacher, but a little inattentive sometimes, too absorbed in his work.

When the bell rang, attendance was called. Announcements were made, and a few papers were passed out, including my schedule for the new tutoring program. I glanced it over. Recess was immediately following lunch, and I would leave immediately following that. Simple enough. Tons of little details to remember, but for now, I tucked it in my pocket. I pulled out my pad of post-its, setting them on the desk in case I'd need it.

The day slowly progressed, the clock advancing with the kind of boredom only a slug could comprehend. Each hour, we pulled another book out of our desks, put away the last subject's detritus, and began another boring lesson. I endured the little glances when I didn't try to answer questions, the whispers as I read the chapter of the English textbook in a few minutes, then pulled out my own book while they read. I paid attention to the teacher as he lectured, genuinely interested in the science lesson as other chatted in the darkened room. I sat, bored, as we covered division for kids, which involved remainders instead of fractions or decimals, which made it boring and somewhat inaccurate.

Finally, it was time for lunch. Yay cafeteria food. Nobody wanted to talk to me, and I couldn't talk to anyone anyway, so I ate in silence. Nobody wanted to sit near me, so I had the area of the table to myself. I didn't care. I ate my mystery meat and tortured potatoes (when you shred, dry, reconstitute, puree, and water them down, you need to get creative with the descriptive language), reading some more as I ignored the cafeteria around me.

Recess was the polar opposite of lunch. Teachers could hardly watch everyone, and it was a big playground. The few guys who actively bullied me did so by denying me enjoyment; they would always take up equipment before I got to it, fill up rosters on teams, and pretend I had done things like push them or call names, making me out to be the bully. I'd like to see them try that now. It'd be hilarious.

Today, they were distracted by a soccer game the fourth graders had organized, so I just sat on the swings and tried to see how high I could go. There was a rhythm to it, a rush, and it was only made better by my powers. The force of swinging, the little motions I had figured out to get some extra height, the slackness at the very pinnacle of each arc. My powers would have let me cheat, but what was the fun in that? I enjoyed the rhythm, the motion, the view, and the solitude.

Back, and forth; up, down, and up again. I could see the entire playground from up here, and then the ground rushed at me, then it was back to the sky. A meditative rhythm, aided by the rush of the air, the melody it wove as I rushed past it. I felt calm, more at peace, as I focused on pumping my legs to maintain my speed, instead of focusing on my day.

The whistle called the end of recess all too soon.

-Shangri-La-

I followed the instructions on the sheet I'd received. Gathered my things, ignoring the whispers again. I had been pulled from school before; stress leads to poor health, and too often I had gotten migraines, or mild fevers, et cetera, so it wasn't that uncommon. None of their business, anyway. I walked down the halls in a rush, meeting up with the bus group in the cafeteria, and a few minutes later, the assorted group of students filed into the waiting bus.

Every now and then the bus would stop, letting out another group of students. Finally, it made its way downtown, and Missy and I stood up along with a few other students to exit the bus. We were headed for a tutoring center a few blocks down from the PRT building, far enough away nobody really connected it to the Wards. We entered, were separated out, and I was introduced to my assigned tutor, a tall, redheaded young woman named Melanie Davis. After the introduction, I was escorted by Melanie out the back door, where Missy was waiting.

"Hey there. Follow me, I'll show you our side entrance." I nodded, and we walked in the general direction of the HQ. I pulled out my phone, but she shook her head. Apparently, we shouldn't talk much on the way. I was cool with that. A few minutes walking later, we ducked into an alley, and she looked around, making sure nobody was watching. We walked up to a door facing the alley, ignoring the buzzer next to it. Instead, Missy tapped shave-and-a-haircut, and a little keypad popped out. Typing a code in, the door opened, and we stepped into the stairwell.

I had already typed it out. 'That was some major cloak-and-dagger stuff right there. I love it!' She laughed a bit. "It gets to be normal after a while, but yeah, I like being in a spy movie sometimes. C'mon, let's go." She gestured to the down stairs. I dutifully began the descent, going down three floors before we were greeted with a hallway.

Phew. I really wish I wasn't overweight.

We walked casually down the hall, crossing the length of the building above us to reach the PRT building itself. The hallway was deceptively plain, only broken up by occasional domes in the ceiling that my spy-movie-logic-focused mind assumed were laser turrets, although they were probably foam, and two signs at the end of the long hall, labeled 'Elevator' and 'Emergency'. We went to the elevator, and took it down to the floor the Wards HQ was on. I waved goodbye as she headed to the main room, nodding as she wished me luck with the PR guys.

I needed all the luck I could get.

-Shangri-La-

The interior of the aboveground PRT building was your average office interior from the late 90s; boring, soul-crushingly so, with white tile, white walls, white ceilings; those little keycode door handles on every other doorknob, and almost no identifying features beyond that. Luckily, I was a kid, so of course some poor sap had to escort me everywhere. Thus, it took no time at all to find the PR department's main office. No nameplate on the door, but I could hear murmurs of conversation inside. I knocked.

"Enter, please," came one of the voices, the other finishing his thought as I reached for the knob. The room contained two men, who were complete opposites of each other. The first was tall, skinny, dark-skinned, and had a bald head and a fancy, close-cut beard with a small swirl design near the back of the jaw; he was dressed in business casual, a blue button-down and tie with black slacks.

The other guy just looked odd.

Overweight, square glasses, a skater cut; he had a green t-shirt on that said 'Got Slurm?' on it, paired with corduroys in grey. His overall appearance was that of a man in desperate need of a wardrobe change. He might have been able to get away with the look as a teen, but the man must be in his late thirties at least.

They both motioned to the chair, glancing at each other as they did so. It was like watching Bugs and Daffy. The well-dressed one spoke first after we all had been seated.

"Hello, Michael. I'm Adrian Miles, head of the PR department for the PRT East-Northeast, and this is the national head of Public Relations, Glenn Chambers. Mr. Chambers is a very busy man, but your particular circumstances have led those in charge to ask for his personal touch with your cape persona." I was a bit shocked. Bad Clothes Man was in charge of PR? How did that measure up?

Glenn spoke, and I started to understand a little. The man could talk. "So, down to brass tacks. Reports say you have an Idea for a name. 'Materia.' I like the direction you took your research, but I think you're selling your powers short. Prima materia is a concept mainly focused on the elemental control you have, but leaves out your highest-ranking power, your reality manipulation, almost entirely."

"The powers that be have you down as a Shaker 12, Blaster 7, and Thinker 4, with subranks in Mover and Striker. As I understand it, ratings above 9 are reserved for powers that are so far beyond others of that classification that they are unique. Other holders of 12 ratings include Scion and a few of the S-class threats, which I'm sure they're grateful you are not. You might be the strongest cape in the Wards, period, and probably in much of the Protectorate as well. Not in raw destructive potential, but in sheer versatility."

"Normally, extremely young capes will be given names that capture their innocence, but you are too powerful for that. Rarely do we get a chance to craft a cape's public perception so cleanly; many Wards start as independents, making a name for themselves before joining. I will not patronize you; the transcripts of the power testing show a smart young man behind your prepubescent face. Therefore, I hope you understand when I say this:"

"Materia will not be your cape name."

A/N: The poll was tied. This was not an easy decision, please put away the pitchforks.