The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

The faculty observation deck sat three floors above the simulation fields, a long rectangular room lined with monitors displaying every angle of the practical assessment. Caelum Ashby occupied the central chair like it had been designed for him, which it had, sipping tea from a cup that steamed despite the fact that he’d poured it forty minutes ago. His silver hair caught the light from the screens as his amber eyes tracked movement across a dozen feeds simultaneously.

Cole Dravid stood to his left, arms crossed, his sharp grey eyes locked on Field Three’s central monitor. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes except to straighten his collar once.

Vincent Hale, by contrast, was a kinetic disaster. He paced behind the row of monitors, gesturing wildly as he provided running commentary on student performance at a volume that made Garrison Mack wince every time he opened his mouth.

"Look at that form! THAT is what I’m talking about! Watch her set the angle before she commits, she knows the camera’s watching and she’s giving them the shot they want!"

Nadia Solaris sat at the console beside Caelum, her fingers moving across the interface as she tracked individual scores and flagged students for review. She had been frowning at the same feed for three minutes.

Garrison Mack stood near the door, his massive frame somehow managing to look patient despite the fact that his arms were crossed tight enough that his biceps strained against his shirt. Grant Hollis had the secondary tactical board, calling out point totals and threat assessment data in a steady baritone that cut through Vincent’s noise.

Isabelle Crane leaned against the wall near the front, her dark eyes tracking Field One with the focus of someone watching a performance she already knew the ending to. She had administered this exam for six years. She knew what to look for.

In the shadows at the back of the room, Arthur Vance leaned against a wall, a skeletal ghost haunted by the flickering images, his eyes locked on a small, secondary monitor that nobody else was watching. His true form made him nearly invisible in the dim light, all sharp angles and hollow cheeks, a man who looked like he was dying because he was.

Caelum set his tea down with a soft click. "Pressure, my dear colleagues, does not build character. It reveals it."

Garrison nodded, his voice a low rumble. "Some are architects, building their response brick by brick. Others are lightning, striking without a thought."

"And some," Cole said without looking away from his monitor, "are performing capability they don’t actually have."

Vincent whirled around. "Who? Show me!"

Cole gestured to Field Two with minimal effort. "Badge 247. Earth manipulation. He’s moving rubble but watching his hands the entire time like he’s still learning the motion. The automation isn’t there yet."

"Good eye," Caelum murmured. "Flag him for secondary review. I want to see what he does when the pressure increases."

Nadia looked up from her console. "Dr. Ashby, Field Five has a student scoring remarkably well. Badge 137."

"Sloane Fitzgerald," Caelum said without checking the roster. "Show me."

The central monitor switched feeds.

Sloane Fitzgerald stood in the middle of a plaza, pink hair whipping around her face, hands glowing with contained kinetic energy. Three two-pointers surrounded her in a loose triangle, guns raised and tracking.

She moved.

A detonation erupted from her palm, the blast catching the nearest robot center mass and launching it backward into a storefront window. Glass exploded inward. The robot’s chassis crumpled like aluminum foil.

The second robot fired. Sloane twisted, the rubber bullet passing so close to her shoulder that her jacket rippled. She landed in a crouch and slammed her palm against the ground.

The shockwave traveled outward in a perfect circle, kicking up dust and debris. The two remaining robots toppled sideways from the force, their treads spinning uselessly.

Sloane was already moving again, sprinting toward the closest one and driving her foot down on its head. Another detonation. Metal shrieked and buckled.

TWO POINTS

She turned toward the last robot, which was attempting to right itself. Her grin was feral, the expression of someone who had been waiting her entire life for permission to cut loose.

One more detonation. One more destroyed chassis.

TWO POINTS

"Thirty points in seven minutes," Grant called out. "She’s top five in Field Five."

Vincent punched the air. "THAT’S A HALLORAN STUDENT! Look at that energy management! She’s not wasting output, every blast is landing exactly where she wants it!"

"Her form is sloppy," Cole said.

Vincent spun toward him. "Her form is aggressive!"

"Aggressive is not the same as correct."

Isabelle laughed, the sound warm and sharp. "Cole, darling, there’s no correct form for making things explode. You either commit or you hesitate. She’s committing."

Cole’s expression didn’t change. "Commitment without control is how students get hurt."

Caelum raised one hand, not looking away from the screen. "She’s seventeen and operating at mid-A rank output. I’d call that acceptable control."

Nadia’s voice cut through the developing argument. "Field One has something unusual. Badge 089."

The feed switched.

A young man with a single massive wing sprouting from his back launched himself into the air, his legs coiling before he kicked off a rooftop. The wing beat once, carrying him higher, and he dove toward a cluster of three one-pointers like a missile.

He twisted mid-air, bringing his boot down on the first robot’s head with enough force that the chassis crumpled completely.

ONE POINT

The wing beat again before he touched the ground, carrying him back into the air. He circled, gaining altitude, then dove again.

Another robot. Another devastating aerial kick that destroyed it instantly.

ONE POINT

"Asymmetric flight," Grant said appreciatively. "That’s rare. Single-wing bearers usually can’t generate enough lift."

"He’s compensating through impact momentum," Cole observed. "Using the descent to build velocity, then the wing beat to recover altitude. Smart."

Vincent was already gesturing wildly. "But look at the showmanship! Every dive is a statement! The cameras love him, you can see it in the angle he’s choosing for the approach!"

Caelum smiled into his tea. "Noted for advanced placement review."

The feeds continued cycling.

Field Four showed a girl with vine tattoos running up both arms, her hands pressed flat against the ground. Green light pulsed from her palms and the street split open, massive roots erupting upward to entangle a three-pointer. The robot struggled against the organic restraints while the girl directed another vine to pierce its central processor.

THREE POINTS

"Botanical manipulation," Grant said. "Good environmental control."

"Terrible stamina management," Cole added. "She’ll burn out in another five minutes at that output."

Field Two displayed a girl in what looked like custom tactical gear, her hands glowing with orange light. She drove her palm forward and three hardened constructs shot out, nail-like projectiles that punched clean through a one-pointer’s chassis at twenty feet.

ONE POINT

She turned, fired again, caught a second robot in the head.

ONE POINT

"Rivet," Vincent said appreciatively. "That’s Camille Ortega. I saw her file. Epic-tier projection specialist."

"Aggressive forward pressure," Garrison rumbled. "She’s not wasting movement."

Nadia frowned at another screen. "Field Three has someone I’m concerned about. Badge 167."

The monitor shifted.

A girl with green hair and green eyes stood in the middle of the street, breathing heavily, no visible Aspect active. Two applicants lay on the ground nearby, clearly injured from robot attacks. The girl was pulling them both toward cover behind an overturned vehicle, her movements strained but determined.

"Zara Whitfield," Caelum said quietly. "Common-tier proprioception enhancement. Essentially Aspect-less in practical terms."

Cole’s eyes sharpened. "She’s spent the entire assessment helping other students instead of scoring points."

"How many does she have?" Garrison asked.

"Four," Nadia said. "All from one-pointers she destroyed with debris and environmental tools. She hasn’t engaged anything above her weight class."

Vincent stopped pacing. "That’s twenty points below the minimum threshold. She’s going to fail."

"Perhaps." Caelum took another sip of tea. "If we’re measuring the wrong metric."

The observation deck fell quiet for a moment.

Isabelle spoke without looking away from her monitor. "She’s not trying to win the exam. She’s trying to make sure nobody gets hurt."

"Which is admirable," Cole said, his flat tone making it impossible to tell if he meant it, "and also not what this assessment measures."

Caelum’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"We’ll see."