Westbrook Academy for Metahumans: Forums

Licensing Review Board Enters Closed Session

by Darcy Danton
Sentinel Staff Writer

In the wake of teen super Derrick Cork's death, the city's Hero Licensing Review Board has begun a special closed session.

The six-member panel, comprised of citizens and civil servants, operates under the auspices of the Citizen Crime Fighting Act and helps determine licensing updates and restrictions. While the exact details of the special session remain confidential, sources indicate there will be a focus on the issue of patrol licenses for underage supers.

"We're asking our children to fight a war," said Dr. Timothy Myers, a professor of Metahuman Studies at the University of Rhode Island - Steel Canyon. "We hand them these licenses and send them out onto the streets, ill-equipped and ill-prepared for what awaits them. Then we indulge in hand-wringing when a tragedy occurs. Instead we should be counting our blessings every single time tragedy doesn't strike."

Dr. Myers, an outspoken opponent of patrol licenses for minors, is not a member of the board, but noted that he had received a request to provide expert testimony during the session.

"Let's hope they've come to their senses," he said. "There are better ways to give our young heroes the experience they need to serve the world."

The board is expected to present its findings and recommendations by the end of February. A tentative open forum for public comment has been scheduled for Friday, February 24th.

continued A11

Roach frowned as he looked over the paper -- A rare sight, indeed. If not for him getting lost in searching for his morning supply of Marmaduke, he'd have skipped the entire article all together. And yet, he had gotten lost and he had read the article... and now he was in a rather sour mood.

He crumbled the newspaper up and tossed it onto the floor of his room, those eyebrows of his knitted together like some sort of caterpillar that was seen mid-orgy. He stared down at the crumbled paper, knuckles clicking as he popped his hand back and forth.

They were cock blocking his heroing. Again.

Roach hopped up to his feet, fist tightening now. The dresser near the wall gave a squeel as an unseen force suddenly gripped it by the back and hauled it forward just a bit -- Loud enough to wake up Lorne who blinked in surprise from his bed.

Roach just waved off the guy's question before moving to the door, shouting over his shoulder, "Lorne, put on your talkin' underwear. We're goin' to talk this shit over with Herrera!"

It was snowing in Boomtown the day after the funeral, but the crisp air smelled of smoke and the flurries had an ashen hue.

Makeshift encampments dotted the charred landscape. Men dressed in ill-fitting clothes huddled around fire barrels. A few brave souls tried their luck finding shelter in the ruined buildings until the Outcasts came calling.

In clothing he had borrowed from the donation box in King’s Row, Wyatt did his best to fit in. An unlit generic-brand cigarette hung from his lip – a choice he had made instead of the more expensive Marlboros he had started to buy. Even though the cold didn’t really affect him, he huddled in his worn, over-sized coat. Low on his head he wore an oil-stained trucker’s hat from under which he glared at any Outcast who thought he was just one of the homeless ones infringing on their territory.

Wyatt had come to Boomtown early in the afternoon and stayed until well after dark, moving from group to group of gang members. Some allowed this young stranger into their midst; most did not. So he skirted the edges of the camps and stuck to the shadows. They knew he was there – of course they would, that was a matter of survival for them – but so long as Wyatt held his distance, a fragile peace was maintained.

The Trolls had made a big push to reclaim the whole area a few days back – that was the main topic of conversation. Would the Outcasts make a raid on the Hollows in retaliation? Would this cold war turn hot again, as it had in the first days after the Rikti came.

But that wasn’t why Wyatt was here so he had moved on, drifting from fire barrel to fire barrel, one clump of people to the next, as if carried along by some invisible current of which he was only vaguely aware, trusting that it would eventually take him, if not where he wanted to go, then where he needed to be.

And it had.

Deep into The Fuse, a few words spoken in a rasping voice caught his notice. Outcasts. He edged nearer to the conversation, lighting his cigarette at the fire near where they were, staying huddled in his coat, wary of drawing notice.

The one talking was a Shocker, his skin the colour of the sea on a perfect day. Arcs of electricity rippled along his fingers as he warmed himself.

"--the kid fell," he said.

Wyatt shoved one hand in his pocket and used the other to hold the cigarette to his lips, sucking on it deeply, inhaling, holding it in before opening his mouth and letting the smoke roll beneath the brim of his cap before it escaped. With his back to the conversation, Wyatt listened.

"Everybody knows that," rumbled the Brick from his perch on the shell of a burned-out car. "All over the damn news."

The Shocker moved to beside Wyatt. He waved a dismissive hand in the Brick’s direction and said, “Not everybody knows what came next. Capes."

The Brick snorted. "Sure, they found his dead ass."

"Nuh-uh," said the Shocker. "This was a different set." He grinned, showing teeth that had been filed to points. "These capes were already there. An' when it went down, they went up, up an' away. They cut an' ran."

What? Wyatt was near bursting to ask – which capes? Who left Cork to die? But he knew he had to keep quiet, unnoticed if he was going to hear more.

Another Outcast nudged Wyatt’s shoulder and said, “Hey man, got one of those to spare?”

Wyatt pulled the pack of smokes from inside his coat and handed them off. Then he went back to eavesdropping.

But the Shocker was no longer beside him though the Brick was still on the car, busy downing a pint of Old Gilley.

No answers. But maybe it was more about getting to the right questions.

Wyatt tossed his cigarette into the fire and walked off into the darkness.

Heidi Pretorius threw a Hello Kitty bank full of gold Krugerrands through her bedroom window. It landed in the street several floors below, its contents exploding onto the asphalt. Then she ripped apart the silk pillows she had bought last spring when she and her father had vacationed in Dubai -- ripped them to shreds with her bare hands, breaking several fingernails to the quick as she did. She shouted obscene profanities to her father, a man who loved her more than anything else in the world and who had indulged her excessively since she was born.

Mrs. Pallana smiled to herself. It was about time Dr. Pretorius saw this side of her, this pretty fit. It was way past time he had told his daughter, "no."

And the cause of the tantrum?

"Heidi, in light of recent events, I have decided to have your hero's license suspended."

((All Westbrook students receive the following email overnight. Those wishing to respond may do so via PM to me or Diya.))

Hello,

I know this must be a difficult time, and I'm sorry to intrude. My name is Darcy Danton, and I'm a reporter for The Paragon Sentinel. I'm doing a feature profile on Derrick Cork, so I'm collecting all the information on him that I can.

Would you be willing to share any of your memories about Derrick? The more voices heard, the more complete the picture of him. If it eases any concerns you may have, Derrick's parents have given this profile their blessing.

You can reply by email if you like. Thanks for taking time out to consider this.

Again, my sympathies,

Darcy Danton
Staff Writer
The Paragon Sentinel

((This take place sometime over the course of the past several days.))

Was he really doing this? It was crazy. It was illegal. In some societies, it was downright evil.

Wyatt had been lying in the dark, staring at the bottom of Milo’s bunk ever since Jessie had awakened him in Mia’s room. He had finally come clean to his girlfriend as to what he had been doing in Boomtown – even the cigarettes – after Mia had told him what she and a few other of their schoolmates had done. They were all trying to find answers to the Derrick Cork mystery, and though they all were finding bits and pieces, none of them had found enough to start putting the picture together. Wyatt had decided to sneak away from Westbrook and come here to see what he could dig up on his own.

Headlights from an approaching car caused Wyatt to pause. If they turned his way, he would have to make a run for it. Not a problem for someone who could cover fifty yards in one leap, though doing it in the dark might be tricky. The headlights veered away and disappeared over the rise of the street and Wyatt went back to work.

He knew he should be back in his dorm getting some rest. The past week had been exhausting. It was the first time in his life that Wyatt ever could remember feeling tired. At the hardware, Mr. Hundley sometimes talked about feeling “beat” and now Wyatt understood what he meant. He felt beat. Beat up. Beat down. Though his muscles didn’t ache, they still seemed to be complaining to him, protesting having to be up and moving this time of night. It was a new sensation to Wyatt, one he didn’t much care for.

Boomtown was to blame, he figured. It was a depressing place, its stinking, probably toxic air so full of smoke and dust that sunlight never seemed to break through. The worst of humanity was on display there – despair, fear, cruelty, hate. Wyatt had carried those emotions with him back to school last night, picking a fight with Juan over nothing at all, some stupid remark Wyatt couldn’t even remember now.

He should have been done by now, but the lethargy in his body was also working on his mind, breaking his resolve and killing his motivation. He was half-finished and he felt like quitting. It was taking too long. He was thinking too much. He wasn’t thinking enough.

Wyatt knew what would make him feel better – give him a kick-start – but giving in would mean admitting that what had started out as a prop to help him fit in with the occupants of Boomtown had turned into a problem.

In the end, he gave in and lit one up. There was no rush like he was told he should experience. The smoke didn’t taste sweet in his mouth. His lungs didn’t feel satiated like his belly did after a super-size double Fire-burger from Westy’s. But immediately, it was like his mind cleared, his nerves calmed.

Wyatt put the shovel back to use. Dawn was still a few hours away and he had plenty of time to dig up Derrick’s grave and fill it back in before daylight.

The trick would be finding that mediport badge in the middle of all the dirt.

Finally, the shovel made a loud “thunk!” and Wyatt knew he was deep enough. He took the small LED flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on. He also got another cigarette and lit it.

Lauren said she saw it. Or maybe she said she thought she saw it. But Lauren was pretty reliable, not one to see something that wasn’t there. Wyatt got on his hands and knees on top of the coffin. The utter, absurd wrongness of the situation didn’t escape him.

It would have been easier if the soil he was picking through wasn’t full of mica-riddled pegmatites, catching his light in gleaming glints. The longer he searched, the more he realized what a fool’s quest this was. Mediport badges weren’t very big, and one encrusted in mud would be almost impossible to find here. Wyatt checked the time on his cell phone. Five-fity-eight. He had maybe a half-hour before he lost the cover of dark. He had to stop now. He had failed.

Shovel after shovel, hastily cast, the dirt filled the grave. Was it right? Would anyone know? Wyatt didn’t have time for touching up his handiwork. A poorly whistled “I’m So Lonesome I Could Die,” signalled the approach of the cemetery’s caretaker. Wyatt had to leave before –

“Jesus...” Wyatt whispered beneath his breath.

There it was. Clear as day, lying almost dead center on top of the mound was the mediport.

“What the heck happened here?” the caretaker said. “I go through all that trouble to make these graves pretty for when the family comes back, and them danged dogs come digging in it and messing it up at night. Dang mongrels!”

It was good for Wyatt that he could hold his breath for extended periods because the caretaker stood cursing stray dogs for another five or six minutes. From his vantage point in a nearby tree, he could hear every word the caretaker said. He listened for any sign that the mediport badge had been spotted, and when the old man walked off to “Go get my gear and fix this mess before someone sees it,” Wyatt knew that his night had not ended in failure.

He leapt from the tree to the mound of dirt and using a brand-new handkerchief, snatched up the badge and bounded off.

“It’s about Derrick.” Peyton held her smile, nodding her head, before turning a few pages of her Wildcat notebook.

“Sure. What’s up?” She patted the bleachers next to her, inviting him to sit.

“A lot of kids are checking into what might have really happened to him.” He explained. She nodded in response.

“I said I’d help out where I could. Derrick was a hard enough guy to get along with, but that doesn’t mean he deserved anything bad happening to him.”

“Here’s the thing.” Aglakti explained, standing back up. “When Derrick Cork died, he was holding half of this little lion bookend. I mean, it was obvious that it was broken down the center. After some poking around, we found out that it had been stolen from the museum gift shop a few nights before Derrick died. Anyway, we saw some security footage at the museum, but we couldn’t get a good look at who it was, just that he was wearing a black hoodie.”

“Uh-huh. Which could be near all of Paragon.”

“It could, but the way he moved you could tell he was an athlete. And he was almost cocky about it, kind of like he was toying with the security cameras, playing a game. The way he changed direction, the footwork he used. To be honest? I know it sounds crazy - but I’ve seen moves like that before, the way he moved his feet."

Aglakti demonstrated what he was talking about. Peyton scrunched up her nose. The way he ran suggested a sweep right - Armstrong was still pretty fond of that play even though it wasn’t so widely used anymore, but still, it's not like he was the only coach in history to use it. It was the footwork that caught her attention. The cock of the walk shuffle at the end, almost like someone trying to moonwalk in cleats.

“Do that again." She said, nodding to his feet. Aglakti complied, and Peyton shook her head. "That looks like Cork’s shuffle, not showy enough to attract a ref’s attention because we’d get an unsportsman for it, but unsportsman enough to be Cork. But why would he steal something from a museum?”

She picked up her Macbook and cued up the footage from the cheer and football practice she’d recorded at the Denton Complex. Mia had been on the inactive list with a broken arm at the time, so Peyton asked her to record the whole thing. Sure enough in the background, you could see Derrick running drills, Armstrongs sweep right - and there was the shuffle.

“That’s where I saw it.” Aglakti said, snapping his fingers. “I watched this a million times to learn the Dynamite routine."

"Watch it a million and one." She said, shooting him a wink. "Then you won't crash into Mia next time." Aglakti smiled sheepishly and ran a hand over the back of his neck. "In fairness to you, she wasn't in the formation on account of a broken arm. She'd have been right over there. Anyway, yeah... I mean, makes no sense, but I've never seen no one but Derrick use that. "

"Thanks, Peyton."

“Welcome. Peyton told him with a smile, waving as he dashed out of the gym, her smile fading as soon as the doors closed. She watched footage of the squad and Cork for a few minutes longer, then sighed and closed her MacBook. So Cork broke into the museum to steal a paperweight? Why would he do that? Sure he was a jerk, but he wasn’t a thief, not that she knew of anyway. He always talked about being a big time hero. Big time heroes didn’t break in to steal trinkets from museum gift shops. It didn’t add up. Drugs? Her brother never stole either until he was hooked on Oxy then got into meth. Cork didn’t believe in them though. He wouldn’t even take an Advil when he pulled his hamstring at practice, let alone anything else.

“What were you up to, Cork?” She asked to the empty gym. “And why?”

-------------

(What follows is a blanket summary for all investigators. We've tried our best to keep it as generic as possible while still giving you a feel for the situation, but we realize you may need to tweak parts of it in your head for your particular character. Please feel free to post any and all reactions coming before, during or after Mr. Herrera's lecture.)

The summons from Mr. Herrera comes before the last of the morning mist has burned away.

To your surprise, you're not wanted in his office. Instead you're led to a classroom. Once you step inside, you realize why there's been a change of venue.

There are too many people -- presumably all of them, like you, in some kind of trouble -- to fit in Mr. Herrera's office. A quick glance around reveals that close to a dozen students have been plucked from the dorm clean-up efforts to be here.

Mr. Herrera motions for everyone to be seated and then steps to the lectern. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's been brought to my attention that those of you in this room have been conducting an investigation of sorts."

He pauses to let that sink in. No one coughs, no one blinks, no one offers any response.

"I've also been informed that this investigation has quite possibly brought on repercussions." He nods at the window. The front lawn has been scarred with tire tracks and the other marks of heavy firefighting equipment. "Repercussions for the school as a whole."

He lets his hands rest on the lectern as he scans the room, making eye contact with each person there. When his gaze pauses on you, you realize that there's no anger there. What you find instead is worse -- disappointment.

"Such repercussions are an unfortunate part of the profession many of you will choose to undertake upon leaving here," he tells you. "I feel it would be unfair -- indeed, unjust -- to hold you responsible for them."

This brings a reaction. Relief from some quarters, suspicion from others. He holds up a hand for silence.

"That said, your actions and decisions leave something to be desired." He allows himself a sigh, one that carries with it the weight of the world. "A number of you crossed into a restricted zone without following procedure, some more than once. Some of you illegally entered a dwelling and removed items from it. I'm given to understand there are more such questionable undertakings, but I will spare you a complete recitation."

He passes a hand across his brow, and, for the first time, he simply looks weary.

"I will say only that I believe you all understood the lines you were crossing." He lets those words hang a moment. "Otherwise someone would have seen fit to inform, at the very least, myself or another member of the faculty long before matters reached this point.

"I have already been in touch with the authorities," he tells you. "They will collect all the items in your possession. In addition, I think it highly probable that many, if not all of you, will be required to answer additional questions. I caution you that failure to be forthcoming will do you no favors."

Again he pauses to study the faces in the room. His opinion on what he finds there is now unreadable, though. He clears his throat and continues.

"I would ask you all to consider what you would do, were you in my position." He slips off his glasses and begins to polish them, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. "How each of you would rate your performance in this matter."

He nods, as much to himself as anyone else.

"While you ponder that, you may be assured that you will have other things to occupy your attention, as well," he says. "You will have papers on ethics to write and reading on proper law enforcement procedures to do."

Someone starts to groan at that. But the sound withers to silence under Mr. Herrera's stare.

"In addition, those of you with patrol licenses will be expected to undertake additional patrols," he says.

You're almost ready to tune him out at this point, but something in his voice grabs your attention. Was that a change of tone? A softening? Perhaps even a hint of approval? If so, it's subtle.

"I believe we'll begin with Kings Row," he says. "I'm given to understand the Skulls have been making a greater and greater nuisance of themselves. Breaking and entering. Stealing property. If we apply ourselves, we might be able to recover some of those items, I think..."

“You need to talk to Juan. Seriously. Like ASAP… He said that he had information that the cops were in on this.”

Why am I just hearing this now?

“Might be you just handed all our evidence to someone that works with or for these people.”

Lauren didn’t say a word, but inside she seethed. How dare you?

And suddenly she was snapping at people as other voices flooded up from her memory.

I just be thinkin' you're too trusting.

... part of me thinks that's a really good thing. That you want to trust...

People lie.

She trusted Mia, too. Look where that got her.

“Burn me once, shame on me. Blah blah blah.”

Darcy. Lauren felt a twinge of guilt. Yes, she had promised to keep Darcy in the loop, and it had been on her mind all day to call, but the time never seemed to materialize.

Guilt was replaced quickly by fear. Could she even trust Darcy? Darcy didn’t know about… It didn’t matter what Darcy did or didn’t know. Someone inside Westbrook was feeding them information. It was the only explanation. Probably Troy, but she’d never get him to admit it.

Lauren felt like she was drowning. She couldn’t hear anything. Words jumbled into incoherent sounds. Air. She needed air. And a quiet place to think. Away from the accusations. Away from the all the people who trusted her and were probably just realizing how foolishly their trust was placed.

Passing through the library doors was like breaking the water’s surface. Lauren sucked in a huge lungful of air, and just let her legs carry her toward the sanctuary of her room. Except even her room wasn’t safe.

She wasn’t cut out for this. She didn’t do subtle. Human bonfires just aren’t subtle. Speaking her mind. Charging in. That’s what she was used to. Huge conspiracies, spies, agents in government positions, evidence lockers compromised. These were things out of novels or movies.

“You know what's funny, Blonde?”

Roach. Great. Go away. Lauren didn’t even look back. Half the time, Roach was bailing on this thing anyway. “Don’t care.”

“Your loss. ‘Bout Troy.”

She stopped in her tracks. Troy. She couldn’t help turning around. “Fine. What?”

“Lose the attitude. Ask nicely.”

Smug, superior, son of a... Lauren stopped herself. Roach generally couldn’t read her. She wasn’t on his frequency or something, but there had been moments. If she wanted to know, she had to play his game. She was ready to tell him she wasn’t in the mood for games. It was on the tip of her tongue to say just that.

“Alright. Would you mind telling me what's so funny?”

But Roach wasn’t going to let her off that easy. She had to share with him first. Something she really hadn’t wanted to share with anyone. Then she had to follow Roach to hear what he had to say. Away from the library and the dorms to the relative seclusion of the stadium. It was far too cold outside for Lauren’s taste, but she followed him anyway.

Roach told her a story about another girl who’d confronted Troy over something he had done. Just like Lauren had done after Monday morning’s fire alarm. How Troy had turned the girl around, comforted her, and made her trust him again.

Lauren made no response, but inside she started to feel her own sense of smug satisfaction. When she realized Troy wasn’t going to be so easily cracked, she had backed down, apologized, even asked him for help. She told Wyatt and Cassie that she didn’t trust him, but he might not be involved. She hoped the whole time that it wouldn’t change their minds. That they’d realize she had already tipped her hand. No one else needed to. If that’s the attitude Troy was hoping for, even expecting?

Maybe she could pull off subterfuge better than she thought.

“Free advice to you -- Don't hold your meetings or discuss the case near school. Find a place outside of school. Crowded. Loud. Maybe you won't find things beatin' you to the punch, yeah?”

Lauren felt another knife twist in her stomach, deflating her hope again. “I figured the library would be safe enough. Closed doors, and all.”

“Nope.”

Great. How many more ways can things get screwed up tonight? Not like it matters. Everything is in the unsafe hands of the PPD.

Lauren tried to get Roach to help, but he was bailing out. In a way, it infuriated her. Roach was the one who kept pulling people out into dangerous waters, claiming they needed to step up their game if they wanted to be real heroes. And here he was bailing. But getting angry at him wouldn’t do anything. Roach was Roach, and he would do whatever he wanted.

But he did offer one more piece of advice. Set a trap.

A trap? But for whom? And how?

Heidi met Wyatt in front of the ice cream shoppe on the Boardwalk, just like he'd asked and then they had taken a walk on the beach. She had on dark blue skinny jeans and dark red suede boots and a low-cut, purple sweater with a matching knitted scarf around her neck. Her hair was longer than she used to wear it; the tight curls that she used to wear had become soft scarlet waves that would hang all the way to her hips, but for now blew in billowing clouds around her head. If she was wearing makeup, it was subtle, just enough to make her green eyes shine and her lips look like they had just been kissed.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi, yourself." She didn't smile as she said it. In fact, she looked like she felt rather put out.

Wyatt decided to keep it brief. "I need a favor and you owe me one or two."

"Maybe. What kind of favor?"

"First, you can't mention this to anyone, no matter what, okay?"

“I’ll add it to the list of things we’ve done that can’t be mentioned, yeah.” The "rather put out" face broke into a smirk.

“And you can’t ask me any questions either. I mean, don’t even try to guess what I’m up to. And if you think you figure it out, then forget it. Just – don’t try. Just pretend you’ve never done me this favor.”

“Do you know how hard you’re making it for me to not want to know what you’re up to?”

“I know but it’s important. Don’t try. This all will probably blow up in my face anyway. If I go down, I’m goin’ down alone.”

“It’s dangerous going down alone. You could pull a muscle or rupture a disc...”

“I’m serious. Okay? I’m dead serious.”

Heidi studied him and he knew she was sizing him up; determining whether or not this was more of his bad boy bullshit or if he really was doing something so potentially dangerous. Finally, she said, “What do you need from me?”

“For what I’m doing, I need to be totally anonymous and super-badass.”

“Get a mask and you’re already pretty badass when you keep your mind in the game.”

Wyatt shook his head. “No. I gotta be more badass. I gotta be like... deadly badass.”

Heidi’s expression changed to one of worry. Did she really care about him? Wyatt pushed that thought aside and waited for her committal.

“I think I can help you,” she said. “What kind of power-suit do you want me to borrow from my dad's work?”