The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

"That wasn’t a question."

"I know." She was already walking toward the elevator, rolling suitcase trailing behind her, garment bag reclaimed and slung over her shoulder like a trophy. "I’m practicing my leadership skills. As heroes in training, we need to develop command presence. I’m developing."

"You’re developing the ability to conscript people into manual labor."

"Same thing, honestly." She hit the elevator button and turned to face me, blonde hair swinging with the motion. "Also I brought snacks. Good snacks. The expensive kind from that place on Meridian with the imported chocolate and the fancy packaging."

"You’re bribing me."

"I’m incentivizing. There’s a difference. The difference is that bribery is illegal and incentivizing is just good business strategy." The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, turning to face me with that incandescent smile still firmly in place. "Coming?"

I grabbed her second suitcase because apparently this was my life now. The weight was significant enough that a baseline human would have struggled. My eighty Strength registered it as mild inconvenience at best.

The elevator rose to the third floor. Felicity filled the silence with a continuous stream of commentary about her flight from Seattle, her mother’s opinions about her packing choices, and the specific shade of green that one of the flight attendants had worn that Felicity found personally offensive on an aesthetic level.

"Like bestie, no shade, but chartreuse is not your color. Chartreuse is not ANYONE’S color. Chartreuse is a color that exists to make other colors look better by comparison. It’s the comic relief of the color wheel."

"You have strong opinions about chartreuse."

"I have strong opinions about everything, Lukas. That’s called having a personality." The elevator opened onto the third floor of the West Tower. Female residential wing. The hallway smelled like cleaning solution and the faint floral undertone of whatever products the early arrivals had already unpacked.

Room 304 sat halfway down the corridor. Felicity produced a keycard from somewhere in her shorts that I chose not to think about too carefully and swiped open the door with a flourish.

The apartment was identical to mine in layout but completely different in atmosphere. Where my room felt like Diane had furnished an upscale hotel suite, Felicity’s space radiated warmth before she’d even unpacked. Pink accents on the standard-issue grey bedding. A string of fairy lights already hung above the headboard, battery-powered and softly glowing despite the morning sunlight streaming through the window.

"I sent some stuff ahead," she explained, dropping her garment bag on the bed. "Mom thought I was insane for prioritizing the lights over actual clothing but like. Vibes are important? You can’t just exist in a space with bad vibes. That’s how people become serial killers."

"I don’t think that’s how people become serial killers."

"You don’t KNOW that. Have you done a study? Have you personally interviewed serial killers about their bedroom lighting situations? No? Then you can’t rule it out." She unzipped her first suitcase and began extracting items with the focused energy of someone conducting an archaeological dig. Skincare products. More skincare products. A truly alarming quantity of skincare products. "Put that one by the closet, please and thank you."

I moved her second suitcase to the indicated position and watched her work. Her hands moved with the speed of someone who had done this exact unpacking routine many times before. Each item had a place. Each place had been decided before she’d even seen the room.

"So." She pulled out a makeup bag the size of a small child. "How’s your girlfriend handling the separation? Sloane, right? The pink-haired explosion girl? She seemed intense during the exam."

"She’s adjusting."

"Adjusting like she’s fine, or adjusting like she’s going to blow up her dorm room if you don’t text her back within thirty seconds?"

"Those aren’t mutually exclusive."

Felicity laughed. The sound was bright and genuine and filled the small room in a way that made the space feel larger. "I love that for you. I really do. A relationship built on the constant threat of property damage is very on brand for hero couples."

She bent over to reach something in the bottom of her suitcase. The motion caused her pink shorts to ride up to a degree that my eighty Intelligence processed in excruciating detail. The curve of her thighs. The way the fabric stretched across her backside. The faint hint of lace at the leg opening that suggested her underwear choice was equally brief.

I looked away. Ceiling. Nice ceiling. Standard institutional white. Very fascinating structural integrity.

"You okay over there?"

"Fine."

"You went quiet. You never go quiet. You’re like. Aggressively verbal. It’s one of your whole things." She straightened up holding a stuffed rabbit that had seen better days, its fur worn and one ear slightly droopy. She caught me looking and clutched it to her chest defensively. "Don’t judge. Mr. Whiskers has been with me since I was four. He’s a founding member of this household."

"I wasn’t judging."

"You were making a face."

"My face just looks like this."

"Your face looks like someone who was definitely judging my childhood comfort object." She set Mr. Whiskers on the bed with exaggerated care, positioning him against the pillow like a tiny sentinel. "There. Now he can supervise the unpacking. Very important job."

I leaned against the wall near the door and watched her work. The Oracle Feed pulsed occasionally in my peripheral vision, tracking the interaction with clinical detachment. Her Temptation Gauge sat at five percent. Stable. Not climbing from the current activity despite the physical proximity and the continued visual assault of her outfit choices.

"You’re staring."

"I’m observing. There’s a difference."

"Is there?"

"Observing is what professionals do. Staring is what creeps do. I am a professional."

"A professional what?"

"Haven’t decided yet. That’s what the academy is for."

She turned to face me fully, abandoning her unpacking to give me the full weight of her attention. Her blue eyes were sharp beneath the warmth. Assessing in a way that reminded me her Aspect involved illusions and that people who created false realities had to understand true ones first.

"You’re different than you were during the exam."