[Smells Like Teen Spirit]—❈—01:: You're A Parahuman, Aiden

This is what Aiden (Musa) looks like:This is what Aiden (Musa) looks like:

PS: this chapter and the following ones occur BEFORE the events of the prologue.

—❈——❈——❈—

“Mom, for the last time,” I say, a little exasperated, “I don’t want to join The Protectorate. Hell, I don’t even want to be a cape.”

“Well, you are, and that’s final,” Mom says with finality.

I splutter. “What? No, it’s not. What are you going to do? Drag me over there and force me to sign up? I’ll sue.”

Mom gives me a flat look. “Then you’d better hope that you win enough money in compensation to feed yourself,” she says simply.

My jaw drops. “You’re kidding, right?”

Mom ignores me and continues preparing breakfast in our tiny kitchen.

I sigh. “You know, most mothers would be happy that their fourteen year old son has no interest in the cape life,” I say.

Mom’s reply is as swift as the spinning of her wrist as she whisks the eggs. “Most mothers don’t have a fourteen year old cape for a son.”

“I’m not a cape,” I disagree immediately; reflexively. “I’m a parahuman.”

“A meaningless distinction,” Mom says without turning.

I sigh again, getting genuinely irritated now. “Mom, I don’t want to be a ward. Why is this so important to you?”

Mom stops. Then, after a moment, she sighs and turns. “Because for years I listened to your father talk all about how parahumans—” she places extra stress on the word, just to mock me I know “—can’t stop themselves from using their powers, even if they want to. I’m not going to let you wind up in a situation where your powers get you in trouble; at least not without making sure that you have people who can get you out of it.”

I roll my eyes.

Dad had been a bit of cape geek… well, no actually, I love the man but he had been a major cape geek, and one the beliefs he’d held the strongest onto was the notion that, powers somehow made parahumans use them.

A notion which, in my not so humble opinion, is just rubbish.

“Mom, for the last time, powers don’t make parahumans use them, it’s simply human nature; if someone has wings, odds are they’re going to fly, even if it causes trouble for everyone else.”

“Well,” Mom says, “you’re human and you’ve got wings, probably literally with all the powers you have; you’re joining the wards.”

I throw my hands into the air in frustration. “For God’s sake, Mom, why is this so important to you?” I say, making sure to moderate my volume even in my frustration; the walls in this building are practically wafers. “I’m not going to use my powers. I’ll be fine.”

Mom looks at me, really looks at me, those warm, chocolate brown eyes I see every time I look in the mirror boring into me.

Despite the weight of the moment, a small part of my mind notes how much healthier she looks and moves since I gave her a tune up with my healing power.

She practically glows, even with the little sleep she’s had.

“Okay,” she says and walks to sit with me at the small, rickety dining table that, for want of space, is almost entirely in the living room.

She takes my hands in hers.

“Aiden, I know how you feel about capes. And I know how you feel about The Protectorate, and believe me, I feel the same,” she says, eyes shimmering with held-back tears from a pain sixteen months old. “And I understand why you don’t want anything to do with them; but can you honestly tell me, that you will never use any of your powers?

“The strength, the speed, the teleportation, the healing, for God’s sake. Can you promise me that you will never use them? Ever?”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

I can’t.

I’ve had my powers for a total of seven days, and already there’s this maddening itch I feel in the back of my head every time I hear that asshole down the hall from us getting rough with his girlfriend.

It is an itch borne from the knowledge that, I could go over there and make sure that he never harms anyone else again. Ever.

And God, would that feel good, because there is just so much rage bound tightly within my chest for all the pieces of shit like him in the world; pieces of shit who get off on making life difficult for others.

Pieces of shit like parahuman criminals and the so-called heroes who ‘stop’ them.

Mom squeezes my hands affectionately, and I take a breath to calm myself.

“You need an outlet, Aiden” she says, as though she can see into my mind.

And who knows? Maybe she can.

“You need a place to safely purge out this rage in you, and the wards is perfect for that. Because if you don’t then I’m afraid that, one day, you’re going to do something very stupid and very dangerous, and I won’t be able to help you.”

I sigh, in defeat this time. She’s won, and from the cocky smirk on her face, she knows it.

Mom rises and kisses my head.

“My beautiful boy,” she says as she does.

I swat her away playfully.

“Mom,” I whine, “I’m a grown man.”

Mom snorts. “You know I cook your food, right?”

“And I love you for it.”

Mom laughs, light and happy, and, for one moment, my mind can’t help but flash back to those dark months after Dad when she’d seemed incapable of ever doing that again.

Even now, after sixteen months, they still come so rarely.

Wanting to savour it, I activate one of my ten powers; a thinker power that makes me able to smell emotion and, if I focus, much more.

I take a whiff, an amalgamation of aromas that is all Mom, rushing into my nostrils.

I parse it apart; her satisfaction at talking me to her decision, minty and cool, her raw, burning love for me like a hearty stew, warm and nourishing, and her joy, like a field full of flowers under a clear summer sky.

Underneath those are other things, the things that I’ve come to understand are always there in her, maybe muted every now and then, but always waiting, ready to push back to the surface when life comes a-knocking.

Her worry, like overripe onions; worry for me, for her, for us, and for a thousand other things that mostly boil down to a lack of money. There’s anger in there too, burning with the smell of a blazing forest, and, of course, last but not least, her sadness, smelling like the damp depths of a lightless dungeon.

There are some fainter aromas still in there, some focus on the meal she’s preparing, a little bit of greed (likely from the thought of the money I’m sure to make as a ward) and a host of other things.

I take it all in, accepting it all as parts of my mother, but I focus on the joy, losing myself in it.

Mom smacks me on the head lightly.

I blink, coming back to myself, and I see Mom staring at me, annoyance and worry more prominent in her smell now.

“Stop getting high on my emotions, Aiden, it’s weird.”

Right.

I turn off the power.

Mom watches me for a second more, confirming that I’ve turned it off, the she returns to her cooking.

“So, uh, I assume you have the PRT number for parahumans who want to sign up?” I ask. Because there is no way in hell Mom would go through all the trouble to talk me into signing up if she hadn’t even done that much.

“Uh-huh,” Mom says, “let me finish this and we’ll call them.”

Much sooner than I would have preferred, Mom is done with the meal, and she picks up the phone to dial the number.

I sigh. I guess we’re doing this then.