Extraordinary Book 2: Homecomings

Chapter 1: California Clifftop’s medical bay hummed with energy. Holographic displays. Busy hands. Vials of blood. Various samples. Devices whirring. Mysterious beeps beeping away. Ryan’s parents bounced around the superhero home base like two small overly excited scientific balloons, ones that’d been to Clifftop a few times but still ended up giddy over superpowers and discoveries. They’d been busily poking their willing subject with needles. For his part, that willing subject—Holiday Jones, last living Sinister Sorcerer and reformed supervillain—answered questions, made miniature thunderstorms clamor in mid-air, and did not seem bothered by the needles. Nobody involved seemed to’ve heard the door swooshing open, either. John nudged Ryan with an elbow. Serene infirmary lights danced over his brown hair and broad shoulders, several inches above Ryan’s own spiky-haired shortness. They should’ve been impossible to miss, really: a supersoldier and a lightning-powered gymnast lingering in the doorway, watching their other third conjure light while both Ryan’s parents took notes regarding electromagnetic manipulation. Ryan, caught by the spectacle of his parents and their youngest partner’s artistic hands, forgot to respond to the nudge. John poked him again. “Think they’ve even noticed we’re here?” “No.” “Want me to shout at Holly and get his attention?” “Probably. You’re louder.” “I know you’re here!” Holiday, perched on the leftmost observation bed, waved at them with the hand not hooked up to a monitor. His hair was loose, glorious and dark and falling down his back; he was wearing yoga pants, cozy and flexible, and a loose blue shirt that’d once been John’s but had magically shrunk to only slightly oversized on those slim shoulders. Holly claimed this had been their dryer’s fault. That might’ve been true—Holiday Fortune Lyndsay Jones, barely twenty years old, the heir to his family’s massive historic estate and master of mystic energies, could be easily defeated by a load of laundry—but might’ve been literal magic: Holly liked feeling wrapped up in his partners. Those forest-in-springtime eyes sparkled at them now, beckoning. He looked a little pale, though, and Ryan’s pulse sped up. Too many samples of blood sat in a rack over on the analysis table. Holly added, smiling, “Sorry, sorry, we’re just finishing up—” “Ryan,” Betty Yamamoto scolded, coming to a momentary rest in front of her son, “we are making up for three years of time here, you could have told us, we are your medical support team!” “Ma’am,” John said, politely. “Don’t you dare ma’am me, John Trent. We’re Betty and Ken to you, or Mom and Dad, you know that.” She started to swat John on the shoulder, realized she had a microscope slide in one hand, and mock-scowled up at him instead. Even her upswept black hair only came to somewhere around John’s biceps. John put on a properly abashed face, and said, “Yes, Betty. We were only wondering how much longer.” “You’ve had him all morning, Mom, since you got here, and we miss him,” Ryan explained, less politely. His father’s salt-and-pepper head popped up from behind a microscope. “Which is your own fault, son. If you’d at least given us a hint, three years ago—” “We know why you wouldn’t tell people, that infiltration plan, sending him back into that nest of vipers, you were keeping him secret, but you love him and we could have helped—” “Your mother and I could have had at least rudimentary works in progress—” “—tailored specifically to someone his age, with the ability to redirect energy flow and—” “—and that work with focus-stones, and speaking of which, the crystalline structure is so—” Ryan plunged into this stream of scientific enthusiasm before it could become a full-blown river. “If you still want us to come to Mariko’s wedding on Sunday, we need him back now.” Both Doctors Yamamoto gave their son variations on the patented reproachful parental gaze. His father said, “Son, you know you wouldn’t disappoint your cousin that way.” “It’s true.” John nudged him again. “You wouldn’t.” “You’re not helping,” Ryan grumbled. “And I totally would. You’re the nice one.” He wouldn’t—in fact, he’d show up and cheer for Mariko and her soft-spoken graphic designer husband, and he’d dance with every last member of his family, and along the way he’d find time for a chat with his youngest cousin Emily’s new girlfriend, whom he’d not met and needed to evaluate—but he could and would at least unfurl the threat at his parents in protest. “But of course we’re going.” Holiday turned that enormous plaintive gaze on Ryan’s parents, who melted into puddles. “He doesn’t mean it. And I’ve never been to a wedding. I’m looking forward to it.” Holiday Fortune Lyndsay Jones, ex-Sinister Sorcerer and former supervillain in training, hadn’t previously been on the guest list for anyone’s social events. The universe, swept up in those big hazel eyes, instantly resolved to invite him to every event ever, starting with Ryan’s cousin’s wedding in two days. Ryan gave in. “Yeah. Fine. Of course we’re going. Dammit, Holly.” Holly batted those eyelashes at him: innocent and playful. Ryan raised eyebrows. “We’ll talk about that later, too.” “What—oh. Really? Oh.” Excitement waved English-accented flags behind the appropriately chastened response. “Yes, Ryan.” The scolding wouldn’t be a real one, of course. Not when it was so much fun for everyone involved. And also fun watching Holiday imagine possibilities and squirm atop the infirmary bed. “We should have enough to get started,” Ken decided. “I’ll see what Moon Labs has as far as bio-responsive polymers. I want something integrated, armor that can replicate and enhance those structures. Dear—” “My priority’s field kits and emergency measures, at the moment, I would think.” Betty looked Holly up and down: surgical expertise and internal medicine versus her husband’s biomechanical engineering fervor. “Deal with the possible mission outcomes before pure research, as much as I’d like to get into some of those implications in more depth…we’ve looked at your ability to create energy tunnels, and those localized weather patterns, and heat, and of course we’ve tested your healing capacity…” “You’ve what?” Ryan interjected. “Only minor finger-pricks, a few simple clean lacerations, an irritant or two.” She finally set down the slide and waved reassuringly their direction. “Nothing difficult.” “Holly,” John said, having taken two long strides across the medical bay and lifted Holly’s chin. “I’m perfectly fine.” Holly smiled up at him. “No need to fuss.” Ryan demanded, “You hurt him just so you could test his healing factor?” “Oh, no, I did it to myself!” Holly held a hand out his direction. Ryan, who would forever come when Holiday Jones asked, went over to take that hand, but was cranky about it. Holly finished, “It seemed the easiest way for them to gather data. And you know I’ve got a fairly high pain tolerance. I hardly noticed.” “All right,” John said, “maybe we are going to shout at you. Not about not noticing us, about everything you just said. You could’ve at least told us, kid. We’ve just been in the training room. Nothing important. We would’ve wanted to be here.” “Oh,” Holly said. “I didn’t think—yes. I should have told you. I’m sorry.” Ryan exhaled. Reached over to stroke a loose bit of hair out of Holly’s face, where it threatened to tumble into that right eye. Let the hand linger. They’d need to talk about that one. Holiday had been doing better, with time and love and the occasional anonymous chat with the therapist Captain Justice had recommended. His tendency toward martyrdom—not merely standard heroic self-sacrifice but actual worrying disregard of self and pain—remained. Holly had been very thoroughly conditioned as a tool in his parents’ villainous plots, and also tried to make up for those plots by giving every bit of himself, regardless of cost, when asked. Of course, Holly also liked being told what to do. Being good. Giving himself over to his partners, in the bedroom, and letting weight lift in submission: profoundly safe and free. It was, Ryan decided, complicated. He ran the hand through Holly’s hair again. Holly settled into the caress. They should talk about it, so they would. And they’d all be okay. Ryan found himself smiling; he leaned down as Holly looked up, and they kissed softly and sincerely under medical-bay lights, while John’s hand cradled Holly’s face, directing, guiding. They tugged John into the kiss too, for that. Ryan’s parents, leaning against various medical engineering technology, made suspiciously happy cooing sounds. John pulled away, ears going red. “Sorry, Betty—Ken—” “You adorable boy.” Betty looked as if she wanted to pat him on the shoulder, but couldn’t reach. “How’s the neural enhancer working in your suit? Illusions lasting longer?” “Um,” John said. “Yes.” They’d been developing a prototype to utilize more of his minor telepathic projection skills alongside the expected supersoldier strength, boosting range and clarity. “Thanks.” “Next time we’ll look into better poison gas filtration,” Ken offered. “Ryan told us about that one.” “Ryan,” John sighed. “You know I got accelerated healing with that super-serum…” The chorus of, “Accelerated doesn’t mean instant!” rang out from every single person in the room. A monitor chirped one more time for emphasis. “Not you too,” John said to Holly. “Traitor.” Holly gave him a flawlessly sassy head-tilt. All that hair scampered and rippled, luxurious blue-black under cool lights. “I care about your well-being. I love you. Both of you.” “Guess I can’t argue with that.” John dropped a kiss on the top of his head this time. “Same for you, though. And that’s still an order. No getting hurt without us, even if you’re only doing it to yourself and under medical supervision. No agreeing to anything that causes you harm without checking in.” “He’s been watching My Gay Teen Superhero Life with Melissa again,” Ryan said. Lightening the mood. On purpose. Not letting Holly feel guilty; letting the world be ordinary. “I know because I walked in on them in the middle of a video call about Alex’s latest break-up. I feel like that’s some sort of emotional harm.” “It’s not,” Holly said. “It’s cathartic.” “Kidding,” Ryan said, because occasionally Holly needed the reminder. “You don’t need permission to hang out with Melissa and watch terrible teenage superpowered melodrama. You’re fine.” Melissa Bridges had leapt headlong into the Lightning Kid vacancy after Ryan had quit being Captain Justice’s sidekick. Seventeen, skinny and confident, the daughter of two prominent African-American activist lawyers, she’d taken one look at Holly, who’d never gotten to be young in any sense, and scooped him up under a protective electric arm. Ryan had mixed feelings about this, mostly centered around the sudden necessity of increased social contact with his former mentor. Melissa was willing to record and post internet videos of Tim singing in the shower or snoring in the Justice Jet after a mission, though, so he’d begrudgingly accepted the situation. Besides, she made Holly laugh. Anything’d be worth it, for that. Even the terrible teenage superpowered television melodrama. Maybe. Probably. Almost certainly. “She wants to take me shopping for new clothes,” Holly said. “She said she has some ideas. For me. That you’d appreciate, she said.” John narrowed eyes, no doubt recalling some of Melissa’s more dramatic fashion choices. “Do I need to call Tim? Has she been sharing brain-space with the ghost of an ancient Roman witch again?” “No,” Ryan said. “And that was only once, and that amulet’s locked away. Let’s just…let’s see where this goes. We could, y’know, end up appreciating it.” He was pretty sure Melissa had worn clinging red leather pants a few weeks previously. He was considering Holly’s long legs and cascading dark hair and that scarlet leather. His mother said, to Holly, “Oh, you’re caught up on the latest episode, then? Patrick is awful and Alex is better off without him!” “I’ve been hoping he’ll manage to redeem himself,” Holly said, a bit wistfully. “It’s very Shakespearean, isn’t it? The romantic comedy elements. The mistaken identities. The twins dressing up as each other at the dance. That cliffhanger ending’s so unfair, though. The wait’ll be utterly agonizing.” “See?” Ryan pointed a finger at him. “Emotional harm!” “Speaking of harm,” his father put in, and everyone swung that way, hearts in throats in at least two cases. “Oh, nothing like that.” Ken blinked at them, neat and tidy and framed by notes and test-tubes. “There’s something interesting about your reactions to foreign bodies, though. Do you ever get sick? Even minor illnesses?” This question was directed at Holly, who looked surprised and then thoughtful. “Do you know, I don’t think I ever do end up with colds or any of that? I’ve not thought about it, but I can’t recall ever having even the sniffles. Might it be some sort of subconscious reaction?” “Automatic redirection of resources,” Betty said. “Natural immune response. I’d love to explore the implications of that—but of course the main goal at the moment is to protect you from danger in the field…” “You’re not invulnerable,” Ken mused, regarding a glowing blue scan full of mysterious data. “You can be injured. So our priorities should be defense and then faster repair.” “Fine,” Ryan said. “You can keep working on it. Dad, do you want us to pop you back home now, and then we’ll come over in a few hours and spend the night so we can help with wedding set-up, or—” “Do you think,” Ken said, “if we focused on that ability to reconstruct—” “If we could accelerate the replication of—” “We’d have to tailor the bio-markers to—” “But we could do that fairly easily with the—” Ryan yelled, “Parents!” His father at least had the good sense to look guilty. “Sorry, son.” His mother patted Holly’s shoulder. “We’re sorry, Holiday.” “I don’t mind.” Holly regarded the shoulder-patting as if it’d bestowed a knighthood: an honor, and an unanticipated one. “I’m finding all this fascinating. Mother and Father were always more interested in what the power could do, not any scientific basis for it. So I’m curious.”