The Bush League

There's another superhero team in Pittsburgh! Is that good news or bad news for Torrent and The Mysterious X?

(This chapter is a great jumping-on point if you are new to The East End Irregulars, but if you are looking for other chapters, hit the Story Directory.)

East End Irregulars: The Dismal Tide Chapter V

I’ll bet you didn’t know there’s another superhero team in Pittsburgh. It’s true! Well, by loose definitions of 'super,' 'hero,' and 'team,' at least. I’d better tell you about the first time I met them, because they actually become sort of important later on. Plus, it’s a funny story, and I discovered some other interesting things in the process. But the story takes some telling, so bear with me.

You would be forgiven for thinking that all I’d been worried about over the past few weeks was Evangeline, but that’s not really true. There was another subject that I’d fretted over almost as much, and the revelation of C.J.’s arrest brought it back front and center. I’m talking about my botched attempt to infiltrate the Global Parahuman Revolutionary Army.

My near-descent into supervillainy left me disgusted, of course, but that was a lot of guilt to shoulder all by myself, so as the days passed, I shifted most of the blame to Cascade. I hated her as much as I lusted after her, and the more I lusted, the more I loathed myself. Eventually, I decided she was just leading me on the whole time. That was the worst. I was furious and humiliated to think about how many guys she must have duped. I saw myself at the back of a long line of weak-minded patsies, emasculated at the brush of her lips, prostrating themselves for the promise of a flick of her tongue against the roof of their mouths. Did she kiss C.J. Gravish, too? Was Cascade the real reason that weasel was so enamored with the GPRA? My stomach twisted in knots just thinking about it. I wanted revenge in a bad way.

Two weeks had passed since I declined to flood Burleigh Multimedia on behalf of the GPRA. I’d kept my ear to the ground, but nothing had happened since then and I figured they’d given up on the scheme. But with Carl’s laughable attempt to vandalize Coxe’s home, the other shoe had finally dropped.

My only question was whether C.J. had been dragging his feet all this time or if it meant the Paras were on the move. I didn’t lean one way or the other, but I had to investigate.

I wasn’t worried about squaring off with them. They probably didn’t have many resources on hand if they’d resorted to recruiting barflies and twerps like Carl; for all I knew, their entire ‘army’ consisted only of Cascade, Scald, and the few dregs that had turned up at Birdie’s Tavern that night.

The problem was that I had no good way to keep tabs on them. I couldn’t very well go back to Birdie’s and ask them. If there were any more GPRA sympathizers at St. Bonaventure, they weren’t going to publicize it.

Debbie Finneran’s meltdown gave me some ideas, however. I knew she sometimes went to Teen Talent Coalition meetings. It was a safe bet that, if Carl didn’t tag along with her, she at least told him what went on there. I had a hunch that maybe that’s where they’d gotten the GPRA fliers in the first place. They usually held meetings twice a week and, as it happened, there was one that night.

TTC was a support group and social club for —do I really need to finish this sentence? Although I’d never been to a meeting, their posters and pamphlets gave the impression of a circle-jerk for those maudlin, human train wrecks that I loathe. It was not the sort of thing I’d ever consider attending even if I was open about my abilities. Nevertheless, there I was, walking into the Squirrel Hill Jewish Community Center for the night’s meeting.

I went in disguise, though it was a bit more low-key than my Torrent outfit: I kept the goggles, but traded the rest in for an old baseball cap pulled down to my eyebrows and one of my brother’s over-sized hoodies pulled over that. After getting a few dirty looks from the 'chosen people' as I wandered around the building, I found a door on the second floor with a piece of paper taped to it. The sign read: “Teen Talent Coalition: 8 PM.”

I opened the door to take a peek, and it was pretty much as I expected. The room was only a little bigger than a utility closet and almost as dingy, packed tight with plastic desk-chairs, most of which were broken. The room seemed a fitting metaphor for the half-dozen mopey, parahuman disasters crammed into it. I scanned the room quickly, looking for familiar faces, though most of them refused to make eye contact. To my disappointment, neither Carl nor Debbie were present. Then, someone in the front row arrested my vision: a tumble of red hair; a broad, white smile; and plump, ivory cheeks dappled with cinnamon freckles. It was Evangeline, a priceless jewel amid the refuse.

I couldn’t believe it. Eva never once hinted that she was a talent; I had found out only when she shared her MetaFriends profile with me — an accident, or so I thought. Now, seeing her here in public, I wondered if it was only me she’d been so circumspect with. Had she told others? Maybe Debbie Finneran had seen her here already. Did Carl know? Impossible. There would have been rumors floating around the school. I would have heard something. And yet, there she was. I didn’t know what to make of it.

My first impulse was to rush out the door before she recognized me, but her eyes landed on me and I was paralyzed. I turned my gaze and slunk inside, my shoulders hunched. I guess it was a fair enough mimicry of the other forlorn dregs in the room, because she didn’t say anything. I made my way to the very back of the room and sat down.

I had come to listen, not to commiserate with these losers, but even so, I figured I’d have to pipe up a few times. Nobody lets their guard down around the mysterious, silent stranger. Now I wondered if I could even do that without revealing myself to Eva. Luckily, I’m pretty good with accents, and I did a pretty fair impression of a Kanawha bumpkin. I wasn’t completely sure of it, but I thought it was different enough from my own voice and not too out of place for Pittsburgh that it might just work.

A couple more stragglers came in after me, including one guy who really stood out — a different sort of loser than the others. He swaggered in, swinging a long Pitt lanyard loaded with keys in one hand and balancing a steaming styrofoam cup in the other. I got the sense he was older than me, but not by a lot. About as tall, too, but kind of scrawny; his Pitt T-shirt hugged his torso the way a girl’s would, and his chest still didn’t poke out. He had a lot of hair; not long at the shoulders, but grown out on the top and sides and gelled up to to be intentionally messy. I had him pegged as one of those fraternity douche-bags until I noticed his pants were hospital scrubs. He nodded at the woman standing by the front wall and greeted her by name.

“Hi, Becky.”

“Hey, Michael! Hey, everyone! Looks like we have some new faces! That’s great!” she chirped. Becky had curly black hair tied back into a ponytail and a big enough nose to make me think this was her home turf. She looked fairly young, late 20s, though the shapeless clothing might have added half a decade. For some reason, I got the idea that she was a graduate student.

She looked right at me. “If unmasking would make you feel uncomfortable, I understand completely, but I promise that you can feel safe and comfortable here. This is a non-judgmental group. You’re among friends!”

I arched an eyebrow. “Seriously?” I said, in my mountain twang. But what I meant was more like, ‘Are you for real?’

A plastic smile stretched across her face. “Absolutely!”

She went on with her boilerplate introduction for new members: stuff about how they can help young metahumans deal with the challenges posed by their talents, communicating honestly with friends and family, dealing with prejudice, fitting in with peers, and using their gifts to contribute positively to the world. And on that point, she added, with a very condescending look: “…and I’m not talking about throwing on a cape and tackling bank robbers!”

Everybody chuckled at that. Except me.

I told you before that I didn’t come to talk, but that jibe rankled me. The chair creaked noisily as I shifted, almost like it was giving voice to my internal struggle to stay quiet. Ultimately, I couldn’t help myself.

“Uh… why not?” I said, pitching my voice a little. “Isn’t that a positive contribution?” The train wrecks laughed some more at that. It made me grind my teeth.

“It certainly can be, but… No, no, this is an important question, everyone! I hear it often enough. It certainly can be a positive contribution. There are many talents working with the police, fire departments, paramedics, and armed forces, and with an appropriate level of training and safeguards in place…”

“Pardon me, ma’am, I don’t mean to interrupt, but most fire departments in the state are volunteer and they go through two weeks of formal training. City cops don’t do much more than that.”

Rebecca was taken aback. “Uh, is that right? That’s… interesting. I didn’t know that. Well, the point I’m trying to make is that these ‘adventurous’ professions are very hazardous and really should be left to professionals. Anything else is socially irresponsible.”

That made me wince. I tried to keep my mouth shut. I really did.

“What about the Pan-American War?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

I leaned forward in my chair, eager to educate her. A bit too eager, since I briefly slipped out of my accent. “Well you see, back in the ’70s, all the socially responsible folk tried to conscript a slave army when their hired mercenaries bolted for the other side. Meanwhile, the militia spanked two separate invasions.”

As I was speaking, I noticed Evangeline turn around. She squinted and tilted her head at me. I’m still not sure whether she thought she knew me or just thought that what I was saying was really interesting.

Becky nodded vigorously the whole time, the kind of nod that someone gives when they’re not really listening and just waiting for you to shut up so they can jump in. (I do that a lot myself, so it’s easy to recognize.)

“That was a bit different, don’t you think? Certainly they must have trained regularly, and had professional leadership. General Weaver, for instance—” she said.

“Was a professional barber,” I put in.

A few of the kids giggled at that, but Becky got annoyed. “But wouldn’t you agree that there are problems with vigilantism besides incompetence? Thanks, I think, to an unrealistic and highly romanticized portrayal in media, I run into too many young talents who think they should use their gifts in ways that endanger themselves and others, ways that can easily run afoul of the law. There are many more constructive outlets than vigilantism.”

She kept saying the word like it was dirty, but I knew better. Talk about professionals all you want, but if you aren’t willing to take on the burden of protecting your own life and property, why should anyone else pick up your slack? Not for six bucks an hour, that’s for certain. That way lies the path of the victim and the slave. If you don’t have enough backbone to protect your wife, your kids, your neighbors, who is going to stop your hired protector from making himself your master? This is the whole damn reason we have fyrds and block governments and neighborhood JPs. It’s the reason the Commonwealths don’t have a standing army. That logic doesn’t fall down just because a man puts on a cape before he tackles bank robbers.

I didn’t get to say any of that, though. A skinny guy with bad acne eagerly announced his agreement with her by way of the oldest canard in the book: “Yeah, I heard a talent vigilante can expect to live an average of five months.”

“True! Sixteen talents are killed per day in North America alone due to misuse of their abilities!” Becky slapped her hand down on the desk as if that settled the argument, but I wasn’t about to let her get away with such nonsense.

“That’s a contextual lie,” I barked. For the moment, my back-country manners were forgotten. “That includes criminals, talents in high-risk professions who aren’t vigilantes, and even prisoners in New England. The truth is there just aren’t that many people who ‘put on capes and tackle bank robbers.’ And half of them are probably mundanes.”

To my considerable surprise, Evangeline weighed in on my side of the argument.

“How would they even know that, anyway? The average life span, I mean?” she asked. “Do they send out a questionnaire to the family of every vigilante that gets killed? If they were keeping it a secret, would their family even know the answer?”

Becky looked like she was about to blow over in a gust of common sense. You could tell it was the first time she’d ever considered such an obvious question.

“Seventy-three percent of all statistics are made up,” I said. Eva and the guy in the scrubs giggled.

A girl with a scowl that would have pleased the most dour Puritan scold didn’t take kindly to our levity. “This is the sort of attitude that leads to people saying we should be tagged and monitored like in New England!”

“Or blame us for spreading disease, like they’re doing right now,” someone else said.

This talk was more to Becky’s liking. “Exactly! Don’t we want to show that we’re just like everyone else?”

“But we’re not like everyone else!” Eva said. It was a truth bomb —simple, direct, irrefutable— and it blew that tired bit of sophistry to smithereens. Boom.

“That’s right,” I said, admiringly. “How can we call ourselves talents and then claim to be normal people?” And then I thought, ‘My God, she’s actually defending vigilantism! She understands!’ I was probably reading too much into a trivial statement of fact, but I was enormously encouraged anyway. Everyone had always told me how crazy and immature it was to want to be a superhero, so I had a real fear that it would scare Eva off. For the first time, my expectations moved in the other direction. I even started to entertain the idea of her joining us.

“The point —and I hope everyone here will agree— is that vigilantism is dangerous and should not be encouraged, and that is not what this group is about,” Becky declared. A half-dozen spring-loaded heads bobbed in unison.

I rolled my eyes; I was getting bored with the all the sophistry and bromides, so I was prepared to let it drop.

“I just thought your implication was unjustified.” I shrugged. “Most talents are spoon-benders anyway.”

Becky gasped. Those spring-loaded heads turned on me in stunned outrage.

‘Deja vu,’ I thought. It was a flashback to C.J.’s politics forum.

“What? It’s a fact,” I said. “Most talents don’t have abilities useful for crime-fighting… or much else, really.”

Rebecca exploded. “That is a bigoted statement! Your language and attitude are disruptive to the group. You have the wrong idea about the Coalition. Apologize or leave.”

Now, Martin and Linda Pereira didn’t raise no limp-wristed groveler; I knew no good came of apologizing to the perpetually offended. Besides, I was there to sniff out some news on the GPRA, and although I had given them the perfect opportunity to speak up in favor of what all the angry activists liked to call ‘direct action,’ I hadn’t heard a peep. In hindsight, I guess it was stupid to think that the Paras would recruit from this gaggle of fretting milquetoasts. I had no reason to stick around.

I nodded to Becky as I left. “Pardon me, ma’am. Didn’t mean to blow up your hugbox.”

I already told you about the dirty looks I got on the way in, and I got a lot more on the way out. I could feel all those disapproving eyeballs boring into my back. That feeling stuck with me all the way outside. I guess it was just a bit of residual paranoia, but I even thought I saw someone sneaking around the parapet at the top of the building. When I turned around, there was nobody on the roof, but the frat boy in the hospital scrubs was standing just outside the doors.

“Hey, Goggles,” he barked at me. “You got a big mouth. Can you back it up, or are you just a spoon-bender yourself?”

I laughed at him. “Back off, shitbird. I’m not looking for a fight, but I’m not going to be talked down to by a bunch of pampered, self-righteous pantywaists either.” I had dropped my fake accent. I didn’t see any point in keeping it up now.

The guy smiled mockingly. “Disguising your voice, huh? You got a secret identity and everything!” He took a couple of steps toward me. His voice and manner were extremely confrontational. He was trying to stare me down. “You think you’re a hero? Are you gonna save the world?”

He either had brass balls or a really righteous talent, because physically, he was no match for me. I could have bounced him like a rubber ball. Not that I wanted to; I did learn something from that night in Oakland. I had no beef with him, and besides, we were in too public of a place to brawl.

“I’m just a guy who thinks doing the right thing can’t be left to professionals,” I told him.

He cocked his head sideways and hummed thoughtfully. Then, to my surprise, he held out his hand, and in his palm was a small card with a time and an address written on it. “Maybe you’ve got what it takes to run with us, then. Call me Caduceus,” he introduced himself. “You got a name?”

I looked him over skeptically. My first thought was that he was with the GPRA. Outside of that circle, I had never yet met anyone who introduced themselves with their nom de guerre (as Cascade called it).

I shook his hand and took the paper. “Yeah,” I said, hesitating a bit. “I’m Torrent.”

“What’s your talent, Torrent?” He didn’t react to my name. Probably not GPRA, I thought.

“I have two,” I boasted. “Hy-K and psychometry.”

Caduceus grimaced. “This place is swarming with hydrokinetics.”

Now that was a suspicious reaction. I was familiar enough with the Reichenbach-James Index to know that hydrokinesis was an uncommon talent, so I got the feeling we knew the same people.

“Say that again?” I said, unsure that I’d really heard him.

“Never mind, just muttering to myself,” he said.

“Uh huh. What about you? What’s your talent?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Caduceus? Figure it out.”

I hadn’t yet figured out that he was the idiot, so I was baffled. “You can control Mercury?”

He gave me that look again, then turned and walked back inside. “See you around, Torrent.”

---

That Friday was opening night for The Mikado. I spent most of the performance checking my watch, hoping it didn’t run over. That sounds awful, I know, but I’d already seen it done much better by professional theater companies, and besides, they bowdlerized too much of it for my liking. I went mainly to support Eva, and she worked the stage like a real pro: not a single flubbed line or missed note to be heard. Alex said he thought she stole the show. I agreed, but then I would’ve had to, wouldn’t I? I’m not sure I ever really bought into her as Katisha — she was just too pretty, even under the makeup — but I had to admit that I was impressed at her ability. I had no inkling that she would have turned out to be a talented actress.

Afterward, we made a short visit backstage to congratulate her, but her dad was there, so we didn’t stay long. It was a good thing, actually, because it allowed me to duck out without a lot of fuss. Alex and I had an appointment to keep.

And so, Mysterious X and Torrent journeyed back into the wilds of South Oakland, this time to visit the address Caduceus gave me. It was a quarter to eleven when we arrived. It was a cloudy and moonless night, and the lone streetlight was on the fritz, flickering so much that it actually made it harder to see the house numbers than if it had been off. After stumbling around for a bit, we located the house. The place looked so dilapidated that I found it hard to believe even Pitt students would live there. We tramped through a small, weedy yard and peered into the basement. The doorway was open —and by that I mean the door was missing, so the floor was covered with litter and dead leaves blown in from the street. It smelled vaguely of mildew and trash. A few flies buzzed around us. If I didn’t know for certain we were in the middle of Pittsburgh, I’d swear we were in Kanawha hillbilly country.

“Low rent, eh?” X said, swatting at the flies.

Before I could reply, there was an explosion of light so intense that I cried out in pain. I squeezed my eyes shut and threw my hands over my goggles, but the white afterimage of the flare was already burned into my retinas. The electronic compensator on my goggles whined from the feedback; they were in low-light mode and I thought they’d be burned out for sure.

“Stop! Identify yourself!” It was a woman’s voice, but I couldn’t see her, and the echo made it hard to tell where she might be standing.

“Torrent and a friend, the Mysterious X. We’re expected! Now turn that fucking light off!” I pushed off my goggles and rubbed my eyes. The light dimmed very gradually, the way a hot stove top gives off an ever-fainter glow as it cools.

I heard, and eventually saw, Caduceus. “You were expected, Torrent. This isn’t an open tryout,” he said, yanking the chain on an old overhead light. Besides a pissy expression, he wore an old-fashioned white coat with his namesake stitched in the center. The coat was the kind that buttoned three-quarters of the way across the chest and hung down halfway to the knees. The ensemble reminded me of an orderly in a nuthouse.

“We’ll let that slide, though. Gang, Torrent is the guy I told you about from the TTC meeting,” Caduceus said. “Says he’s a hydrokinetic and a psychometrist. And, uh… what’s your talent, X?”

Alex flashed his extendable baton and twirled it around. “I’m the badass normal.”

“No powers!” exclaimed the girl. It was the first time I got a good look at her. She was a petite oriental in a loud yellow-and-blue jumpsuit with shiny wraparound sunglasses. A gauzy, pulsing halo floated around her; at first I thought it was just the lingering effects of the light show on my fried optic nerves, but it stuck to her instead of following my gaze around the room.

“I don’t need ’em,” said X.

The girl crossed her arms and snorted. “Then you don’t need a mask, either, mundane.”

Caduceus shot the girl a look and then stepped in front of her. “What Albedo means is that we have a pretty strict policy on non-talents, unless they’ve got security or military background—”

X laughed. “Lots of ex-commandos wanting to join your group, are there?”

I patted him on the shoulder and whispered to him, “Let’s hear them out, at least.” Then, louder, to the rest of the group: “He’s a boxer and expert with improvised weapons.”

Caduceus at least seemed receptive to that, nodding his head. “All right, we can go with that for now,” he said, eying his skeptical teammates. “Why don’t you guys introduce yourselves to our prospects?”

“Albedo,” the Asian girl said. “I project incandescent force fields. The harder you hit me, the hotter and blinder you get. I’m the one that strobed you as you came in.”

“I’m Ping.” He was a truly goofy-looking kid, with a gigantic dome of a skull and big, droopy ears that flared out to the side. The general shape of his head was reminiscent of a fire hydrant. I’d never seen anyone that looked so much like a cartoon character in my life. He talked about his powers like he was repeating from a script he memorized: “I can echolocate, giving me the ability to navigate in complete darkness and see around walls and other obstacles. I can also focus my pings into a disorienting ultrasonic attack.”

The next guy that stepped out from the shadows wore skinny jeans and a mesh football jersey that was a size too big for him. He was unusually lanky and a good six inches taller than Caduceus, even though he hunched his shoulders. There was nothing especially memorable about him, and yet I knew that I had seen this slouching string bean before. Slowly, it came to me: he was at Birdie’s Tavern the night of the GPRA recruitment drive.

My hackles went up. My head snapped to the doorway and my right hand dropped to the pommel of my stun baton, but no one moved to cut off our exit. None of them did anything provocative at all. The guy just waved at us.

“Chicks call me Repro, as in reproduction, both because that’s what they want to do with me and because I can summon copies of myself from parallel universes.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “Last time I saw you, you said you could see in the dark.”

“Huh?” Repro looked baffled. “Have we met before?”

Caduceus turned to him. “Does one of your doppelgangers have night vision?”

The string bean snapped his fingers. “Oh, damn! You must mean Ion! He’s my vampire hunter double. That guy’s a trip. Where’d you run into him?”

“Vampire hunter!” The Mysterious X squinted at him dubiously. With a note of archness in his voice, he asked, “What’s he do? Sell sunscreen to people with von Karnstein’s Disease?”

“No, real vampires like Strix! The undead! That’s why we call him Ion —you know, like Ion Dragonski, the horror movie actor.”

I was not amused. I stood half-crouched, arms loose at my sides, tuned-in psychically to the plumbing, ready to give them a steam bath. But the way they all just stood there babbling inanely about parallel universes and ancient horror flicks kinda paralyzed me. A moment earlier, I was sure it was a setup, but now I couldn’t tell if they were just retarded.

“All right,” I growled, “whatever shit you’re trying to pull—”

Albedo clucked her tongue, staring at me with a look of amused bewilderment. “Hey, why so uptight?”

“Yeah, you look like you’re going to punch someone,” said Ping. “Did he cockblock you or something?”

Repro chuckled. “Probably did. Ion’s a bit of a dick about that—”

“OK, OK,” Caduceus said, patting Repro on the back. “The doppelganger thing is always a little hard for people to swallow, so let’s not belabor it.” He had been watching me with growing confusion and alarm, and now he forced a placating smile. “Whatever beef you have with my friend’s double —and I’m sure it’s legitimate— I give you my word of honor we’ll straighten it out.”

X leaned over my shoulder, his voice a tense whisper. “What’s going on here?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but then just shook my head. I knew I’d seen Repro at the bar, chatting with Scald, and of course, I didn’t buy one word of his bizarre cover story, but if this was a trap, it was the worst execution in history. They didn’t talk like the Paras, and their reactions seemed sincere. For all I knew, Repro was playing dumb because he was as ashamed about flirting with Cascade as I was. I let out a pent-up breath and tried to relax.

Caduceus introduced himself to X, then turned to me. “I assume you’ve figured out my talent by now.”

“No,” I said, warily. “Are you a shrewd trader or something?”

He looked at me like I was a moron again. “You’ve never heard of the Caduceus before?” he said, pointing to the embroidered symbol on his smock. “I heal and harm at a touch. Bio-Psychokinesis, the best you’ve ever heard of.”

I grinned from ear to ear. “Oh-h-h, that Caduceus!”

“Naturally, Torrent, a lot of young talents have the same idea you do and want to join our group,” he went on in his pompous, lecturing tone, not only forgetting that he had invited me, but oblivious to the fact that he had just revealed himself a towering idiot. “We have a thorough initiation process to see just how serious and dedicated our new pledges are—”

“Pledges? Like a fraternity?” X asked.

“In a way, it is. A band of brothers,” said Repro.

“We’re not official yet, but we’re working on getting recognized,” Albedo explained. “We call ourselves Sigma Lambda Alpha Mu, you know, like—”

Yeah, I got it. “SLAM. How cute.” One letter too long for a fratt, but who’s counting? By now, the thought that this circus was an elaborate GRPA sting was too absurd to maintain.

“But before we talk about that…” Caduceus waved for Repro to follow him, and they lifted a big metal basin filled with dirty water from the corner of the basement, setting it down in front of me. “We can’t just take your word on your powers. So let’s see what you got, Torrent.”

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. “Sure. What do you want me to do with it? Boil it?”

“Can you really do that?” asked Ping, his eyes a little wide.

I shrugged. “Sure, but once it’s steam, it’s out of my hands.”

“Just throw it around a bit. But make it good.” Caduceus said.

I stood back and focused on the water, and in no time had it churning like Charybdis on the rag. An instant later, it geysered and hit the ceiling in a hard, tight spray. The ‘fraternity’ huddled up, whispering. A minute later, they broke, all but Albedo looking pleased. I guess they approved.

Repro slapped his hands together. “OK, Ping. Grab the application forms.”

I looked at him sideways. “Application forms? You’re kidding.”

“Here you go,” said Ping, offering both of us a stapled stack of papers. I looked at Caduceus. He, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, we don’t ask for real names or addresses until you’re accepted,” he said. “By the way, what school do you guys go to?”

“St. Bonaventure,” I muttered. In hindsight, that answer might have revealed more about our identities than it was safe to. I should have kept my mouth shut—and probably would have, if I hadn’t been distracted by the absurdity of the six-page application I was reading.

Albedo burst out laughing. “The prep school?! Are you serious?”

Repro’s eyebrows arched severely. “How old are you?”

“I’m 17,” said X.

“And I’ll be 17 next month,” I said.

Caduceus cringed. “Hold on a minute. We thought you were in college.”

“You have strict age requirements, too?” X asked sarcastically.

“We sure as hell do!” Albedo jabbed her finger at Caduceus. I wondered if she was his girlfriend, and if I should add ‘pussy-whipped’ to his growing list of shortcomings. “What were you thinking? These kids aren’t even old enough to drink yet! Are we vigilantes or wet nurses? Besides, how often are we going to need to throw a bucket of water on someone?”

“Not so fast, Albey,” Ping interjected. “These are the guys from the news—”

“Oh, shut up, Ping.”

“But I’m telling you, they’re the ones that broke up that car theft ring in South Oakland!”

Albedo stomped her foot and rounded on him, her little hands balled into shaking fists. “Big deal! They’re punks! One of them doesn’t even have powers. The only thing ‘mysterious’ about him is that he thinks he can be a superhero.”

Caduceus gritted his teeth. “If they can prove themselves, does it really matter how old they are?”

X bristled. “Prove ourselves? What the hell has SLAM ever done?”

“We took down the Terrace Village flasher and caught the guys who hacked the ATM in the quad,” Albedo said, her tiny nose in the air, preening like a polyester peacock over their meager accomplishments. We both laughed at her.

“That's way more impressive than battling the Mad Gasser of Panther Hollow or the Hazelwood Werecat, isn’t it, Torrent?” said X.

“And collaring Thorpe? A mere bagatelle compared to the ‘Terrace Village flasher,’” I replied.

“Collared Thorpe!” scoffed Albedo. “How full of it can you—”

“Whoa, wait,” Ping said, putting up his hand in front of her. “There’s a werecat in Hazelwood?”

I smirked at him. “Not anymore.”

“Hey, is this a competition? They have their wins, we have ours,” Repro said. “I say if they can pay the dues, they can join.”

I laughed. “Oh, brother! You have dues, too?”

“It’s in the application.” He helpfully pointed out the relevant clause. “$20 cash non-refundable application fee, and $50 per month thereafter while class is in session.”

The conversation was too entertaining to not continue. “Fifty bucks a month! So this really is like a fraternity,” I said. “What would we get out of these dues? Do you throw booze parties and stuff?”

“Absolutely!”

“But you two can’t drink,” Albedo added.

“She’s right,” Ping said, tilting his gigantic head. The motion, combined with the size of his gourd, reminded me of a boat banking on a wave. “We are crime fighters, so we can’t condone law-breaking. They’ll have to wait another year.”

“A year and a month,” Albedo said smugly.

“I think we should waive the fees for one year.” Caduceus said quickly. “After all, SLAM is a team first and—”

“I think it’d be more unfair to demand some members pay dues while others get a free ride,” Repro said.

“I got a free ride for you,” X said, slapping his crotch. He thrust the application form into Repro’s chest. “I’m done here.”

“Then hit the pike, Mysterious Norman!” Repro shouted.

I crumpled up the application and chucked it into the basin. “Me, too. You’d have to pay me to put up with you clowns.”

“Wait, now! Hold on a minute!” Caduceus called out, running over to the doorway. “As I was saying, SLAM is about the safety of the community first. Parties and carousing come in a distant second.” He eyed his teammates testily, his teeth nearly clenched as he spoke those words. “Application forms, membership dues, all of that is negotiable. The important part—”

“Whoa!” Repro yelled. “If they don’t have to pay dues, then I don’t have to pay dues!”

“The important thing,” Caduceus went on, ignoring him, “is that we want the same thing: to help people and protect our neighborhoods.”

But it was too late to smooth things over. Just before I slipped out of the doorway, I turned to Caduceus.

“You know, I don’t get it. Here you are, surrounded by all these brilliant collegiate scholars and not one of them told you that the symbol of the medical profession is the Rod of Asclepius, not the Caduceus.” I pointed to the embroidered symbol on his coat. “That’s one snake, no wings.”

Dead silence. I don’t think I could have struck a heavier blow if I kicked him in the balls.

As we wandered back into the street, though, I heard Caduceus yelling at his teammates. “You assholes! I should make you all shit yourselves! They actually go out on patrol! They fight crime! Do you think we could worry about that, for a change?”

And that, ladies and gents, was SLAM, the city’s senior superhero team —and, so far as I know, the world’s only superhero fraternity. Needless to say, it was a watershed moment in my career to be welcomed, however briefly, among such an esteemed assembly. The impression they made on me was so acute that I never again considered joining another team. As opportunities of this magnitude seldom come a second time, I thought that it was the last I would ever hear from them.

No such luck.

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