I was pondering the metabolic quirks of Class 3 enhanced musculature when a knock came at my door. “Jacob?” Mindy’s voice, laced with a mix of amusement and caution.

  “The one and only,” I answered, closing the syllabus. “Unless my evil twin has escaped his dimensional prison again. It’s been a while.”

  “Hey, umm… a rather tall woman named Candace Windwalker is here. She wants to, and I quote, ‘take you out.’ As your sponsor, I think it might be a good idea for you to experience the local, uh, sights.”

  “Windwalker? Wait, is that Chinook’s civilian name?”

  “Yes. She says she has a bribe to join the team.”

  I chuckled and grabbed a jacket. “She doesn’t really need a bribe,” I said, opening the door to find Mindy looking vaguely like a matchmaker who’d just found a perfect but deeply unstable prospect for her favorite cousin. “So far, she’s a decent anchor compared to the walking disasters in Remedial. I’m inclined to give her a shot. I also think Akiko would work out well because of her dual role. How do you feel?”

  She nodded. “I think so. I know she’s a walking insurance claim inside city limits, but she can also help repair the damage she causes if we get stuck with reconstruction duty. And outside the city, her limits pretty much vanish. She’s a strategic asset.”

  I nodded. “Then if you’re cool, extend invitations to both. Akiko’s sharp once you get past the shy, ‘I-turn-into-a-building’ thing. We might need to replace her in year three or four since she’s flat-out stated she’s heading back to Japan after graduation, but that’s a problem for Future Jake. Present Jake is just trying to survive the week.”

  Candace Windwalker was waiting at our common room table and rose as I entered. Huh. If she weren’t a potential teammate, and if her personality wasn’t forged in the bitter fires of solo combat rankings, and if I weren’t an emotionally-crippled cynic, I might have been impressed. She had the kind of striking, natural features that cosmetic companies spend billions trying to simulate: clever eyebrows, a waterfall of black hair down to her waist, tan skin, and a strong, elegant nose. A live-action Pocahontas, if Pocahontas spent her free time practicing aerial combat maneuvers and glaring at teamwork seminars.

  She had high cheekbones and a plump lower lip that didn’t need makeup, and while she wasn’t voluptuous, the jeans and short red midriff tee showed off a trim, athletic build. The fact that she was almost my height in her heels was less off-putting and more… notable. I’m six-three; I’m not used to making eye contact without dipping my chin.

  “Well, gee. I won’t even try to guess your super ID,” I said, giving her a deliberate once-over that was purely for tactical assessment. Probably.

  She shrugged, a motion that was all practiced casualness. “Not too worried about it. Yours is pretty obvious anyway, since there aren’t that many male Alphas who look like you and radiate ‘trouble.’ Anyway, I plan on bribing you.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Bribing me with what? I’m fiscally solvent, thanks to a robust career in staged villainy. And I’m reasonably certain you’re already on the team’s shortlist. The very, very short list. It’s basically a list of people who haven’t actively tried to kill me yet.”

  She offered a thin smile. “Come with me and I’ll show you. It’s on campus.”

  I glanced at Mindy, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. So, the sponsor was in on it. A coordinated ambush.

  “Fine,” I sighed, playing the put-upon participant. “But I can’t stay out too late. It’s a school night, and Mommy,” I jabbed a thumb at Mindy, “wants me home before curfew. Wouldn’t want to strain our fledgling sponsor-ward rapport.”

  Chinook just nodded and led the way out.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed, the words echoing in the vast, subterranean space as the industrial lift settled with a final groan. “What the hell is this place? Supermax for failed inventions?”

  “Widgeteers need training too,” Chinook replied, her voice taking on a tour-guide cadence. “And so do Tinkers. Most people call this the ‘Failboat,’ because the widgeteer projects, failed student work, and even Tinker junk that’s not biohazardous all wind up here.”

  It was an endless maze of underground cages, a private storage facility the size of a small city. Warehouses stretched into the gloom, each one stadium-sized, filled to the ceiling with… junk. Glorious, beautiful, potentially lethal junk. It was vaguely sorted by type and function—a mountain of twisted metal here, a valley of shattered ceramics there, a whole aisle dedicated to what looked like malfunctioning toasters.

  “When students need more specialized or functional equipment for experiments,” she continued, “they have to go through the official grant process. Some of the better Tinkers graduate with multi-million-dollar loans, but they can usually walk right into a corporate R&D gig that’s happy to pay it off. The rest of us… Well, we make do.”

  She gestured toward a series of heavy doors. “Over there are the crafting rooms. Safety-sealed, great ventilation. Some have forges, machine shops, even ‘enchanting bays’ for the weirdos whose powers require interpretive dance. You sign up for room time and are expected to clean up after yourself. Or pay a hefty fine.”

  “Each room has an ordering terminal. If you mark it as educational raw materials, a lot of it’s covered by the school account. You can store your projects in a private bay.”

  “Here’s the tricky part,” she said, her tone turning serious. “Finished developments are technically Academy property, linked to your BSA file. You need faculty approval to use anything in training or competition.”

  “What about patents?” I asked, my inner entrepreneur perking up despite itself.

  She scratched her head. “Not really my area. From what I understand, you’re not a school employee, so if you invent something patentable, it’s yours… unless you collaborated with faculty, then it gets messy. What I do know is that if you need hazardous materials—like, say, radioactive materials—you have to get a staff member to sign off on it.”

  “Does that include power training?” I asked, my interest now fully, dangerously piqued.

  She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I think so, but you’d have to ask your Power Exploitation instructor. They can get permission. I had to request… special materials my first year.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really? Do tell. Was it the tears of a Class Five? Unicorn femur? A first-edition comic book?”

  She quirked a half-smile. “I was only a single-awakening back then. My grandfather told me I could awaken elemental spirits if I underwent a proper spirit journey. He was right.”

  That shut down the cynicism, at least temporarily. “Wait, your power increased? How? Was it a ritual? A drug? A particularly stressful vision quest involving a sweat lodge and a questionable diet?”

  Her smile became enigmatic. “I went on my journey, found my spirit animal, the owl, and gained the power of the wind. I wish I could tell you more, but it’s… personal. And based on the fact that your own ability seems to be growing in leaps and bounds, perhaps I should be asking you for advice.”