This was an 80s movie.
Decon thought about putting his mask back down, walking around the blind, and restarting this shit all over again. Because this was the kind of thing that happened in 80s movies, and he was pretty much not up for those sorts of shenanigans.
She was beautiful. She had on tight jeans that went down the middle of her shins and flat shoes – but she was leaning up against the door frame while she waited for Dr. Branniwick to get his attention, which meant her legs, and he liked legs, showed off their shape. The shirt was one of those flowery things, with the weird fit, but since she was also wearing a little blazer he was pretty sure it wasn't because she was pregnant. Not that he had to worry about that.
Should put his mask down and go back to welding. Ran a hand over his sweaty face and tried to blink away the lingering over-brightness their slow adjustment to normal daylight called. She still had that weird, perfectly back-lit look, which combined with her slow-motion casualness and general good looks was primarily to blame for him thinking he was suddenly in an 80s movie.
Or porn.
Despite being a seventeen year old boy, he wasn't up for that either. And, despite being raised by Jesuits, he knew exactly what sorts of shenanigans followed that up. And, because he was raised by Jesuits, now he felt both guilty and rude, instead of just confused and rude.
Both because Branniwick probably thought she was pregnant, and because he tended to look on verbal communication as suspicious and possibly the work of the devil, Decon just held up his hand to indicate he needed a breather and stepped away from the good doctor. He pulled off his gear and laid it on his table, because Branniwick's dirty look could be absolved with a good seam, and he couldn't fix a first impression. For reasons unrelated to shape of her legs, this first impression felt ominous and important.
He had no idea who she was. She showed up in his shop class, unescorted and asking for him by name. Suspicion wasn't as much in his nature as wary dread, but the type of catastrophe such a messenger conveyed escaped his imagination. He knew he hadn't gotten anyone pregnant, though a few of the guys in class appeared to have their doubts – Elias was giving him a double-thumbs-up which was pretty much the final check mark in the ‘you just messed up your whole future’ box on the form of life. She didn't have the feel of a cop; though something about her was... cop-ish, that wasn't it. She was too young to either be adopting him, or to be an adoption agent. Anyway, nobody was going to adopt a 17-year-old even more than nobody was going to adopt him.
She stood away from the door frame and put her sunglasses on top of her head as he approached. She smiled, but it wasn't quite friendly – it was a sort of smile he was used to. She stuck her hand out like a social worker, too, and introduced herself.
“Hi, Decon. I'm Seth.”
“Hi, Seth,” Decon replied, wiping his hand on his pants before he shook hers. “Nice to meet you.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “We'll see after we talk for a bit. I don't think what I have to say is necessarily something you like to talk about.”
Despite the many loud bangs of hammers on things both metal and wood, Decon was keenly aware of the fact that everyone – including Dr Branniwick – was risking fingertips to keep staring holes in his back. “Let's talk in the hallway.”
He turned as if looking for Branniwick's attention and waved to communicate his intention not to go very far, or immediately start shooting heroin, tagging lockers, or engaging in other kinds of hooliganism as soon as he was out of the classroom. The teachers, especially the good doctor, generally trusted him not to, at this point, but they couldn't show favoritism.
Seth preceded him a few feet down the hall. Decon took his time following. The school had been built in wings, so all the classrooms opened to the outside. The heat of the day felt pleasant next to the heat of the shop.
Seth had turned, and waited patiently for him to amble over, that half-smile still lingering like the afterimage of lightening before the slap of thunder.
“There aren't a whole lot of topics that are off-limits to me,” Decon said.
“I didn't say 'off-limits',” Seth replied. Maybe she hadn't waited so patiently. “I said that you didn't like it.”
“You're going to have to tell me how you could guess that, since we've never met,” perhaps a bit too defensive, but she was creeping him out a little, “that I can think of.”
“We haven't.” She frowned, then tugged off her blazer, threw it over an arm. The shirt had no sleeves; she had nice arms, too. “But there's a file on you. And I've read it.”
Files were bad. No – talking about files was bad. Files were good. Files were what told you that this twelve-year-old bit like a Rottweiler. His file...
“That's still not meeting, you know.”
“True,” she said. “Which is why I'm here.”
“It's sort of rude to read someone's file without their permission, and then assume you know them.”
“No, it's rude to talk about it. Everybody reads files.”
“I read remarkably few files in my daily life.” Actually a bit of a lie – well, he didn't read them. The brothers kind of... let him know stuff, sometimes. For safety. He didn't read much.
“You have my permission to read mine.”
She was sharp; his cop suspicions hadn't gone away, but they pointed more towards the sort of cop he respected, if not liked (he had trouble liking any cop). He still felt doom squeezing down on him, but he was smiling about it. Reflex. “I don't even know where I'd find such a thing.”
“That's not quite true,” she said. The smile she flashed at him was not the underbaked thing from before, but the sort of thing one woke up to the smell of and ran downstairs for. “I'm sure the brothers at the orphanage have probably let you in on the inner workings by now, if you didn't just figure it out from all those people from the state that dropped in on you.”
“Wow, so this got creepy really fast – and speaking of dropping in...”
She did not rush to fill the opening he left her, instead making him sweat over that little smile a moment – long enough to convince him she wasn't jumping for anything.
“They weren't from the state,” she said, and her smile dropped. “I'm sure you've realized that by now. Everything I've read indicates you're a pretty smart guy.”
“I think you read the wrong file.”
The look she gave him was actually a little withering. “I would think you, of all people, would realize how much against us the deck can be stacked.”
He looked at her again. “Us?”
“Islanders.”
That was it. Doom. His skin prickled. The wind got cold. “Now, I don't think–”
“I don't think you like to talk about it. I don't know why that is, but I can guess. And I can also guess that you know how extraordinarily lucky we are.”
“Lucky?”
She looked at him. He looked away.
“I'm putting together a team,” she said.
“A team?” He raised his brows, in what he retroactively hoped was not an offensively disbelieving way. “You?”
She didn't look offended. Her tone made her sound offended, by sounding as unoffended as possible. “I'm acting on behalf of Bernhardt Tenor.”
“Bernhardt Tenor?”
She sounded less unoffended. “Mr. Tenor is the sponsor.”
He held up a hand, stared at the grass a moment. “Forgive me, this is all bit much to take in. How about you start with what you mean by 'team.'”
“It is what it sounds like it is,” she said, her tone subdued. There could have been a lot of reasons for that. His sense of doom, so acute a second ago, had faded, but not his suspicion.
“Okay, because it sounds like crazy talk. I know that's kind of a dirty word these days, but 'Islander' has been a dirty word a lot longer. And nobody's put 'Islander' and 'team' together in the same sentence since, I dunno, like 1950, when we were still dropping a-bombs and eating cherry pie every night.”
“That's not entirely accurate, but I understand your implication,” she said – he had a feeling he'd just been roundly insulted in some extremely particular way. “The last official 'team' of Islanders was run by the government, and ended in 1979. Since then, there's been unofficial pairings and vigilante groups, but nothing serious, or with any larger impact than to upset some city cops.”
“Like, really upset cops. And, like, with dead people. On every side of the equation.”
“These were poorly organized,” she said, in that way which uses the hardness of a statement to engrave it in the stone of fact. “And, also, tended to lack funding. We have funding.”
“'We' don't have anything,” Decon said, “and I don't think you're talking to right guy about this at all.”
“In your file–”
“Are the many times I've failed basic English? How I can't even get a G.E.D? How I spent the first twelve years of my life labeled 'intellectually disabled' until they could change that to 'genetically unfit'? Did you even read my file?”
She was staring him down again – that same look that made him feel, not ashamed of himself, but ashamed for himself. As if his summary had somehow offended her.
“You're technokinetic.”
“You shouldn't use big words here.” Besides – pretty much the only time he'd heard that word had been when the 'people from the state' had visited, and they had followed it up with shaking their heads and quietly mumbling 'retarded' before abruptly leaving him be. Then again, that was how most adults had reacted, before he'd let go of the idea of he should try to be adopted.
“Do you have any idea how useful an ability like that could be?” she asked.
“Do you have any idea how useless it's been all of my life?”
Then, at once, her eyes narrowed, she let out a little breath. “Well, you pass shop. A lot. Anyway, your ability is not actually why Mr. Tenor wants you on the team.”
“It isn't.” Decon said. “The multi-billionaire stock-guy or whatever he does isn't looking for a way to turn whatever I've got into some kind of profit-making deal. That's not what's happening. That's not what you're describing.”
She took a deep breath, folding her arms. “Actually, no, though I know that's difficult to believe. There’s a clause in the contract that gives us rights to any inventions, techniques, or other intellectual property we happen to produce in his employ. He reserves the right of first offer, only. We also have access to his patent lawyers. But Mr. Tenor's goal is, actually, for him to have as little personal involvement as possible. He wants to be able to write off this particular venture as a charitable mission. He's willing to invest considerable funds into it, but the remuneration will be handled through other channels.”
“And that makes it pure and good?”
“That makes it malleable,” she said. “And that makes us – potentially – powerful influences on how pure and good it turns out to be.”
Decon paused. He stepped back, towards the edge of the concrete and the sunlight. It was starting to feel hot, even to him. Walking closer to the breeze felt better.
This was too odd. This was way, way, too odd. This was also... weirdly fitting. Tempting.
He was going to age out soon. That thought he stored somewhere in the back of his mind, like the memory of getting the kid-size Bruins jersey he'd gotten when he was five. A lucky break in the donation bin. Brother Matteo practically decked the guy carrying the bin in to save it for him.
She wasn't saying it, but she knew it, if she'd read his file. She knew he had nowhere to go. How much was she banking on that?
“So, what, I'll be Mr. Tenor's mechanic?”
“No,” she said. “We chose your file specifically because your experience helping at-risk youth. One of the thing the Vets do when they drop in on an Islander is determine how much of a threat to society she is. To do that, they take a lot of testimony and talk to a lot of people, and they do it over several years. Your evaluation noted the way all of the priests mentioned your ability to empathize and work with your peers, some of whom were very troubled. The consistency of this testimony is part of why you're not wearing a hospital gown and shock collar in a cement bunker right now.”
“They don't do that,” he said, reflexively. It was refreshing, though, that she looked at him like she knew this to be a lie, and knew why he'd say it. Another Islander certainly would.
“What do you do?” he asked.
She blinked. “I'm pyrokinetic.”
“The hell you say.”
She nodded, then, slyly, though not shyly, she brought up her hand before her chest, palm cupped towards the sky. With a little gasp, it was suddenly filled with fire, rolling, twisting, twining tightly around itself in variegated white and orange ferocity before she winked it out.
“How come you're not in a bunker?”
“I have a strong desire to help others,” she said. “And my mother is a very good lawyer.”
He nodded. “So what's this team doing, anyway, if not playing with powers?”
“We're helping people.” She straightened her back, presenting him with that formal, social-worker attitude again. “Formally, we'll be working at the Amelia Tenor Peer Engagement and Assistance Center, as the Tenor Group for the Assistance of Young Islanders.” She dropped back into at-ease. “Informally, in order to give himself a 'cause' sufficiently individualized to increase his notoriety while also improving public opinion on his ethics, Mr. Tenor has agreed to house, bankroll, and support this group. He has also, however, left its organization and mandate largely up to me.”
“A teenage girl.”
“I interned for one of his companies back home last summer, so I am an exemplar, whose past behavior earned his confidence that I would not endanger his image,” she nodded. “I have no intention of doing that. But this will not a be a softball charity. We will help other Islanders. We will improve our overall image in society. We will do good.”
It was a warm again, and now he knew why. Now he also knew how a teenage girl could convince powerful adults of her absolute sincerity.
“Okay,” he said, then held up a hand, “I'm interested in helping. I'm not sure about all this, and I won’t sign anything, but I am interested in helping.”
Even so soon, though, it was clear she didn't expect his caution to last. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a card – an actual, honest-to-God business card. “Here's my number. Call me when you'd like to talk further.”
He held the card up a little bit to the light, feeling the cardstock – a real business card.
“If you're worried about my intentions,” she said, looking at him cautiously, “you can come by the Center. I'm already set up there. I said you can read my file – you can access a copy there.”
He nodded slowly. Did she ever accidentally set them on fire? “What if it's not you I'm worried about? I think it's a little more practical to worry about the billionaire.”
Looking off to the side for moment, she considered this. Her eyes leveled on him as focused and as firm as they'd been all throughout their talk. “When you come to the Center, I'll show you who else I'm trying to get on the team. I believe you'll worry less about Mr. Tenor's ability to bully us after that. Plus, Decon,” she knit her brows, “I can set things on fire at will.”
He raised his brows, but all he got back was the abrupt return of that glorious – and now, slightly frightening – smile.
“Come see my plan. You'll like it, I think,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Decon,” and without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel, and walked away, calling over her shoulder “I'll see you at the tower.”
Tower. She'd said 'center' before. He'd pictured a youth center. Now he was meeting the mysterious, beautiful, superpowered woman at a billionaire's tower, to talk about saving his people.
80s movie?
80s movie.
He'd been thinking Weird Science, but maybe it was more Never Ending Story. He'd take Never Ending Story over Weird Science any day, but it was no Willow. The brothers really needed to update their collection, but since it was all donations – and honestly the piece of equipment that operated the best was the VHS player – there wasn't much to be done. Still.
Tapping the card against his palm, he turned back for the classroom, but kept an eye on the empty hallway through which Seth had left.
Whatever was going on, he knew he wasn't Atreyu, but he could only hope he wasn’t the horse.