The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Two weeks disappeared faster than I expected.

The routine settled in so smoothly it felt dangerous. Dangerous because routines make you comfortable, and comfort makes you sloppy. But I couldn’t deny the progress.

Every morning at 6:30, I’d wake to my alarm and head downstairs to the gym where Sloane waited. She’d already be stretching, pink ponytail swaying, and she’d give me that competitive grin that made my heart do stupid things.

"Morning, slowpoke."

"I’m literally on time."

"Barely counts."

Then she’d try to kill me for ninety minutes.

Hand-to-hand drills until my muscles screamed. Spectral Reach exercises where I’d lift progressively heavier objects while maintaining precision. Blitz training where I’d dash across the room, redirecting mid-movement while she threw tennis balls at my head.

My stats climbed steadily. Strength hit thirty-two. Agility pushed to thirty-four. Dexterity reached thirty-six. Endurance sat at forty now, probably because I was training twice as hard and sleeping half as much.

Sloane noticed the improvements. She’d watch me complete exercises that would’ve wrecked me two weeks ago, her blue eyes sharp with something between pride and suspicion.

"You’re getting faster," she said one morning after I managed to dodge three of her throws in a row. "Like, noticeably faster than yesterday."

"Good coaching," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"Bullshit. Nobody progresses this quickly without..." She trailed off, chewing her bottom lip. "Your Aspect must be developing faster than normal manifestations."

"Maybe that’s what late bloomers do. Make up for lost time."

She didn’t look convinced, but she dropped it.

After training, I’d shower and head to the kitchen. Breakfast became my responsibility, part of our deal. I’d cook while Sloane recovered upstairs, and Diane would appear around seven in full CEO mode.

Charcoal skirt. Silk blouse. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless.

She’d sit at the island with her coffee and tablet, reviewing overnight emails like she hadn’t spent the previous night screaming my name into her pillow.

"Good morning, Lukas."

"Morning, Diane."

The first time she called me by my name instead of honey or sugar, I knew something had shifted between us. We’d crossed into territory that required different rules.

She’d eat whatever I cooked, compliment it with genuine warmth, then kiss my cheek before leaving for the office.

Sloane would come down right after Diane left. She’d load her plate, settle next to me, and we’d eat in comfortable silence or talk about training plans.

Sometimes she’d reach over and steal food from my plate just to mess with me. I’d steal from hers in retaliation. It became a game.

One morning, her hand lingered on my arm after she grabbed my last piece of bacon.

"Thanks for breakfast," she said quietly.

"You’re welcome."

"And thanks for... everything else."

I turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "For wanting me."

I kissed her before she could get more embarrassed. She tasted like maple syrup.

The afternoons varied. Sometimes Sloane would leave to hang out with her friends from prep courses, girls I’d never met who were also applying to Halloran. She’d come back energized, talking about their training routines and Aspects and theories about what the entrance exam would test.

Other days, we’d stay home. Watch movies. Play games. Make out on the couch until we were both breathing hard and her hands were under my shirt.

But that’s where it stopped.

Two weeks of kissing, touching, grinding against each other until I was so hard it hurt and she was gasping my name. But every time my hands moved toward her shorts, she’d stop me.

"Not yet," she’d whisper, her forehead against mine. "I want to. God, I want to. But..."

"But what?"

"I want it to be after we both get into Halloran. Like a celebration." Her blue eyes were dark with want. "Is that stupid?"

"No," I said, even though my body disagreed violently. "If that’s what you want, I can wait."

She kissed me hard, grateful and frustrated in equal measure. "You’re too good to me."

Not really. I was fucking her mom every night.

The guilt surfaced sometimes. I’d be kissing Sloane, hands in her hair, and suddenly I’d remember the way Diane had ridden me the night before, or the sounds she made when I pinned her to the mattress.

But the guilt never lasted long enough to make me stop.

Diane would return home around six most evenings. Sometimes earlier if a crisis got resolved, sometimes later if something exploded in her face. Victor Sterling’s approval rating, apparently, continued to be a full-time job.

She’d walk through the door looking exhausted but composed, and Sloane would immediately start telling her about our training or whatever she’d done that day.

Diane would listen with genuine interest, asking questions, offering advice from her decades of experience managing Heroes.

Then we’d have dinner together. The three of us, sitting around the table like a normal family.

Except normal families didn’t have the undercurrent of tension that ran beneath every conversation. Normal families didn’t have mothers who kept making eye contact with the guy they were secretly sleeping with while their daughter talked about combat theory.

Diane was good at hiding it. Better than me. She’d smile at Sloane, laugh at her jokes, critique her training decisions with the authority of someone who’d watched Heroes rise and fall for twenty years.

But sometimes her foot would brush mine under the table. Sometimes her gaze would linger half a second too long. Sometimes she’d lick her lips while looking at me, and I’d know exactly what she was thinking about.

Sloane never noticed.

After dinner, Sloane would usually head to her room to study Hero law or review combat footage from ranked Heroes. She took her preparation seriously, bordering on obsessive.

I’d help clean up, and Diane would stay in the kitchen with me, making small talk that felt like foreplay.

"You’re getting stronger," she said one night, leaning against the counter while I loaded the dishwasher. "I can see the difference in how you move."

"Training helps."

"More than training, I think." Her voice dropped lower. "My hypothesis might have merit after all."

"Your hypothesis," I repeated, straightening up to face her.

She crossed her arms under her breasts, emphasizing them in the silk blouse. "That your power grows through physical intimacy. We’ve been testing it rigorously for two weeks now. The data is compelling." 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

"Is that what we’re calling it? Data collection?"

"Would you prefer I call it what it actually is?" She stepped closer, her perfume filling my senses. "Six rounds minimum every night? Sometimes seven if you’re particularly motivated?"

My pulse quickened. "I’m always motivated."

"I’ve noticed." Her hand landed on my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "The question is whether we should conduct another experiment tonight. For research purposes."

"Very scientific of you."

"I take my research seriously." Her fingers traced down my abdomen. "My bedroom. Thirty minutes. Don’t make me wait."