Dylan sat with his head resting on his arms. Were it to be silent, he would have been able to hear the clock ticking in the background, or maybe the sound of somebody breathing. Perhaps he would have heard the hum of the air conditioning or the buzz of electric lights.
But it was not silent. Not at all. No, Mr. Johnson was talking.
“And you see, class, when the South started deploying supers during the civil war, it marked an abrupt escalation to the conflict. Before, it had been relatively low key, or at least, as low key as a war can get. While mundane munitions and soldiers were effective in their own right, supers were dramatically more so. While they were far less prevalent at the time, and they still marked a dramatic increase in force compared to-”
Dylan did his best to tune him out. It was an effort that he’d had to make every day, for the past week. Mr. Johnson was probably a nice guy, or at least, that’s what Dylan told himself as he grit his teeth through the class everyday, but he was terribly boring to listen to. He would use 5 words where one would suffice, would often repeat himself, and, worst of all, would decide to go off on tangents that ended up derailing the entire lesson, after which he would have to frantically try and cram the rest of the day's lesson into the remaining time period. A task that, due to the aforementioned attributes, he seemed to be fundamentally incapable of doing. Which meant that, nearly every day, seemingly without fail, Dylan would find himself late to his next class.
Luckily enough, the teachers were understanding, but he still hated to show up late. It felt like everybody was watching him, judging him. He had probably inherited the trait from his father.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bell finally rang. Dylan grabbed his bag, and started to get up, but the teacher spotted him moving to leave.
“Ahhh, Mr. Reed, I’m not done yet. The bell doesn’t dismiss you. I’ll let you know when you can leave.”
Grumbling, Dylan returned to his seat. It was the same bullshit every time. What was the point of the bell, of the entire system of class periods, if they didn’t actually mean anything. The entire point of the bells was to signal that the class was over. That was their entire purpose, and Mr. Johnson just ignored it.
Mr. Johnson managed to wrap up after just 5 more minutes; a rarity. It normally took the man 10. He let the class go, with a reminder of an upcoming test. Dylan was one of the first ones up, pushing his way through the throng of people trying to leave the classroom.
As he strode through the hallway, he shook his head. How did he end up here? It really wasn’t what he had imagined. It was a month and a half since he’d left the town he’d grown up in, when his family had moved here for his fathers job.
At the time, he’d thought it would be a fresh start, a way for him to wipe clean the slate, escape the problems he had caused. He had been so optimistic.
In a way, it was a fresh slate. Dylan had managed to go that entire month and a half without using his power one time. He hadn’t gotten in any fights, or done anything much to stand out. He supposed that he was happy with that.
The whole thing came with its own set of problems, though. Dylan certainly didn’t feel as despondent as he used to, a few months ago, but he still felt regret over what he had done. But as the sadness retreated, another, familiar emotion rose up to take its place: Anger. It was a familiar feeling, one that he was well used to at this point. He remembered the feeling well, even though it didn’t quite take the same form this time around. It wasn’t nearly as intense, nor as prominent. Instead, it was subtle. It came out at the little things. A teacher talking too long, somebody bumping into him in the hallway, even the cafeteria serving food that he didn’t like.
It wasn’t explosive, and it didn’t really lead to anything, but it did build up. He could handle maybe one or two bad events without it ruining his day, but often, he’d find himself mad enough that he just had to clench his fists and breathe. And it added up. As the week wore on, he’d find himself waking each day just a bit more irritated.
He was feeling now, on his way to the next class. The sense of paranoia he’d had a month prior hadn’t entirely disappeared. He felt people's eyes on him as he walked, staring. They felt accusatory. Dylan knew that they weren’t. Most people probably didn’t even notice him. But it didn’t feel that way.
He pushed his way into his next class, the door slamming into the wall with an audible thump.
“Looks like somebodies pissed off”
Dylan ignored the comments and the wave of snickers that followed it, as he walked towards his seat.
Mrs. Wells, the teacher of this particular class, sent him a disapproving look. His anger retreated as shame washed over him. Thin, gristly, and old, Mrs. Wells had been one of the few people who had gone out of their way to help him adjust. She’d been the one in charge of the week-long “camp” he’d gone to before school started. It had been for new students, ones who hadn’t lived here before. Mostly, it had been immigrants. They’d been nice enough, if distant, so Dylan hadn’t become friends with any of them. The language barrier didn’t really help much either. While English was super common in most countries, it wasn’t the main language in most, and the level of fluency that you could expect from teenagers varied greatly.
But Mrs. Wells had been kind. She’d been there to answer his questions, she’d been the one to try and introduce him to the others. He was grateful, he supposed, even though it hadn’t worked.
Dylan locked eyes with her, and gave a brief nod of apology, as he sat down. He shouldn’t let her take the brunt of his anger. Mr. Johnson going over time wasn’t something to get so bent out of shape over. It was a mundane occurrence. He took a deep breath, and then let it out.
Mrs. Wells’s class was far more interesting than history, fortunately, and it was one of the few he could stand to pay attention to. Superpower mechanics. It was an elective, one of the few that he hadn’t needed to be prodded to take.
He was lucky that he knew Mrs. Wells. If he hadn’t there was a chance that he wouldn’t have gotten in. It was a fairly in demand class, especially with upper classmen. Most of the students were Sophomores or Juniors, with a few seniors thrown in here or there.
Mrs. Wells walked to the front of the class, a marker in hand, and began lecturing.
“Today, we’ll be covering the basics of growth factors. The study of how powers get stronger is fairly new. We’ve only had accurate data for the last decade or so, which means a lot of public knowledge is not correct. First, I’m sure that most of you are aware, but powers can get stronger. A supers’ abilities can drastically increase over the course of their lives. Who can tell me how long supers have to get stronger? Anyone?”
One of the students tentatively raised their hands.
“Yes?” Mrs. Wells called.
“Uh, about two months, and then they can’t anymore?”
“Wrong,” Said Mrs. Wells.
“Or at least, that’s not entirely correct. While it is true that growth is by far the fastest in the first two months, unlike what was previously thought, we haven’t ever identified it as ceasing entirely. Supers can continue to grow stronger their entire lives. However, that misinformation is just one example of the plethora of myths that surround super powers. The public has a very distorted view of them as a result of all the misinformation.”
Dylan briefly felt a spark of interest, but it quickly died. He was done with his power. It didn’t matter if it could still grow 90 years from now, he wouldn’t be using it.
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Mrs. Wells continued speaking.
“Now that we’ve dispelled the most prominent piece of misinformation about powers, we’ll move on to some of the confusing parts. Does anybody know how powers get stronger, exactly?”
She looked around, but nobody raised a hand. After letter the silence stretch on for a few seconds, Mrs. Wells spoke again.
“I see none of you are raising your hands. I’m not surprised. This piece of information hasn’t entered the public consciousness in the same way that a lot of other factoids have. I’m sure at least one of you think that training a power will make it stronger. This is technically true, but probably not in the way that you think.”
She turned, and started writing on the whiteboard. On one side, she wrote ‘body’ and on the other she wrote ‘power’.
“A normal human can improve their physical condition through training. Running, lifting weights, swimming, these are all things that will cause your body to adapt. Run every day, and you’ll get better at running. Lift every day, and you’ll get stronger. However, there are exceptions. You can overtrain, and regress. While damage from training will make a muscle stronger, too much damage will weaken it. Similarly, the damage has to come from training. Hitting your muscles won’t cause them to get stronger, even if they take a similar level of damage.”
She turned, and started writing a summary of what she just said under the body category.
“Powers are similar, but not quite the same. They respond to stress, but not in the same way. Powers must be stressed to grow, almost universally, even more so than the body. For most people, a light jog every day will make them better at jogging. A power won’t grow from light activity, however, unless it is extremely weak.”
She was writing under the power section now.
“However, powers also respond to general stress in a way that the body doesn’t. Intense fear can trigger their growth, or damage to the body, anxiety, etc. As long as it meets the intensity criteria, it will make a power stronger. Training a power directly tends to grow the primary ability most of all. However, other types of stress tend to train the secondary abilities. We’ll cover those more in another lesson, but for now, I’ll keep it simple. A primary ability is the main part of the power. For example, if a super had the ability to throw fireballs, that would be their primary ability. Secondary abilities tend to be a lot more subtle. If a super fears for their physical safety, they will likely become harder to hurt, or heal faster than they otherwise would have. Similarly, if a super is in a lot of fights, and they become physical, they will likely see increases to things like strength and reaction times. Mental stress isn’t the only form of stress that matters, however. Most supers, even ones that live relatively safe or normal lives, still see benefits. Subconscious stresses can affect these secondary powers, which means that supers tend to be taller, better looking, smarter, and live longer than the average. Additionally, damage to the body also counts as a form of stress.”
Her marker was moving back and forth in a furious blur.
“This is the primary difference in growth between powers and the body. Mental stress won’t alter your physical ability to run faster the way that training would. With powers, that isn’t the case. Mental stress can alter physical characteristics, and vice versa.”
She was interrupted by the shrill tone of the bell.
“That’s all the time we have today, class. I know it’s a somewhat complicated subject, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask, and don’t forget to review. Have a nice day, everyone.”
Dylan grabbed his bag, and got up. He tried not to think too deeply about what he’d learned. He knew why he’d taken the class, the subject deeply interested him, even if the thought of his own powers made him feel disgusted. That interest worried him, however. Would he end up regressing? It seemed like knowing all about his ability would make it easier to use.
Plus, he wasn’t sure that he liked what he was hearing. He’d noticed, even before he’d moved, that he’d gotten stronger, and that trend had only continued. At the time, Dylan had just attributed it to puberty. But from the sounds of it, it was very likely that at least part of his physical changes had come from his power.
He pushed the thought from his mind, and started making his way towards the cafeteria. It was time for lunch. He couldn’t say that he was looking forward to it, per say, but he was glad for the brief reprieve between classes.
This school was so different from his old one. While that had been a middle school, he had been in the highschool several times. It was nowhere near as packed as this one was. When he moved here, he was enrolled in Bay High School by virtue of it being the closest one to his house. There were over 1,500 students enrolled, all packed into the same building. It meant that walking the halls was comparable to walking the city streets, minus the cars. Dylan was glad that he was still growing. It meant that he was tall enough that most people moved out of his way.
Walking through the lunchroom doors, he joined the queue that was waiting to enter the serving area. While he waited, Dylan looked around the cafeteria. It was a nice room, as far as public schools went. Tall, made of large bricks that had been painted white, it had multiple sunroofs that let in plenty of natural light. A few potted plants decorated the corners of the space.
He was looking for a table that didn’t have too many people at it. Most of them were packed, with large groups of people, ones who knew each other. Dylan wouldn’t call them cliques, exactly. For the most part, those didn’t really exist, at least not how they had been portrayed in movies. As his eyes roamed the room, he caught sight of the one exception.
A group was sitting at a table, one that was far emptier than every other table in the room. There were about ten individuals sitting in the middle, comfortably spaced. A few others sat to the periphery. The people in the center didn’t talk to them as much.
The one group that could be called a clique was the group of students who had publicly declared their powers. They were at the top of the pecking order. They enjoyed a status that an average student would struggle to reach. A few of the most popular normal students could call themselves their equal, but that group was vanishingly small.
Dylan looked away, continuing to search for an empty table. They had space at theirs, but there was no way he’d sit there. For one, it’d be far too much trouble. He wouldn’t get attacked, or anything cliche like that, but he’d really prefer to avoid the scrutiny. Plus, it would make the few social interactions he did have more difficult.
The second reason was simpler. Seeing them sitting there, flaunting their powers, not a care in the world, made Dylan feel like his head was pounding. He didn’t need to go sit in a place that was basically begging to make him angry. He already had enough problems with his temper as it was.
The line moved slowly but Dylan still wasn’t able to find a place to sit by the time he reached the serving area. He flashed his school ID to the attendant, and stepped inside.
When he emerged five minutes later, he spotted a recently vacated seat. Hurrying over, he was quick to claim it. He set his tray down, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned. The guy who had grabbed him was tall, at least two inches over six feet, and more burly than the average student.
“Hey, man. That’s my seat you just took. You’re going to need to move.”
Dylan scoffed, and removed the guy's hand from his shoulder.
“I’m not leaving the seat. You weren’t there, I claimed. First come, first serve. Sorry.”
The guy squinted at him.
“You, I don’t recognize you.”
He looked down at the ID card hanging around the lanyard on Dylan’s neck.
“You’re a freshman, I’m a junior. That means you have to listen to me. And I’m telling you that you need to give me the seat, so beat it.”
Dylan felt his temper flare. He got right up close to the guy, looking him in the eye. The height difference made it awkward, but Dylan didn’t care.
The two stared at each other for a few moments, and Dylan felt increasingly tense. Just as he was sure he was about to get into a fight, the guy relented.
“Yeah, whatever. It’s not that big of a deal. This guy wanted to start a fight over a seat.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
Dylan continued to stare at his back for a few seconds, fists clenched. Slowly, he let them loosen, and, with a purposeful exhale, turned and sat back down at the table. By that point, what little heat his lunch had once possessed was gone. Not that it changed the flavour much. It was school food, after all.
He ate mechanically, zoning out, until he reached for something else and found that his tray was empty. He deposited it in a bin, and then headed to the bathroom.
Staring into the mirror, Dylan looked at his own expression. His mouth was tight. He had managed to keep a lid on it, but he had almost gotten into a fight back in the cafeteria. He stared into his reflections’ eyes, trying to focus himself, taking deep breaths. The anger was unnecessary. It didn’t help him. He needed to let it go.
Slowly, breath by breath, he let it slip, until it was nearly completely go-
The bathroom door slammed open, and a few people walked in behind him.
“Hey, that’s the guy that completely loses his shit every day when he walks into Mrs. Wells class. He’s a freshman, I think,” whispered one of the students. A few snickers followed.
Dylan felt his fists starting to clench again. He turned, purposefully not looking at the students, and made his way to the next class, still angry. It really didn’t seem like it was his day, did it?