Every day I climb ropes, run treadmills, spar the training robot and use the learning helmets until I think my brain might explode. It’s exhausting, but I keep at it. I even hit the gym, focusing on building muscles and stamina. Personal trainers in pink shirts help me with my workouts, and stewards in white bring me water and food while I rest.
It’s been two weeks since my first mission, and the training is already working. I’m getting stronger and faster; I’ve never looked so fit. I wish Stace could see me now!
“I feel so strong! If I knew how fast muscles build I would have done this ages ago,” I tell my personal trainer.
“Yeah, but most of that muscle isn’t because of your working out, it’s because of the weird things the Superhero Corps do to your body.”
I remember what the recruitment officer had said. I still don’t know what infranetics is, but it might be the reason I’m getting stronger every day.
“I’m okay with that,” I say.
“I would be, too,” the trainer agrees, “because I bet it cost a fortune to tune you up like that.”
Past Prime seems to be in charge of my physical training. He’s harsh, and I end most days covered in bruises from sparring. He broke my arm during one session, but a medic just put it in a cast and told me to get used to it.
“I think he did it on purpose,” I told the medic
“I can’t see him doing it by mistake,” the medic agreed.
Mostly I train alone. I suspect that the other cadets eat together and go to classes that I’m not invited to, and I don’t know why I’ve been singled out. I’m escorted back to my room as soon as I finish training, and I haven’t seen the sky since my first mission. I even eat in my room, alone, off trays that technicians leave on my table. The food is good, but the company leaves something to be desired. My tat-a-gotchi spins on my arms and flaps its silver wings to entertain me. It’s getting bigger, and looks a little like a dragon. It blinks at me and slaps my arm with its tail.
“Computer on, please.”
My emails are the only thing keeping me sane. Tenchi and Dad send me videos most days, and Stace drops me a line every day.
“One new video. Play?”
“Yes.”
“How’s superschool? My friend says it’s tough, and that I should tell you to hang in there. I’ve joined the super corps as an analyst, although my dad isn’t happy. Maybe we’ll meet up? I hope so.”
Stace will make an excellent analyst. We met in an advanced math class run by a local university; she was a lot better than me. I’ll bet her dad wouldn’t be happy that’s she’s talking to me. Most of Stace’s videos are about how the town is recovering from the saucer attack, and what was destroyed. My favorite cinema is still standing, which is good news. They had the best popcorn.
I reply to each of her emails even though I know I can’t send anything out.
“Dear Stace, hero school is worse than anything I expected. I broke my arm during training but we didn’t even slow down. I’ve only been on one mission so far, and it ended badly. The food is good, though.”
There is a knock on the door, and I close the computer. It’s a steward, but not one I’ve ever seen before. This base is full of them, all working to keep the superheroes fit and happy. Like butlers, in a way.
“I’m to take you to the armory,” the steward explains.
We walk quickly as I stuff more of the delicious food into my mouth. I’m done by the time we arrive. We walk past a room filled with lounges, bookshelves and TVs. A team of suited up superheroes is waiting there, some watching the screens and others reading. They aren’t wearing their helmets and seem more bored than worried. I wonder what they are waiting for.
The technician guides me into the armory and directs me to a battered set of armor where Bad Memories and three other technicians are waiting for me. I get suited up. It doesn’t take long. Bad Memories watches me, but says nothing. He is in a dark green shirt and seems to be in charge. The other technicians are only identified by numbers on their pale green shirts. I still struggle to walk in the suit, but I manage to waddle through the armory behind Bad Memories. He doesn’t lead me to the cannon pods like I expect, but past them to a small waiting room with a series of doors.
“No cannons today?”
“Today you take the chariot,” Bad Memories says, “but be on your best behavior because-”
Small Talk walks into the room and Bad Memories shuts up. He pretends to fuss over my suit to avoid looking at Small Talk. A couple of technicians help Small Talk into his armor, which takes only a few seconds. He’s ready before I am and walks over to watch me.
His suit looks like it was carved from a single bar of platinum and then dragged through hell and back. It’s dented and scratched, but still bright. His name is written in small, sharp letters across his chest, but the suit has no designs or colors to make it memorable. I’m used to seeing superheroes in flamboyantly colored costumes, but it seems that’s not how the Cerberus Brawlers roll. Small Talk’s suit has a naked brutality that suits him well. He isn’t armed, yet he still looks more threatening than any super I have met so far.
And that includes both The General and Past Prime.
He glares at me, but I meet his gaze.
“Follow,” Small Talk growls at me as he walks out a door.
We walk into a small hangar and towards a Comet-Seven aircraft. Comets are the fastest aircraft in the world, although they still aren’t nearly as fast as the cannon pods. The ramp at the back of the Comet drops open and Small Talk leads me up into a small, cramped space behind the pilots’ cabin. There are six small chairs with serious straps and buckles. Small Talk picks a seat and straps himself in, and I do the same.
“Set,” he calls into his helmet.
The Comet has no windows, but I can feel it rise into the air and then speed up quickly. Small Talk says nothing, so I try to strike up a conversation.
“Um… what are we-”
Small Talk glares at me and I stop in mid-sentence. It seems that introductions will have to wait until I am much, much braver. We fly for about ten minutes before the craft slows to a hover and the ramp opens. Small Talk unstraps himself and walks to the ramp. I join him without waiting to be asked. The craft rocks in the air and I wobble in my walk, grasping a handle beside the open ramp. I look out; we are hovering about a hundred meters above a rocky shore.
“Power up,” Small Talk orders, and pulls a lever on my suit.
My helmet closes with a thud and a radio in my helmet clicks on.
“Trainee Red Five primary assessment,” a bored voice says, “Small Talk as leading assessor, Talented Brat assisting.”
“Um…hello?” I say.
“Hey kid, try not to clog the airways,” says the voice. Whoever I’m talking to sounds like they have better places to be.
“I’ll be quiet, but at least tell me what’s going on?”
“Training day, kid. Every person controls the saucer tech differently, which is why every superhero has a different set of powers. It’s time for us to find out what you are capable of. We normally wait a bit longer before bringing trainees out here, but for some reason we are making an exception for you. Now best pay attention, flight training is about to begin.”
The radio clicks off as we get lower to the ground. The shore below us is part of a small island made entirely of dark, sharp rocks. There aren’t many flat areas amongst the rocks. I lean out over the edge of the ramp for a better look.
“Where are we going to land?” I ask.
Small Talk kicks me off the ramp. I fall for a few seconds before I realize he isn’t planning on catching me.
“Argh! Fly! Fly! Fly!” I scream, but my suit doesn’t oblige until I’m only a meter above the ground.
Light bursts from my palms and feet, slowing me down to a hover. My suit shudders and I fall, hitting the ground hard and rolling along until I hit a rocky spire. Small Talk lands beside me, grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet
.
“You could have killed me!” I scream at him.
Small Talk gives me a cold stare and then shakes his head.
“If you can’t survive that, you have no place amongst us,” he says.
Touché. It doesn’t look like anyone is going to cut me any slack. On the other hand, Small Talk’s approach to training had me flying, if only for a second. He walks off, and I follow him over the rocks until we reach an overlook above the ocean waves. Small Talk looks at the waves as if they have personally offended him. He turns to me and looks me right in the eyes with an intense look I can’t quite meet.
“We draw our powers from the alien technology. It’s mostly instinct; you either have it or you don’t. Today we find out what you are capable of.”
“Okay,” because I don’t know what else I can add.
“The only way to test instinct is to rely on it.”
“Okay…”
“You will not need to think, only react. Understand?”
“Ah…yes?”
Small Talk shakes his head as if disappointed with me. I’m feeling scared, so I do the same thing I’ve always done when I’m scared: I pick a fight.
“Are you going to teach me how to fly, or are we going to chat all day?” I ask.
“Not smart, kid,” says the voice in my ear. He sounds amused.
Small Talk doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t get angry either. He simply picks me up and lifts me into the air.
“Focus on control, stability. Aim your hands and feet down like I do. It’s not the only way to fly, but it’s the most common.”
Then he drops me, and I fall like a stone. I hit the ground hard, but my shields take most of the damage.
“Get on with it, kid,” says the bored voice.
“Quiet, Brat,” Small Talk says, “or come down here and show him how to do it.”
That shuts Talented Brat up, which is nice, but it doesn’t help me fly. I could only fly when my life was depending on it. Small Talk moves towards me, lifts me off the ground, and carries me towards the cliff edge.
“Wait,” I say, “I’ll do it.”
Small Talk shrugs and sets me down. I take a deep breath. Superheroes can fly; I need to be able to do this. I step to the edge of the cliff. It’s a long way down, and the rocks beneath me look sharp and hard.
I jump.
The drop is terrifying but flight kicks in just above the water, and I just avoid getting wet. I struggle through the air back up towards Small Talk. My flying is bumpy and clumsy. I rise through the air and then drop back down again unsteadily until I come to a stable hover near Small Talk.
“Land,” he orders.
I land. Small Talk grabs my right arm and points at two large dials set into the glove. They are analogue, and look terribly old fashioned.
“Power,” Small Talks says, pointing at the slightly larger one. It’s divided into a blue section at its higher range, a grey section in the middle range and a thin red section right at the lower end of the scale.
“Flying and weapons fighting use power,” says Brat over the radio, “shields charge from surplus power. When the dial is in the blue area your shields are charging. Don’t let it drop to red or you will drop out of the sky. Set?”
I hear an urgent whaah-whaah-whaah sound in my helmet.
“That’s your low power alarm. If you hear that, land or die.”
I nod.
“Shield,” says Small Talk, pointing at the second dial on my arm.
I hear a second alarm, a shrill beep-beep-beep.
“That’s your low shield alarm. If you hear that, run. Can we move on now?” says Brat.
“Play the other alarms,” orders Small Talk.
I hear a tick-tick-tick that sounds like a bomb about to go off. It’s replaced by a bang-bang-bang like a giant’s footsteps.
“Enemy weapons lock and large enemy proximity alarm. Dodge or run, for the lock. The prox alarm will only ring for the real nasty stuff, so if you hear that… I don’t know, probably just panic and then die.”
“No. Fight,” corrects Small Talk.
“Good luck with that,” mutters Brat.
“Follow,” says Small Talk.
He takes off slowly into the air. I manage to keep up, and we race across the island in a set of long leaps. I check my power: I’m in the grey section. Looking at my arm distracts me and I get halfway through a loop when I start overthinking my actions and crash down into the stones. I check my shields: 98%. I barely felt that. Small Talk flies over my head and beckons me back into the air.
It’s hard work, and every time I start feeling confident we speed up. I have to stop a few times to recharge my power, but Small Talk never tires. He leads me through an obstacle course of floating poles and hoops. I crash into most of them, because I’m even clumsier in the air than I am on the ground. The suit shields me from hits that would otherwise have killed me, but I’m still getting battered around. We keep going until my low power alarm rings out (whaah-whaah) and Talented Brat calls a stop.
“Flight test complete,” he says, “weak agility, average speed, average stamina. Let’s move this on already.”
We land beside a set of big metal crates. Brat talks to me through my helmet as Small Talk walks to the crates. They are full of weapons. Small Talk hands me a powerglove and points me towards a metal cube set into the sand. The glove lights up.
“Targets ready,” says Talented Brat.
“Set,” I say.
A couple of red balls shoot out of the cube and I hit them both. Using the powerglove barely takes up any of my energy. Neither Small Talk nor Talented Brat make any comment, but Small Talk motions me to take the glove off and passes me a laser rifle. It doesn’t seem to have a trigger, but neither did the gloves. The targets pop up again, but I can’t make the laser rifle shoot. I try a second time and then look towards Small Talk.
“Is there like a button or something I need to push?” I ask.
“Next,” says Brat impatiently.
Small Talk takes the rifle away and hands me a plasma pistol like the ones Bad Day uses. I shake it a few times, but nothing happens. Great.
“You have to arc the power down your arm and into the barrel. Can you do that?” says Brat.
I don’t even know what that means, so I hand the pistol back to Small Talk. There is a plasma rifle there as well, but Small Talk doesn’t bother with it. He hands me a pulse spear. It’s a clumsy weapon and the only thing I manage to hit is the side of Small Talk’s helmet. He glares at me and snatches it back.
We move to pulse casters, beamgats and coldstorm cannons but I’m terrible at all of them. They either don’t work properly or they drain too much energy with every shot.
“Come on, kid,” implores Brat.
The next weapon is a short, thick cannon that sits on my shoulder. It’s heavy. The targets pop up and I lob a blast of green energy towards them, hitting one and destroying it instantly. A set of targets pop up, but I can’t get a second shot out of the cannon.
“Next next next,” sings out Brat.
I don’t think I’m doing very well at all. We move through light lances, which don’t work for me, and blade catapults that I keep missing with. My frustration grows with every failure, and Brat gets increasingly edgy. Small Talk doesn’t seem moved by my inability to use the weapons, but keeps handing them to me.
“This one looks like a crossbow that fires rockets,” I say.
“Yep… but can you hit anything with it?” says Brat.
I hit a target dead on, but the bow only has one shot in it.
“No,” says Small Talk and takes the bow away from me.
We are running out of weapons, and I am losing hope. I can’t be a super without a weapon, unless I want to join team Mercy. Small Talk hands me a glove as long as my arm. Two delicate spikes run down the side and project out past my fingers.
“Multiblaster,” says Small Talk.
“Don’t bother,” says Brat, “that thi
ng doesn’t work for any-”
The multiblaster lights up. A pair of targets shoots into the air, and I hit them both dead center with thin rays of light.
“Lucky shot,” says Brat.
More targets fly into the air and I hit them all. The mutliblaster shoots exactly where I want it to and soon targets are falling out of the sky by the dozens. It uses a lot of my energy, but I don’t care.
“Fine,” says Small Talk
I have never felt so great from such little encouragement
“Whoop-dee-doo, it’s about time,” drawls Brat, “now let’s see if you are any good with an egg launcher.”
“A what?”
“The egg cannon,” lectures Brat, “is a weapon I developed for hopeless trainees like you. The trigger is in the mouthpiece; just point and bite down twice to shoot.”
Small Talk flicks my helmet open and shoves a piece of rubber into my mouth. I bite down on it twice and the cannon thunks loudly right next to my ear, lobbing an egg shaped grenade forward. It bursts into a bright storm of lights.
“That will disable most things for a few seconds, but the ammo is pretty volatile and since it’s stored on your back-”
“-I can’t turn my back on the enemy?”
“Exactly,” says Brat, sounding mildly impressed that I’d worked that out so quickly.
The egg launcher holds eight charges and has a decent range. It’s easy to use, but not exactly exciting. Small Talk shows me how to fly and fire, then we set down next to a second row of black boxes that contain close combat weapons of all sorts and sizes.
Small Talk hands me a short sword. The blade is bright in his hand, but falls dark as soon as I touch it. Small Talk takes the blade away and passes me an axe, but to no success.
“Lame,” says Brat.
The larger maces are too heavy for me, and I nearly take my own arm off with a morningstar. We work our way through dozens of weapons with no luck. There are over a hundred weapons sitting in the metal crates and but only one or two work for me.
I suck as a superhero.
“Saucer, kid, you are terrible at pretty much everything,” says Brat.
“Quiet,” says Small Talk, and hands me a small knife on a long chain.
I swing it a few times and hit myself in my foot. Small Talk takes it off me pretty quickly after that.
“Let’s do the artificer testing before I die of boredom,” says Brat.
I think I hate Brat, but I’m so tired of failing at weapons testing that I hand the nunchucks I’m trying to Small Talk and start to walk away. He grabs my arm and stops me.
“We are done when I say so.”
He starts handing me more exotic weapons, strange glowing things that rest on my hands but don’t seem to do much more than pulse and use energy. There are green whips with minds of their own and white-hot daggers on long flexible rods. The weapons mostly do what I want them to. I’m particularly fond of a set of giant metal crab claws that bind to my arms and snap open and shut with quicksilver speed.
“So you are good enough with the weird ones. At least that makes you interesting,” says Brat. He sounds even less interested in me before, if that was possible.
“Fine,” says Small Talk and points me to another crate.
There are a couple of big discs in the crate. Small Talk waves at them and they start to float. They look a little like the ones Past Prime is famous for.
“Artificer test,” drones Brat, “this one won’t take long.”
“Can you control the discs?” asks Small Talk.
I think about the discs, trying to control them with my mind. One of them falls out the air and the other bounces into the air and flies off into the distance. Brat laughs unkindly.
“Very few people can artifice,” Small Talk says.
I already knew that, but it doesn’t make me feel less disappointed. Being able to control my own army of golem-warriors would be fun.
“Shield test!” shouts Brat eagerly.
“Go stand there,” orders Small Talk, pointing to a wide metal plate sitting in the sand.
I walk over and stand on the plate, stamping on it a few times. It sounds solid. The plate starts glowing and suddenly I can’t move my feet.
“Uh…”
“Set,” shouts Brat eagerly.
Small Talk walks up to me and gives me the once over, checking my shields and power source. He pats me on the shoulder in a comforting way and closes my visor.
“Are you paying attention to me?” he asks.
“Um… sure… but why can’t I move?”
He walks over to a box, picks up a large handgun and shoots me right between the eyes. My shields stop the bullet, but I still flinch.
“Ouch,” I say reproachfully, although it didn’t really hurt.
“And?” Small Talk asks.
“Fine. Continue,” says Talented Brat.
Small Talk empties the rest of the clip right between my eyes. The bullets ping off my shield without even lowering my shields. I still can’t move, so all I can do is watch as he walks over to a grenade launcher, shoulders it and brings it over.
“Bomb test,” says Brat gleefully.
“Wait… what?” I ask.
The grenade hits me right on the chin. It doesn’t hurt, but the lights are bright enough to blind me. My shields don’t even drop below 99%, so it seems I’ve got nothing to worry about from old fashioned projectile weapons. Unfortunately for me, Small Talk has access to a whole arsenal of more dangerous guns. He picks up a laser cannon and aims it at me from only a few feet away. He shoots, and the burst of light curves into my chest and disappears when it hits my shield. Small Talk re-aims the cannon and fires again. This one curves into my leg. I can feel the warmth on my skin, but my shields are still 97%. Small Talk walks right up to me, places the cannon against my chest and pulls the trigger. The blast ripples across my shields but doesn’t even knock me over.
“Try the plasma cannon,” suggests Brat.
Don’t try the plasma cannon! Don’t try the-
Small Talk picks up a plasma cannon and levels it at me. The first blast arches and hits my head; the second engulfs my leg and burns the sand at my feet into a single glowing crystal. Small Talk hits me with the third blast. It stings a little. Shields at 95%.
“Stop trying to kill me!” I shout.
Small Talk picks up a large axe with a glowing blade and bangs it against my head. It bounces with a thud-thud-thud that doesn’t hurt. He tries again with a two-handed sword that takes 1% off my shields every time it hits me. He smashes a heavy mace against my knee, but I barely feel it. He pulls out a pair of plasma gloves and slams them against my head. That hurts, but not badly. My shields start rising as soon as he leaves me alone.
“Decent shields,” says Talented Brat thoughtfully, “time for some bigger guns.”
A mechanical nightmare walks out from behind the rocks. It looks a little like a triclops, but it has seven arms and a small cockpit in the head. Each of the seven arms ends in a very large and unique weapon. They don’t look battle-ready, but have open panels and are connected by loose power cords.
“There’s some kind of monster out here,” I shout.
“Yep… and who do you think is driving it?” says Brat, “Now shush. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.”
He shoots me with each of the weapons individually, and then in pairs. The attacks lower my shields to about 80%, but no more. Brat tries the arms in sets of three, but my shields hold up.
“Give it everything,” orders Small Talk.
Brat giggles, levels all the cannons at me and lets loose. It’s a dazzling display of light and my shields are sizzling and popping. They hold, but is it getting warmer in my suit? The guns blast me down to 60% shields, and then stop.
“Time to get the really big guns,” says Talented Brat.
A second walker emerges from behind the rocks. It’s a simple thing, just a cannon on legs. It ambles clumsi
ly over to me and aims its barrel at my chest. Then it and Brat open fire together. My shields light up; the dial on my arm drops to 56%...48%...30%...uh oh.
“30%!” I scream, but all I can hear is a crackle of white noise.
Something hard hits me, and I fall to one knee.
Thousands of little blue discs burst from my helmet and form a round shield in front of me. The shield absorbs the worst of the attack, the discs popping and reforming as the round shield slowly shrinks away beneath the array of weapons focused on me. More blue discs appear and form a dome around me. Nothing is getting through, and my regular shields start to recharge.
“Ha!” I say, “I have superpowers. Finally!”
My little blue guardians all burst together and a laser blast lifts me off my feet and throws me through the air. I hit the ground and slide through rocks. A shrill beep-beep rings in my ears.
“You should be at 10%,” explains Brat.
He sounds mildly impressed. I check my arm; he’s right, I still have 10% of my shields left. The ground around me is burnt and battered. Some of the rocks are glowing red, and others have melted into pools of lava. A shadow of undamaged ground stretches out behind me. I fall forwards but roll over so that I’m face up. I may be dying again, but at least I’m looking at the blue, blue sky. Small Talk leans over me, eclipsing my view.
“Good,” he says, “this one is tough.”
Maybe I’ll be a superhero after all.
Back Story One
I was the first superhero.
The saucers had been attacking the Earth for well over a year by then, and it seemed like there was nothing we could do to stop them ripping the world apart.
People started making desperate decisions. The captain of a US destroyer caught in the path of a small saucer emptied his arsenal of missiles and brought it down. We don’t know why he succeeded where so many others had failed, but that was the beginning. The technology found in the downed saucer was used to build two very different experimental weapons.
The first was a suit built of stolen technology and a mishmash of fighter jet equipment. The U.N. could only find eight people who had the ability to interface with the saucer’s technology. The suit gave each of us incredible and unique powers, so we called it the superhero suit and hoped it would keep us alive.
The second weapon was a bomb. We weren’t even sure that it could pierce the saucer’s shields.
One temperamental suit, and one bomb that might not work. They were crude and ungainly things to carry the Earth’s future, but they were all we had.
We only had a week to practice in the suit. There were two of us who were best. I was one, and the other was an older Japanese man, a good friend and a fine leader. He was better than me, in my estimation, but I was younger and I think my superiors valued that. I was also alone in the world, having lost my parents and siblings two years before. That probably played a part, too. They knew I wanted to kill saucers.
Whatever the reasons, I was chosen to carry the bomb.
The most powerful people in the world gathered to see me off. It was strange to see such unity; I could still remember the wars and arguments that had dominated the world before the saucers had arrived.
I was introduced to a lot of people, a sea of faces awash with hope and fear. The only one I remember was Marshal Smith’s young son. I had heard that the boy had taken a lot of interest in the superhero suits, but so had everyone. I remember him because he was the only calm face I met, and he had intense eyes that seemed to pierce right into my soul.
He was shorter than I expected; a lot of people were dismissive of him because of his stature, but I thought he had more fire in his heart than most.
“I believe in you,” he said, “you’ve got this. Set?”
I didn’t want to let him down.
They filmed me in my suit. It was a live transmission to all parts of the world still capable of receiving it. Think about that: the whole world, every person, was depending on me. I could only think of my dead family, and how surprised they would have been to see their rebellious daughter saluted by the president. I was given flowers and medals and then I was loaded into a modified stealth bomber.
It was a relief to be away, really.
I was in the bomber for an hour. I sat in silence with the bomb across my knees and the whole world resting on my shoulders. I was set.
It wasn’t a graceful exit; the bomber was hit hard before it reached the saucer. The pilots only managed to keep it together long enough for me to escape before they spiraled out of control. The crew died, but their courage meant I survived. I dropped through the clouds and right onto the biggest saucer I have ever seen.
It was big, too big for the bomb.
I could see helicopters in the distance. They would be watching me, radioing my progress to the world. We knew that many of the helicopters would be destroyed, but their loss was considered acceptable. The world was burning, and the U.N. was of the opinion that my success would give people the hope they so badly needed.
And if I failed? If I failed, the world was lost. It no longer mattered if people knew that.
That’s how desperate we had become.
I don’t know how I made it through the saucer’s defenses. I shouldn’t have, but perhaps Earth was overdue some luck. I was in a bad way when I landed, but I could still move. I crawled along the saucer’s hull, a trail of blood marking my path, until I found what I could only pray was a weak spot. The saucer’s creatures found me there, so I planted the bomb and then used the last of my strength to draw them away.
My vision was blurry by then, but I saw the saucer explode into plumes of glorious flame behind me. I whooped with pleasure, and the whole world celebrated with me. My victory was the world’s victory.
But my luck ran out as a piece of the exploding saucer caught me in the chest and threw me through the air. It didn’t matter; I had seen the job through.
Now I’m falling through the sky towards the ocean below, and there is no one to save me.
I hope those who follow me work in teams. I hope they have better shields, better weapons, better training. I hope that some of them survive their first mission.
I know they will.
I was The First superhero, but I won’t be the last.
Next time in ‘Trainee Superhero’…
Superheroes die, strange new aliens appear, Tenchi makes a re-appearance and the Cerberus Brawlers go fishing with a rocket-powered harpoon gun!
If you are enjoying this series, please tell your friends about it or tell the whole world by leaving a review… it would really make my day! You can also email me at c.h.aalberry (at) gmail.com and let me know what you think of my work. If you send me the name and a short back story for an original superhero serving with the Cerberus Brawlers, I’ll try to include it in the next part I write.
About the Author
C.H. Aalberry wasn’t allowed to buy or even read comic books until he turned sixteen. He still did, of course, because comics are great. He has also written a few books you might like:
‘The Origami Dragon And Other Tales’, a collection of thirteen sci-fi and fantasy short stories.
‘200 Shorter Stories’ a collection of punchy (very) short stories in every genre.
‘Zo And The Impossible Gardens’ for younger readers and lovers of sci-fi mysteries.
‘Wish: An Epic Adventure of Magic and Mayhem!’ for younger readers and lovers of Fantasy
Table of Contents
Lesson One: Get Used To Dying
Lesson Two: No One Cares What You Think
Lesson Three: Don’t Get Distracted
Lesson Four: The More You Sweat In Training, The Less You Bleed In Battle
Lesson Five Lesson Five: You Are Terrible At (Almost) Everything
Backstory One
Next Time In ‘Trainee Superhero’
About The Author
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