The last first-years to emerge were Olympia and Penelope ‘Call me Winter’ Von Pell. They both looked like they’d been up for an hour after getting the greatest sleep ever. Hell, they even had makeup on. Either the two of them had some new strain of superpower that the world had yet to classify or—and here, the demons in my head gibbered madly in terror—they were morning people.
And people call Crows evil!
I wasn’t going to complain about Olympia in makeup though. Even if my very presence did scare the glow right out of her. She and a few other women almost made our shapeless grey Academy sweats look good.
We were all led across campus to the cafeteria by some second-year whose name I never caught, and who would end up dropping out before the year was up. Nobody was all that hungry but since our first block of classes stretched from eight to half past one, I was prepared to force myself to eat.
On the off chance that reincarnation is a thing and any of you come back one day to follow in little Damian’s footsteps, take my advice: eat lightly on Monday mornings. Thursdays too, and occasionally Wednesdays, but especially Mondays. Especially that first Monday.
Not that you’ll remember this. Or would listen, even if you did. You’ll be eighteen, just like I was, convinced you know better than every other fucker around you. Hell, after I’d gotten over my groggy morning funk, I was so thrilled with the idea of eggs and real bacon that I went back for thirds.
Once we were fatted up like lambs for the slaughter, we were led across campus to our very first class at the Academy, marching past multi-story structures of glass and light—where the academic classes took place—to a short, windowless building that looked kind of like a concrete frog squatting to take a shit.
The inside wasn’t any better. We filed through the wide doorway and then down a long stairway into a large room. Three of the four walls were unadorned concrete; one with three rows of benches set against it, the other two bare but for a set of closed doors. The wall opposite the benches was all glass, angled outward as if it was overlooking something, and in front of it stood Nikolai Tsarnaev, massive arms folded across his even more massive chest. As we entered, that same sadist’s smile slowly stretched across his face.
“Officially, this class is known as Physical Education & Introduction to Combat,” he said in a deep, slightly accented voice, “but the curriculum was written by administrators and pencil pushers. I prefer the name given by my very first students, more than ten years ago.” That smile widened even further, exposing gleaming white teeth. “Welcome to Hell.”
On cue, lights flooded the room beyond the glass wall. We crowded forward to look down upon an enormous cavern. A series of fixtures ringed the room’s perimeter, glowing an electric blue, their hum audible even from where we stood. In the uneven floor of the cave were five pits, each maybe fifteen feet in diameter and at least that deep.
It didn’t look like hell. It didn’t look like much of anything.
Looks can be deceiving, I guess.
“On any other day,” Nikolai continued, “you’d be out on the field, getting your laps in.” Dark eyes glittered, taking careful note of the first-years groaning at the thought. “Then strength training, then drills, and then… if you somehow managed not to piss me off, maybe a little bit of fun. But today is different,” he told us with great satisfaction. “Today is your first lesson on what it takes to be a Cape.”
He unfolded one huge arm and motioned at the strange cave. “In the arena, the dampeners will keep your active powers suppressed. No fire, no shifting.” Those eyes turned to me. “No corruption of the natural order. Just you, your hands and your feet. Over the next semester, you will learn to survive using those things.”
He waited again for the confused murmurs to die down. “Five pairs at a time, one pair to each pit in the arena. When I call your names, you and your opponent will exit through the door in the left wall, proceed to the correct numbered door below, and enter, closing that door behind you. It will stay closed until your fight is over.”
“Our… what?!” This was the dark-haired girl who’d been sitting in the front row during Orientation. Her grey eyes were wide, her voice soft.
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Which one are you again…?”
“Evelyn Mandelhoff,” she told him.
“They don’t pay me enough to memorize that mouthful,” he decided, conveniently ignoring the fact that his last name was all consonants and impossible to pronounce. “What’s your Cape name?”
“Wormhole.”
“Better. So tell me, Wormhole,” he said conversationally, taking a step closer to loom over her, “which part of Introduction to Combat did you not understand? Punch, kick, claw, or scratch… hell, you can bite if you think it will do any good. Each pair will fight until there is a victor, and you will all, winners and losers, be graded on your performance.”
Tessa, our class Telekinetic, frowned and raised her hand. “I’m not a Titan or a Stalwart. Why would I ever stoop to punching someone?”
“Because someday you might care more about staying alive than your manicure,” growled the tree stump of a woman who’d been asleep on her feet less than an hour earlier, “and powers don’t solve everything.”
“No shock that you’d want to go roll in the dirt, Sofia,” shot back Tessa.
“Call me Silt, bitch.”
Nikolai brought his hands together in a clap that sounded almost like a gunshot. “Enough. Silt’s
