King Of Bad [Super Villian Academy Book 1] (7 page)

“You guys know the drill. Go through the stations,
carefully and purposefully, while I work with our new student.”

The kids paired up and moved off to different tables
around the room.

Sherlock turned to Jeff. “You and I will begin
determining your main abilities right away. Please don’t tell me anything that
you know you can do. It is best if I discover it through testing.”

They walked over to the nearest unoccupied table. Sherlock
picked up a shallow pan filled with sandy earth and held it at waist height
between them. “Okay, kid, I want you to hold onto the side of the pan and close
your eyes and keep them closed. Envision the pan that you are holding. Imagine
its contents. Smell the dirt. Now imagine the dirt moving as if magnified to
bunch up into a small ball. Then imagine a slightly smaller ball bunched up and
rolled to perch atop the first. Last imagine a smaller ball still and imagine
it on top of the stack of two. What have you got?”

“A dirt snowman,” Jeff said. He could see the image
clear as day in his mind complete with the corncob pipe and button nose.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.” As soon as Jeff
opened his eyes, Sherlock pulled the tray from him and set it back down on the
table. Had Jeff imagined the dirt falling back into the pan?

“What was that supposed to do?” Jeff asked.

“That test was to see if you could manipulate elements.”

Jeff looked at the frown on Sherlock’s face. “I guess
I failed, huh?”

“
This isn’t a pass or fail
kind of thing, kid.” Sherlock indicated that Jeff should follow him.

They went to a table recently vacated by a couple students.
On the table was a bucket of water, a large bowl of water with a thermometer in
it and a glass of water.

“This time I want you to put your finger into the
glass of water,” Sherlock said.

“Which finger?”

“Any finger, but just one, please.” Once Jeff had
done that, Sherlock asked him to close his eyes again. This time he asked Jeff
to imagine the water in the glass was hot tub water.

Jeff was happy to do that. He heated his finger and
the water heated up quickly.
Too quickly.
It bubbled
and boiled over and then the glass burst. Jeff opened his eyes and watched the
steaming water stream off the table onto the floor. Shards of glass were
scattered on the table’s surface and on the surrounding floor.

“Sorry,” Jeff said.

Sherlock looked at Jeff with raised eyebrows. “You’re
sorry?”

“Uh, yeah.”
Jeff’s brow
furrowed. “I didn’t
mean
to break the glass.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of
his hand. “Let’s go onto the next one and do the same thing.”

Jeff was encouraged that the medium-sized bowl was
metal. At least he knew it wouldn’t shatter. The liquid inside was a gross
yellowish-red color that looked a bit like blood. It smelled like antiseptic.
He stuck his finger into it, closed his eyes and sent heat to his finger. This
time he tried to regulate it, but he wasn’t too sure if he was doing it right
or not.

“Stop now!” Sherlock’s cry startled Jeff. Jeff yanked
his finger out and looked down at the roiling liquid that looked like the
contents of a witch’s pot. Then he saw what had caused Sherlock’s outburst. The
mercury in the thermometer was pegged at the highest possible temperature. Any
further and the thermometer would likely burst.

Sherlock examined the large bucket thoughtfully, but
then eyed the next table. He walked over to it and Jeff followed dutifully. An
odd assortment of items sat on the table: a feather, a pencil, an ear of corn,
a fist-sized rock and a large gourd. After the usual instruction to close his
eyes, Sherlock stepped Jeff through the imagery of each item floating over the
surface of the table. They repeated the process at each table. Jeff “imagined”
things expanding and contracting, rolling and bouncing and even disappearing.
It was tedious, especially since Sherlock kept emphasizing to do the tasks
purposefully and carefully. As much as he wanted to find short cuts or plow
through the different stages, Jeff laboriously stepped through each stage of
imagery three different times at varying degrees.

Because his eyes were closed he didn’t know if he succeeded
at anything beyond heating up the water. Sherlock remained discouragingly
noncommittal about the results. Jeff asked after each table if he’d done what
was asked, but Sherlock only replied with “Only you know if you imagined those
things happening.”
And wouldn’t comment further.
Jeff
eyed the kids around him to see if maybe they’d tell him or even give him a
clue as to if he’d been able to do anything unusual. But they seemed to be
concentrating on their own trials rather than him.

Sherlock tapped the eraser on the paper while considering
the notes he had made in a file. He scratched his head with the eraser and
twisted his mouth, deep in thought. Finally he folded the file closed and
nodded to Jeff in conclusion. Turning his attention outward, Sherlock announced,
“All right, time to clean up, then. Put the props in their
prop
er
places, please.”

The class groaned collectively. A red headed boy
said, “It still isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

Seeing Jeff’s knit brow, Sherlock looked at him expectantly
and emphasized, “
Prop
s in
prop
er places?”

“Oh! Is that a…joke?” Jeff asked.

Sherlock’s expression crumpled into disappointment.
“Nobody gets me.”

Three blasts issued announcing the conclusion of
class. Jeff pulled his schedule out of his back pocket and unfolded the
crumpled paper.

“Being a new student like the rest of us in this
class,” a boy who looked like a mini-version of Sherlock said, “it goes without
saying that your next class is S&S. You can walk with me if you want.”

“Uh, thanks.” Jeff confirmed that his next class was
S&S in the gym. “What is S&S?”

“Speed and strength.
Not my
cup of tea at all.” The boy pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. “They
call me Source, by the way.
Most unfortunate that you came
out of it without a moniker, today.”

“I have a name, you know. It’s Jeff, by the way.” The
whole, “they call me” thing was starting to wear on Jeff’s nerves. Did anyone
even remember their real names anymore?

“No one will use that name, though. Until your root
ability shows itself, you’ll remain nameless,” Source said.

The kids walked in a loose group toward their next
class. Jeff had so many questions and finally someone to ask, but he didn’t
know where to start. “Do most people find their root ability in their first
ability class?”

“Yeah.
Those tests are geared
to find it. They tap into the most basic abilities and kids always show a
strength in a certain area that leads Sherlock to pursue more in that area.
Obviously you didn’t show anything, since he made the circuit with you.” Source
smirked. “I’ve never seen Sherlock so flummoxed.”

“What is your root strength? What does Source mean?”

“I can determine
the source of abilities. I can help other S.V.’s develop their abilities
further by helping them tap into the power of it.”

“Well, I have fire, why didn’t Sherlock pursue that?
I thought fire was unusual. Wouldn’t that be my root ability?”

“Just because you have
an ability
doesn’t make it your root. Whatever you did with your fire wasn’t enough to encourage
Sherlock to pursue it as a root.”

“Great,” Jeff mumbled. It seemed he wouldn’t even
find a place within the freak show.

Two kids Jeff had heard referred to as Shake and Bake
walked in front of him. They glanced at him over their shoulders, eyes glinting
mischievously, and then Bake said something to
Shake
that made her scoff and shake her head. They shook hands and then laughed.

“What’s your problem?” Jeff asked loudly enough they
would hear him.

“I was just betting you wouldn’t bust out of the
circle until your 5
^th
try,” Bake said.

Shake sneered. “I bet you wouldn’t bust out at all.”

“What are they talking about?” Jeff mumbled to
Source.

“You’ll see. But no matter what happens, there is no
possible way you’ll be worse than me.”

Source pushed through a set of double doors and Jeff
found himself unexpectedly outside. A running track wrapped around a standard
sized football field which currently had a series of free-standing walls of
varying heights erected at one end. There were no bleachers, so Jeff could tell
they didn’t hold spectator sports in this arena. Other than that, it would be a
normal, open-air field—except that it was enclosed by large warehouse-like
buildings on all sides.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Jeff said as he followed
Source to the teacher standing in the middle of the field.

“Circle up,” the teacher, known simply as Coach,
shouted. Pointing to Jeff, he said, “You, kid, come stand by me.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Jeff mumbled.

“It’s
kinda
like
initiation,” Source said. “On the positive side, maybe
a root
ability will be revealed here?”

Jeff considered the fact that he’d been able to run
fast since he was young and his spirits were buoyed—somewhat.

“What do they call you, kid?” Coach asked Jeff.

“Nothing yet,” Jeff said through gritted teeth.

“Nothing?”
Coach looked at
Source for confirmation.

“Nope,” Source said.

“Huh, weird,” Coach muttered. “Are they sure you’re
an S.V.?”

Jeff rolled his eyes and hissed, “Yes.”

“Well, get in the middle of the circle. We’re
gonna
play a game like Red Rover.”

Jeff spent the next ten minutes trying to bust through
the line. He got close a couple times which seemed to make Coach happy, but in
the end he couldn’t get out of the circle. He saw Bake slip a wad of money into
Shake’s hand.

“Next, you’ll race the fastest kids in the class.
Granted that isn’t saying much, this certainly isn’t the fastest class around.”

All the kids, except Source, grumbled.

“
Pindrop
and
Mazer
, line up with the newbie.”

Jeff lined up between the two kids at the start of a
100-meter track.
Pindrop
put some earplugs in her
ears before she settled into the mark position.
Mazer
stared at the finish line the entire time. Jeff was nervous. He’d beaten every
kid he ever ran against, but he’d never faced S.V.’s before. Though they were
new to the academy too, they’d been there longer and received some sort of
training. For all Jeff knew that would make all the difference in the world.

“On your mark,” Coach said. He raised a starter
pistol in the air over his head. “Set.”

Jeff raised his hind quarters and leaned slightly forward
on his toes. His thigh muscles were on alert, ready to spring when the pistol
fired. Jeff even readied the smaller support muscles he’d used the day he was
chased by the guy.

Bang!

Jeff was off before the pistol finished firing. His
body moved like a well-tuned hemi engine, flowing from one movement to the next
without needing prompting. The muscles in his back engaged to support the
extreme motion of his buttocks. His calves were tight, his Achilles elastic. Everything
flowed in perfect synchronicity. But Jeff only crossed the line two steps ahead
of the other kids.

It took them a quarter of the track to slow down.
Pindrop
removed her earplugs and said to Jeff, “Decent running,
boy
.” She cocked her head and said, “Wow, you’re not
even winded.”

“Are you
listening
to me?” Jeff asked.

“Yeah.
Your heartbeat isn’t
even elevated.” She turned and yelled, “Coach, he’s built for distance.”

“Okay then. Kid, I want you to run around the track
at top speed as long as you can.
Everyone else, calisthenics.”

More murmuring and grumbling issued from the kids.
They went into the middle of the field and lined up in two straight lines.
Coach followed them, looking back at Jeff over his shoulder. “What are you
waiting for? Get running.”

Jeff knew he was a good runner. Yet he also knew how
much it bored him. To occupy his mind while he ran, he sang songs in his head;
high-energy songs of which he sped up the tempo.
The
cheesier, the better.
He liked the oldies. “Eye of the Tiger,” “You
Really Got Me,” “I’m A Believer” and “I Heard It
Through
The Grapevine” were some of his favorites. He’d cycled through all those songs
when he heard people yelling at him. He ran so fast they were all just a blur
so he slowed down in order to hear what they were saying.

Coach said, “Okay, kid. We don’t have all day. I get
that you’re a
distancer
. Now let’s test height.”

Jeff jogged up to where the kids were bunched together
in front of the walls. Jeff wasn’t very good at jumping and each wall was more
difficult than the one before. He was disappointed to learn that they were
expected to scale one right after the other like an obstacle course. He stood
last in line, closely watching how each kid leapt the first wall. Every kid was
able to jump at least to the top of the wall; most cleared it completely and
disappeared onto the other side. Then they popped up over the next wall, some
right onto the top. Others took one boosting step about ¾ of the way up as they
vaulted. From where he stood, he couldn’t see what the third wall was like.

All too soon it was his turn. He ran and sprang at
the first wall, but didn’t make it over. His fingers just barely found purchase
on the top and he pulled himself up, straining his biceps and scraping his
stomach on the sharp edge of the wall. The second wall was disastrous. His
footing slipped just as he launched toward the wall and he ended up splayed
flat against it, not even half way up. After sliding to a heap at the bottom,
he reluctantly got up and took another running start.