My schedule for the semester was finally set, a masterpiece of bureaucratic maneuvering. Senpai Bob ensured I had my Tai-Chi, my power training with the other kinetics, and once the clinic realized that while I wasn’t a certified miracle worker, I was a damn useful one to have on speed-dial for emergencies, all that talk about me needing a part-time job to afford this “privilege” mysteriously vanished.

  I wasn’t naive. I knew exactly what was happening. Rumors had gone out. The clinic was about to become a destination for “difficult cases”—rich, off-book patients with problems no one else could fix, whose generous “donations” would conveniently cover my tuition. I’d made my limits clear, though. Fresh trauma? My specialty. Old, systemic issues? Not so much. I could rebuild a brain to its proper shape, but I couldn’t magically restore a personality wiped out by a stroke. I’m a mechanic, not a god. Viruses, genetic diseases, the ravages of age? Mysteries are as profound to me as to anyone else.

  Though observing the Alphas at the clinic, a pattern emerged: the more powerful they were, the better their energy flowed, the fewer the blockages, the longer they seemed to live. Bob was right—volunteering gave me a front-row seat to a living textbook of energetic anatomy, providing brilliant, if terrifying, ideas for my own development.

  One conclusion was inescapable and endlessly frustrating: I had no idea how they were connected to the damn ether. I had to fight and scrounge for every scrap. They just… refilled. Their dantians were like bottomless, pressurized oil wells, constantly refilling and expanding until the pressure equalized. Their energy wasn’t compressed because they were young and lazy. I bet as they aged, it would naturally condense without all the weird breathing and visualization. No effort, just pure, unadulterated magic. Lucky bastards.

  And then there was the housing situation. The school, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the best way to foster teamwork was to force it upon us in our private lives. Like a kidney stone, this too shall pass.

  They were moving us into team suites.

  The floor was being redesigned into clusters of ten rooms sharing a common area: kitchen, bathroom, living room, a mini-gym. One room in each suite had its own private bathroom and shower. As a male Alpha—and after the whole “Tinker Walk” incident had firmly entrenched itself in academy legend—that room was mine by default. It was a mixed blessing; privacy was good, but being a walking biohazard warning was bad.

  Naturally, as my sponsor, Mindy got the room next to mine. And somehow, through what I could only assume was a terrifying combination of social engineering and benign stalking, Abigail had secured the room on my other side. The girl had a preternatural talent for worming her way into everything. While I’d been busy on the roof trying not to blow myself up, in the lab finishing Mindy’s suit, or in the gym pretending I knew how to exercise, Abigail and Mindy had been building a list of “team potentials.”

  It felt like tryouts for a band I never auditioned for. I sat at the new common room table, bored out of my skull, as Abigail happily chattered with Mindy about the… recruits, I guess.

  “These teams,” I interjected, “they’re just for school, right? This isn’t some blood-oath, lifelong commitment thing?”

  Mindy shrugged, a gesture that involved a fascinating play of muscles under her shirt. “According to Mister Dexter, the teams you make here often become the teams you graduate with. Cities would rather hire a pre-built, pre-trained unit than try to glue a bunch of solos together and hope they don’t kill each other.”

  Abigail nodded, pushing her non-prescription glasses up her nose. “Exactly! And we already have the core of a great team right here! Researcher—that’s me. You’re support. Mindy is our powerhouse. We just need an anchor, maybe a suppressor or manipulator, and another damage dealer. But we’re flexible!”

  Mindy chuckled. “I’m not flexible enough to be an anchor.”

  “Which is why I’ve been scouting first years for a good anchor who fits our dynamic,” Abigail said, beaming. “I have some ideas, but I’m not sure.”

  “What aren’t you sure about?” I asked, my cynicism sensors twitching.

  Abigail looked at me with an expression of perfectly calibrated nervousness. “One of them is from your Remedial Teamwork class.”

  I facepalmed. The sound echoed in the sparsely furnished room. “Please tell me they aren’t being held back a year. Please.”

  “Oh, no! If you’re talking about Chinook, absolutely not,” Abbey said, shaking her head. “She did, however, want me to talk her up to you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Talk her up?” This was new territory. People usually wanted me to talk less.

  “Yep. Wanted me to try to get you to sit with her or pass you her number. I told her I’d let you know she was interested. So.” She spread her hands. “Consider yourself let-known.”

  “No,” I said, the word flat and final. “Just… no. It’s a good idea to put a team together, but I’m here to learn, get my degree, and build a rep as a competent support. Not to be someone’s ticket up the social ladder or a notch on their bedpost. Especially not someone with an attitude that could curdle milk. Next.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Mindy smiled slightly. “We already excluded them.”

  Abigail sighed, a theatrical little sound designed to draw focus. “This one is interesting. But she’s already convinced you’re going to say no.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help the flicker of curiosity.

  “Really. Akyo Tokamura. Public identity, calls herself Terracotta.”

  “She’s trying for anchor? I thought she was a first-year brawler.”

  Abbey shook her head. “No, she’s from Kyoto. Got here last semester but delayed entry to work on her English. She’s not a tanker; she’s a manipulator. Earth-type elemental.”

  The penny dropped. “I thought she was a transformer. Manipulator and emergency anchor. That makes a hell of a lot more sense. She needs training, but the potential is there. Who else?”

  Abigail beamed and pulled out a notebook. It was a creepy thing to watch. Penciled-in notes would scroll and shift on the page like text on a glitchy monitor. Her power just tea-bagged logic whenever it felt like it.

  “Secondly, there’s a data controller. She can make minor changes to individual points of information.”

  I looked at her, genuinely confused. “You can already do that. Why do we need a second one?”

  “No, I am not officially on your team,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “Mindy said she supported my inclusion as your sponsor, but the final decision was yours. So the second person on the list… is me.”

  I blinked. “Then yes. It’s fine. I thought it was a done deal already. You and Mindy are basically joined at the hip.”

  She shrugged, a delicate motion. “Yes, but you are not like… super friendly toward me. So I wasn’t sure if it would be okay.”

  I offered a thin, brittle smile. “I’m not super friendly toward anyone. When I first met you, you were too perfect. No offense, but I had you pegged as a plant. A saboteur. A honeypot sent by… well, someone.”

  She looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned to Mindy. “Mindy, can I talk to him in private for a few minutes?”

  Mindy glanced at me. I gave a slight, wary nod. She smiled at Abbey. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She rose and retreated into her room, leaving me alone with the walking information hazard.

  After the door clicked shut, Abbey looked at me, her mousey facade melting away into something far more calculating. “Is it because of the Strategic Simulations thing, or the power thing?”

  I froze. “Uhh… how do you…”

  She snerked, a surprisingly genuine sound. “Seriously? Information manipulator? Your background was a glaring red flag of ‘weird.’ At first, I thought you were sent to mess with me. I’m pretty sure the school stuffed us into the same remedial class specifically to keep an eye on each other. Two Class-A public threats in one basket.”

  I nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “Okay. So. How much do you know?”

  She took off her glasses and laid them on the table, her eyes sharp and clear. “That’s a tricky question. I know most of your history. I’m more than happy to sever ties between you and SSS if you need it. The Vilnet is garbage, by the way. It was created by an ex-BSA cyberkinetic as a way to keep the freelance villain market organized and monitored.”

  I sighed, the fight going out of me. “Yeah, I’d kind of figured that part out.”

  “Basically, if it’s recorded, written, or stored, I can access it. If it’s in both wetware and a storage media, I can affect both, like when I changed your shirt. If it’s solely in wetware… I can’t touch it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled, a thin, professional curve of her lips. “My secret weakness. I can’t read thoughts or memories. If you have a conversation and it’s not recorded, that’s pure wetware. If you know things, I might not know them. I can access electronic or written records easily, but the stuff locked in your meat-computer is safe from me.”

  A sliver of relief cut through my paranoia. “Yeah. Can you keep my… extracurriculars to yourself?”

  She nodded. “Yep. I blurt out my own secrets all the time—it keeps people from looking for the deeper ones. Other people’s secrets are their own problem unless they become my problem. But like I said, I can’t read minds. I think, however, I might be able to help you with your research.”

  I leaned forward, planting my hands on the table. “Oh? You know something about nanocircuitry?”

  She shook her head, her smile widening a fraction. “No. Your other research. That’s why I suggested Akyo. I’m getting some connections between her and your power research, although I can’t dig them out because you don’t have anything solidified research-wise.”

  “What do you mean ‘solidified’?”

  “I can tell if there’s a solid disparity between the written word and reality, but only if someone has tested the written word’s assumption and has a factual, proven response,” she explained, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. “If someone has written that the world is flat, I’ll know it’s false because someone else has written down tested evidence that it’s round, backed by conviction and reality. The more real a fact is, the more energy it takes to alter. Trying to change the fact that the world is round would burn me out like a fuse.”

  She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. “Some of the stuff you’re messing with… well, some of it’s true and tested. Some of it’s intentionally false, a waste of time. Some is wishful thinking. Some is written as fiction but accidentally touches on reality. Some is sort of true but needs better testing. And some…” she paused for effect, “…is intentionally designed to help someone like you accidentally kill themselves.”

  I stared at her, stunned. The sheer utility of her power, applied to my problem, was staggering. “I honestly hadn’t even thought of that. So it’s possible you could find those documents Bob was talking about? The ones from the Serenoid invasion?”

  She shook her head. “No. The closest thing to ‘true’ I can find is that their manuals work for them. Human physiology and power expression are too different. Trying to use their methods would either kill you or destroy your power. They knew this. That’s why they didn’t fight to get their loot back. It was either worthless to us or a deliberate trap. They consider us hopelessly evil infidels and abominations.”

  She slid her glasses back on, the mousey librarian persona snapping back into place like a mask. “So, want another bit of information that will completely blow your mind?”

  I barked a short, humorless laugh. “That category is getting pretty narrow these days. Try me.”

  “Crystal was wrong,” she said, her voice calm and level. “But she was also right.”

  The table cracked under my hands, splintering where my fingers had dug into the laminate wood. My voice was a low, dangerous thing I barely recognized.

  “What?”