| |
“I am not a superpowered individual. I am not an exemplar. I have never had a superpower. I am not a hero, nor will I ever be a hero,” everyone said simultaneously. “I am not a superhero. I am half-powered. I will always be half-powered. I am a non-exemplar.”
Roman frowned as they recited the next part.
“There is nothing about me that is extraordinary. I am not a hero. I am not a superhero. I am half-powered. I will always be half-powered. I am a non-exemplar.”
He sat at the front of the room, next to the beautiful non-exemplar he’d been eying for weeks. The woman’s name was Paris, and she was just about the hottest female he’d ever encountered at one of these meetings—dark hair, busty, pencil skirt, dimples too. They’d made eye contact last week, but that was about it.
“Roman, would you like to begin?” the Heroes Anonymous session leader, Bill, asked.
Bill was a monster of a man, practically a Type II, with a shaved head and an earnest look in his eyes.
Roman cleared his throat as he made his way to the podium. “Hi, everyone, my name is Roman and I’m a non-exemplar. Um, it’s been tough, I’ll say that. The last few weeks, whew.” Roman glanced at Paris, the brunette in the second row.
Better turn it up a notch, he thought as he continued. “So, just last week—and I swear I haven’t even suggested to anyone I’m a hero for six months...”
“No need to justify anything. Just tell us what happened,” Bill the sponsor said.
“Last week I broke the code. I lied about who I was.” Roman gulped. “I masqueraded as a super and I knew it was wrong. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Now, Roman...”
“It was small, Bill, that’s all I’m trying to say here. I was at the grocery store, and what can I say? I’m a sucker for people in trouble.” Roman winked at Paris, who crossed one leg over the other, showing a bit of flesh in the process. “Anyway, there were some exemplar kids outside, you know, just raising money for their super trials. Lucky kids, and you all know as well as I do that they aren’t allowed to use their powers. And some of those kids, damn, they take that seriously.”
Someone in the back of the room coughed.
“Anyway, a guy tried to hassle them for the candy they were selling. What kind of guy does that, right? Who steals candy from a bunch of kids? This asshole—sorry, Bill—this guy grabs a bag, and I’m talking a big bag of candy here, and takes off. So I took off after him.”
“And?”
“And I start making noises with my mouth, pretending I’m a super. What do you expect, Bill? I’m not proud of it.”
“Hey, no judgement here, brother,” a guy in the third row said. Roman recognized him; he was always here, sometimes in a cast due to a misguided attempt at heroism.
“Hey, I may be a non-exemplar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have stamina,” Roman said, locking eyes with Paris. “I can go all night, if you all know what I mean. I used to be a fighter; some of you know that as well. So I’m running after him, and he’s a fast one too, also a non-exemplar but maybe he’s got more speed than me. Not strength though, and eventually, he trips and...”
“You didn’t.” The guy in the third row gasped, looking for confirmation from a chubby woman next to him who was always knitting a sweater.
“I did. I hopped right on top of him and we start rolling around, candy flying everywhere, and I felt like I had a superpower moving through me, activating, slowing down time—”
“Roman, you know that type of fantasizing isn’t tolerated here. We are half-powered, non-exemplars. There is nothing unique about us,” Bill reminded him.
“Yeah, I know, but okay, you asked and I’m telling you what happened. It wasn’t my idea to come up here and say what’s on my mind. I’m just a man, Bill—a man who wants to help people,” Roman said, again locking his orange eyes on Paris, who now had a thin smile on her face. “So I overpowered him. I took the bastard down, and I would have—I would have taken him to central booking too if...”
Bill waved his hand in the air to signal that Roman should wrap it up. “If what, Roman?”
“One of them showed up and took it from there. A Type II Class A—sorry, I work in superpowered immigration, so I usually refer to them this way. ‘Type Two’ means the woman that showed up had a second-tier power, while Class A signifies she was of the psychic variety. Anyway, you guys know the rest from there. I had to pay a fine for impersonating a hero, and they added three more months of mandatory Heroes Anonymous to my tab.”
“I don’t remember seeing that,” Bill said, suspicion painting across his face.
“Yeah, it takes a little time for the paperwork to process.” Roman smirked at Paris. “Government, am I right? Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke my promise to all of you and that I went against our creed. It would be nice, though...”
“I think that’s enough, Roman,” Bill said, ushering him off the stage. Roman had lied at the podium multiple times, and tonight was no different. Bill had heard Roman’s real story once or twice, but no one was going to hear it today, or even this week.
The real reason he was at H-Anon was something that haunted Roman every day.
“Thanks, everyone.” He took his seat in front of Paris, and as the next speaker made her way to the podium, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Paris holding out a slip of paper.
Bingo, Roman thought, and he relaxed into his chair.
“I hope this isn’t too sudden,” Roman said after he’d met Paris at the corner of 11th and 19th. He wouldn’t normally contact someone so quickly after getting their information, but something told him this was what Paris was expecting and, sure enough, here they were.
“It’s fine,” Paris said, her voice sweet music to his ears.
Roman had to work in the morning, which he wasn’t looking forward to because of Kevin’s messy departure. It was too bad that Kevin had decided to jump, and what had happened after the heavy man had gone over the side of the building was one of the more ironic things Roman had seen in a while.
But he would think about that later—probably tomorrow, when he took on Kevin’s workload.
For now, he was all eyes on Paris, who wore a different pencil skirt and a matching blouse.
“So tell me about yourself.” He stuffed his hands into his jacket and turned toward 12th Street. They’d already agreed on a bar called Peace of Mind, which was known for its mixed drinks. It was a good spot to pick up non-exemplars, too, something Roman did occasionally if he was going through a dry spell.
“Paris Renara, and I know I should speak at H-Anon sometime, but I will later. Bill keeps pushing me, but I’m a little shy in front of people.”
“It’s fine,” Roman told her, running his hand through his white hair. Even though Roman was two years shy of thirty, he’d had white hair his entire life. It contrasted with his orange eyes, something that always caught the attention of the opposite sex.
“So, more about me: I work as a real estate agent. Have you heard of the new development in Northern Centralia, the one called Waterfall Heights?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“Those are the ones I’m currently working with. I have other agents I work with, but the commission is great.” Paris continued speaking about the realty business, eventually steering the conversation back to Roman. “I really liked your story today. That must have been embarrassing with the Type... what was it?”
“Type II, Class A and D. She was a female telepath who used kinetic energy. I didn’t mention that last part.”
“Ah, that’s right. But you got the kill,” she said, turning to Roman and smiling. “And by that I mean you were the first to take down the candy thief. You shouldn’t forget that.”
“I’ll try to remember it.”
Paris looped her hand around his arm, pulling her body closer to his. They continued down the street until they reached Peace of Mind. Roman wasn’t nervous per se, but his ears did perk up when they entered. He was hoping to avoid contact with any past flames.
Luckily, it was a weekday, and the bar known as Peace of Mind was pretty much empty.
Once they were seated, the conversation kicked into high gear, the alcohol loosening Paris’s tongue a bit and making Roman feel the familiar comfort that came when things were going his way.
He told Paris his partially fabricated backstory, his struggles with heroism, his practiced stories from start to finish, and after the third round of drinks, he knew he had this one under wraps.
And it wasn’t that Roman was cocky. Rather, like anyone who’d done the same thing multiple times, he knew the dance—knew how to lead, knew when to retreat and most importantly, knew how to steer.
Two hours later and the two were on the couch in his living room, Paris with her top off, her hands pressed into his shoulders as she gyrated her hips against him. She still had her skirt on, but it was hiked up over her ass, revealing her thighs and panties.
Roman was in heaven, and it was only when anger flashed behind her eyes that he knew something was wrong.
Paris’s tongue shot out of her mouth and wrapped around his neck, and soon, Roman had lost consciousness.
