[Smells Like Teen Spirit]—❈—02:: Phonecalls

This is the list of Aiden's powers:This is the list of Aiden's powers:

Captain America Physiology

Precisely what it says on the tin; the strength, endurance, durability, and agility of the most iconic of the MCU super soldiers.

—❈—

Spider-Man Regeneration

The healing factor of Spidey Parker. Nowhere near badass enough to go from 0-100 in sixty seconds max like a certain smart-mouthed merc or his best frenemy, the feral Honey Badger, but good enough for him to confidently say of a blade to the gut “‘tis but a flesh wound.”

—❈—

Sword of Cut

Like Tinkledeath from the Inheritance Cycle, this is a summonable weapon that can cut literally anything.

That wall over there? Cut. That ABB gangbanger’s finger he’s flipping you off with? Cut. That solid steel door? Cut. Shielder’s forcefields? Cut. Alexandria’s skin? Cut. Sibby the pussycat lady? Cut. An object fucking time-locked by Clockblock? Motherfucking cut.

If it needs cutting, the Sword of Cut will slice it. The only downside to this weapon is that it has a one and a half foot long blade and thus can only do that much cutting at any one time.

—❈—

Nose: Thinker 7

Ever met one of those people who can smell out all the condiments in a dish from a room away?

No? Well, pretend you have, and pretend that Aiden is one of those people, and everyone within smelling range of him is a well-seasoned dish.

Tattletale can be found crying in the corner.

—❈—

Healing Hands

Not actually the aptest of names, since the power doesn’t really heal, simply tweaks any person or animal it’s used on to an ideal state.

A sickly grandma? The fittest and healthiest she can be for her age. A man with chronic depression? Fixed. Piggot with her years of scars and excess weight? Suddenly fit as a fiddle. No scars, no wear.

Anything from missing limbs (even if congenital) to genetic fuckery like brittle bone disease, all of it, gone with a touch.

Because shards are jerks though (but mostly because our protag is broken enough), it only fixes each target of the power ten percent of the way, with a one hour cool down for each target.

So, use it on a hundred people a second apart? Fine. But each one of those people will have to wait an hour before they can get another ten percent fix.

Healing Hands can fix anything; the only things it can’t fix are Aiden himself, and Taylor’s depression.

—❈—

Bleach Bullshit

Remember the soul reapers of Bleach and their bullshit standing on air flex? Well, with this power, you too can be like them.

Treat any surface (yes, even the very air) as solid comfortable ground to stand on, regardless of pesky little things like geometry and the very laws of the universe.

—❈—

Shield of Block

What would a Worm fanfic protag be without their bullshit trump power, you ask? Absolutely nothing!

And that’s why we’re introducing The Shield of Block! (name pending)

Got an inconvenient power effect coming your way? Well, equip your Shield of Block and watch your troubles melt away like a snowball on Satan’s arse.

Don’t think of it as a shield, think of it as plot armour.

—❈—

Portal Time

Aiden has an uncanny ability to find the zipper holding the seams of space together.

Zipping it open creates a seven foot high portal to anyplace that he’s visually familiar with.

A ride through it always takes ten seconds through an inky, black void, regardless of destination.

PS; for the sake of your own sanity, please ignore the big, blinking eyes. They probably aren’t attached to anything that will eat you.

—❈—

Get My Nightcrawler On

If you thought the portals were useful, try the ability to teleport anywhere within a ten foot bubble around you with pinpoint accuracy.

—❈—

Taylor Hebert, Eat Your Heart Out

As a side effect of his teleportation power, Aiden has perfect awareness of the space within his ‘teleportation bubble’.

And when I say perfect awareness, I mean Perfect. Awareness.

—❈——❈——❈—

Story starts here:

Ever since I got my powers, my hearing has improved significantly. Not quite to superhuman levels, I don’t think, but definitely enough for me to be able to listen in on a phone call happening right in front of me.

Especially when said call is on speaker.

“Hello,” a recorded female voice comes on first. “You’ve reached the Protectorate Application Support Center. Please note that your privacy is our highest priority, and your caller ID has been automatically blocked on our end.

“Please, we encourage you to not share any personal details with our agent, as this call is being recorded for posterior use. Thank you.”

A dial tone comes on for a few seconds, then a cultured, male voice says; “Good morning, you’ve reached the Protectorate Application Support Center. My name is David. How may I help you today?”

“Yes, good morning,” Mom says, using her business voice. “I’m calling on behalf of my son. He’s a parahuman, and we were thinking about signing him up.”

“Your son; he’s a minor?”

“Yes, he is. I’m calling to see about signing him up for the wards.”

“Okay, ma’am,” David says. “But, I have to ask, is your son aware of, and in agreement with your decision?”

Mom blinks and I do too.

“Um, yes, he is” she says, then, after a moment, asks; “Do you usually have mothers calling without their children’s consent?”

David chuckles. “Just asking the questions I’m required to, ma’am,” he says.

Mom makes an ‘ah’ sound.

“Anyway, ma’am, I’m afraid we’re going to require hard evidence of parahuman ability before we go any further,” David says.

“Oh.” Mom looks at me. I shrug. “Uh, okay, how do we give you that?” she asks.

“It’s actually not complicated at all,” David says. “I’m going to give you an email address, and you’re going to send a video of your son showcasing his powers while holding today’s newspaper to that address.

“Please make sure that his identity is masked, and that there are no identifying objects in the background like family photos or diplomas.

“Don’t film in front of a window either, or, if you must, then make sure that they’re covered; a lot can be known about a person’s location from the view through their window.”

“Are all these security measures really necessary?” Mom asks, sounding a little worried now. I feel the same.

The Protectorate claims to be safe, impregnable, and while anyone with half a brain knows that that’s obviously untrue (at least to the extent that they make it sound), seeing as the organization has stood for decades now despite everything, I’d still expected some measure of security.

All these measures being taken though… it’s starting to look like The Protectorate can’t even trust it’s own people.

“Oh, no, no, they’re just precautions,” David hurries to placate. “Every person who is aware of your son’s identity is one more person who could compromise it, even if unwittingly.

“We’re just trying to make sure that your son is as safe as we can make him, ma’am.”

Well, that is definitely the right thing to say, because it seems to have calmed down Mom.

Hell, as much as I hate to admit it, it’s calmed me down too. In fact, them showing themselves to be this competent so far is actually raising my opinion of them.

Which is honestly kinda annoying, because I don’t want to have a high opinion of The Protectorate.

“You were saying something about a video?” Mom asks, getting the conversation back on track.

“Right. So, he just has to showcase his powers while holding today’s newspaper. Oh, and uh, state for the record a moniker we can use for his case file. After you send the video, you should receive a reply in an hour or two.”

“That’s it?” Mom asks.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s it,” David confirms. “Someone else will instruct you from there on.”

“Alright then,” Mom says. “What’s the email address?”

I pick up my phone before she can start looking for a pen, and type it down as David dictates it.

“Alright, David, thanks for your help,” Mom says.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a wonderful day.”

The call ends.

“So,” I say as Mom turns to me, “where are we going to get a newspaper?”

Down the street, it turns out. Apparently, I’ve somehow missed the newspaper vendor a two minute walk away from our building all these months.

Mom’s getting late for work though, and I suggest we save making the video for later, when she gets home (or maybe tomorrow), but she shoots that down.

Guess we’re doing this now.

We film the video on my phone; we draw the curtains on the windows, cover up my face, and I summon my magical sword and teleport around a little bit while holding the newspaper.

Finally, because Mom thinks that it’ll help my chances, I mention my healing power.

When I ask what chances exactly mentioning the healing power will help, seeing as the sword and teleportation alone are more than enough to get anybody interested in recruiting me, Mom says; “Healing is a rare power. Rarer things cost more, especially if they’re useful.”

My jaw drops. “Are you seriously trying to profit off your child?”

Mom gives me a blank look. “Of course. Why else do you think people have them?” she asks, with confusion so genuine sounding that I would believe it to be real if I didn’t know better.

I gasp in faux-horror. “Shame on you, Mom.”

We laugh, for a moment, then my eyes roam our Crappy (with a capital ‘C’) apartment.

“The money will be nice,” I say.

Mom’s eyes scan the apartment too. “Yeah,” she says, “it will be.”

Yet another reason to join the wards; money.

Soon the video is sent, and Mom and I head our separate ways for the day; me to school, and her to work.

School is… well, it’s school.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, Novel High has got nothing on the horror stories I hear of Winslow, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is not a good school.

It is a not good school in a not good part of town, and that pretty much sums it up.

It is also my first year in this not good school, and, so far, I’ll rate my experience as a solid ‘not too bad’.

I don’t know if I’m just lucky, or if it’s my natural charisma which I’ve learnt to use to great effect, but, somehow, things have honestly been not too bad; I have some friends, the people who dislike me aren’t particularly hostile about it, and the teachers aren’t too bad either.

So, yeah, school is school.

During lunch, I check the email account we used to send the video to The Protectorate, and find that there’s a reply waiting.

It's marked as read, meaning that Mom must have already logged into the account from work to read it.

I open the email.

It’s short and to the point:

For further information, call this number;

And then a phone number at the bottom.

I call Mom.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, Baby. Lunch?”

“Yeah. I saw the email.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Did you call yet?”

“No, when I get home.”

I’d thought as much.

“Alright then. Bye.”

“Bye, Baby. Love you.”

“Mom, I’m a grown man. Stop calling me that. And yeah, I love you too.”

Mom laughs and hangs up.

I pull the phone from my ear, my small smile fading away.

This is getting realer by the minute.

—❈—

“You look nervous,” Mom says as she types the number into her phone.

“I feel nervous,” I admit.

Mom takes my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m sure they’ll just want to meet us somewhere to talk.”

She dials the number, putting it on speaker like she’d done in the morning.

“Hello, this is Hannah Washington speaking,” the pleasant voice of a woman says from the phone’s speaker. “Is this Musa?”

“Hi,” Mom says, “this is… Musa’s mother. We were told to call this number in the email The Protectorate sent.”

Musa is the pseudonym I’d chosen for myself when I sent the powers video.

Mom hadn’t liked it, but she’d understood; after all, Musa is my name. Or, I suppose I should say, was my name.

I stopped going by it when we moved to Brockton Bay.

See, we figured the only thing worse than being a person of colour in the Nazi capital of the United States, was being a person of colour with a name like Musa al-Farag in the Nazi capital of the United States.

So, when we moved here to Brockton Bay, I used my proper, American middle name, Aiden, as did my Dad and Mom, and we changed our last name to Whitaker.

And you know what, I don’t really mind the name change. I really don’t. What I mind is that we felt that we had to do it. To be safe. To be happy.

What I mind is that, four months after said name change, an Empire thug gunned down a man named George Whitaker, because he bumped into him in the grocery isle.

That’s what I mind. And I mind it very much.

Exactly like Mom said, the conversation with the PRT liaison, Hannah Washington, was to set up a meeting, and it took the two women little time to decide on a time and a place.

Well, the ‘place’ is the PRT building, but we’ll be meeting Hannah somewhere more convenient for us, so she can take us there all secret-like.

Mom hangs up.

She looks at me.

“Guess I’m joining the wards tomorrow,” I say.