The Posterchildren: Origins Read online

  The machine whirred, jumping to the next slide. It was another newspaper article, enlarged as. This one was dated a few months after the first, the headline screaming SIDEKICK SLIP-UP CANS CHILD PORN CASE; BPHA DECLINES COMMENT.

  “See, I didn’t know enough about the law to know when it was being broken. I didn’t know that I couldn’t wear my mask to court. I didn’t know that the rules are different for posters whose powers are seen in the eyes of the law as concealed weapons. I didn’t know that in trying to blow open a case, I could taint evidence to the point that it gets thrown out.”

  The click to the next slide was unexpectedly loud, like the sound of a guillotine dropping. CHAMP BENCHED, the headline wailed. This was front-page material, so the close-up of then-fifteen year old Roxanne Grant’s face had been printed in color. She looked blown out, though. Ghostly. Her eyes were big and lost behind her domino mask, her mouth half-open in a slack question: Why?

  “I eventually made a comeback, but it was an uphill battle,” the Sheriff said, and the terrified helplessness of that photo was replaced by an article painting Commander and the Champ as the toast of the town. Roxanne had turned things around. She’d worked hard, so by the time she’d passed the Champ moniker to her replacement, Ernest, the name had meant something. “There’s nothing about this job that’s easy. If anyone tries to convince you otherwise, they’re trying to sell you something, you hear? To fight crime, you need to know the laws that they’re breaking. If you plan on stopping people from breaking laws, you’d better understand why they’re breaking them in the first place. Every bit of your education’s important, don’t get me wrong. Without the training you get in combat and the profiling you’ll take away from your psych classes, you aren’t gonna get far. But if you don’t pay attention in law, there’s a good chance that you’ll be seeing me outside of the classroom. And I’ll be seeing how well you fit into a pair of cuffs.”

  Not even the faintest tinkle of nervous laughter escaped the students this time around. The Sheriff grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling up. It wasn’t the grin of a woman saying I’m just kidding. It was a little more manic than that, slightly toothier.

  You’re damn right I won’t hesitate to arrest you, her grin said. It might be fun.

  “So let’s talk about act and intent.”

  On the board, she wrote actus reus = guilty act and mens rea = guilty mind.

  “Crimes tend to fall into two categories: the criminal act, and the intent to perform a criminal act. When we think about crime, we usually think of the acts— they’re certainly the easier of the two to prove. But let’s say that a man gets into a fight with another man at the bar. They’ve both sloshed, so things escalate. Man Number One pulls out a knife, and before Man Number Two can react, he stabs him in the neck and chest four times. When EMS arrives, Man Number Two is pronounced DOA.” The Sheriff turned, her braid swinging in a wide red arc. “But, it turns out that Man Number Two is a blue-band poster with the ability to make clones of himself. The body that Man Number One killed matches his prints and dental records, but it was not Man Number Two’s original body. Even though he remembers the event of his death, Man Number Two is still alive and well, living three states away. Did Man Number One commit murder?”

  Again, this question felt too charged and tricky for anyone to volunteer to answer. Zip wiggled in her seat, trying to muster up the guts to say something— since it was a yes or no answer, her chances were just about split, weren’t they?— but then she saw Mal calmly raise his hand.

  “Which is it, Underwood?”

  “The first man is guilty of murder,” Mal said, not even a whiff of uncertainty in his voice. “The four stab wounds to his neck and chest were meant as a final act of violence. Though the attempt to end the second man’s life was unsuccessful, it does not change the event of the murder. Anything that happened to the victim after he was pronounced legally dead has no relation to the murder, so it should have no bearing on the ruling. Yes?”

  Sheriff Galán-Grant smiled, nodding.

  “Got it in one.” Zip swore she saw the Sheriff wriggle her eyebrows. “And here I heard that you got a zero in Public Relations and Law last block, Underwood.”

  “A gross misrepresentation of my subject mastery, I assure you,” Mal said sourly, slouching in his chair.

  Under actus reus and mens rea, the Sheriff wrote The Five Levels of Intent. She listed strict liability, negligent, reckless, knowledgeable, and purposeful under the header, each one bulleted with a star.

  “Moving on. Intent itself gets broken up into five categories. First off, you’ve got the crimes that don’t have any intent attached to ‘em at all. Some laws are cut and dried, and whether or not you meant to break the law hasn’t got a lick to do with whether or not you’re punished for breaking them. A good example of that would be speeding laws. If the equipment clocks you in at ninety in a thirty mile per hour zone, there’s no gray area in whether or not you’ve committed a crime. Those are called strict liability laws.”

  She moved down to the next one on the list, tapping the word negligent with the capped end of her erasable marker.

  “Negligent acts involve risks that a reasonable person should have seen, but didn’t. What is seen as reasonable is defined by your peers, at least in part. Reckless acts are the next step up, defined as acts done with conscious disregard of the risks that a reasonable person would’ve identified. To be a reckless act, the perp has to be of a state of mind where they recognize that those risks existed.”

  The Sheriff moved down the whiteboard, pointing to knowledgeable.

  “Reckless is a step up from negligent, and knowledgeable is a step up from reckless. Knowledgeable actions are just what they sound like: acts done with the knowledge that certain sequences of events fold out when those acts are committed, but without the intent of specifically harming anyone. Last, but certainly not least, you’ve got the purposeful, or intentional act. Purposeful acts are just that. A purposeful act is performed when someone says to themselves that B happens if they do A. I know that if I squeeze the trigger of my gun when it’s pointed at someone, shooting them is a purposeful action.”

  “So let’s do a quick exercise,” the Sheriff said, taking out a stack of papers. Any other class with any other teacher might have groaned at having to do work first thing in the morning, but in the Sheriff’s class, they obediently took out their pencils and passed the stack of worksheets to their neighbor.

  “Five questions, multiple choice. We’re going to go over the answers in class, so it won’t be graded. I just want you to start thinking about the ways the five levels of intent apply to the real world. I’ll give you ten minutes to complete the exercise, starting...” She glanced up at the clock, swinging her hand through the air in a quick chopping motion. “Now!”

  Zip flipped the quiz over, skimming the first question.

  A citizen legally registered with the BPHA as an orange-band Beta-level posthuman is mugged in downtown Chicago. The poster clearly wears orange-band paraphernalia. The threat fires a shot at the victim, but the enhanced density of her skin causes the bullet to ricochet, hitting the threat in the left knee. Which of the following best describes what charges the victim could bring against her attacker, should he survive his injuries: A) the Process of Natural Selection, B) Reckless Mayhem, C) Purposeful Homicide, or D) Attempted Homicide.

  EXTRA CREDIT: If the posthuman citizen had been unregistered with the BPHA and living as a baseliner, could the threat have grounds for a countersuit? In the original scenario, the threat did not succeed in harming the poster. Has the threat still broken the law? Explain why or why not.

  She gnawed on her lower lip, deciding to skip to the next one. She’d do the easy ones first, then go back to the more difficult questions. That seemed like the best use of her time.

  A private citizen starts a burn pile on his brother-in-law’s property during Linn County’s high-risk August fire season. The dry grass fuels the fire, causi
ng it to burn out of control. As the owner, the brother-in-law calls 911. Two firefighters are injured responding to the blaze. One firefighter dies. Circle which of the following the citizen could be facing: A) Intentional Arson, B) Reckless Homicide, C) Flaming Manslaughter, or D) Negligent Arson

  Zip sucked on her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. Her pencil hovered between B and D, swinging in a slow pendulum of indecision. She glanced at Mal out of the corner of her eye. The tip of his pencil flowed smoothly down his paper, almost hypnotic in its lazy arcs and tight circles. Then he put down his pencil, turned his quiz over, and resumed teetering on the back two legs of his chair.

  She heaved a sigh. It was starting to look like there’d be no winning with that one.

  °

  June considered herself a pro at living out of suitcases. She was flexible, able to easily adapt to a new environment. Maybe she wasn’t physically flexible, but knowing how to boil soup noodles in a motel coffee maker and other tidbits of practical life skills were more useful than the ability to touch her toes to her nose— something that she’d seen Maks do, disgustingly enough.

  She believed that a ‘make it work’ attitude was applicable to every facet of her life. She could survive anywhere, so she was pleased to say that it didn’t take her long to adjust to Camp Superhero University. June knew how to take care of herself, and kind of made taking care of herself a main priority.

  Taking care of herself meant spending an extra five minutes in the shower, working miracles on her hair with a gallon of cheap coconut conditioner and a wide-toothed comb. If she hadn’t been dinking around in the shower, she might have been dressed when her new roommate dropped by. But since her hair had been her priority, June was wrapped in a towel and dripping in the doorway when she met her new roommate.

  The girl was slender and tall, statuesque in the most literal sense. Her hair was close-cropped and bleached out, as visually striking against her black skin as the patent leather shine of her bubblegum-pink lipstick. She wore a loose, powder blue shift— a solid A in June’s book, since it was something other than the unflattering training clothes the Academy provided.

  That style of dress would have looked like a shapeless mumu on someone with June’s exaggerated hourglass figure and soft belly, but it flattered the long, clean lines of the other girl’s body. June’s boobs would have dragged the scooped neckline of the shift down into the danger zone. She had learned to sew out of necessity. Off-the-rack clothing was not meant for a girl with her measurements. The Puberty Fairy had visited June early, and she had been extremely generous. Big boobs were kind of a pain— figuratively as well as literally, if she didn’t have the support of a good bra— but they had their tactical advantages. She worked with what she had, and so did her roommate.

  The fabric of her dress hung just so. She was too pleased by her obvious fashion savvy to be jealous of her runway-ready silhouette. There wasn’t much that June appreciated more than an attractive person who dressed to flatter their unique shape.

  “Juniper, yeah?” The girl asked, turning from her side of the room. She was going through her clothing, June realized with a shivery little jolt.

  “June,” she corrected, double-checking how secure her towel was before she began combing out her wet hair. It was a job that took both hands.

  “I’ve been snooping in your closet,” she said, not sounding particularly apologetic about it.

  “The best way to get to know a girl. I feel like my shoe collection is a representation of my life philosophy,” June said, holding a mouthful of pins clenched between her teeth. She twisted her damp, heavy hair, coiling it up and pinning it in place. “Dress sizes wax and wane, but cute shoes are forever. If you happen to stumble across a black peplum dress with red polka dots and a pair of red, open-toe kitten heels, please hand them my way.”

  Her new roommate rummaged through the hangers until she located the peplum dress, inspecting the workmanship with a low whistle.

  “This doesn’t look like it came off a rack. Did you make these?”

  June eyed her eyeing her work. She took a risk.

  “Yeah. I make all of my clothes.”

  “Damn, girl. You’ve got a gift, and I’ve got a feeling that we’re gonna be good friends.”

  The girl flashed her a smile. It was dazzling. It figured that she’d end up sharing a room with a superpowered supermodel. She couldn’t find it in her to be annoyed, since she seemed nice enough, and her long, lean, and androgynous figure would be a useful design challenge. June saw nothing wrong with building a friendship on ulterior motives. Didn’t everyone do that once in a while?

  “If you like my stuff, you have excellent taste,” she agreed magnanimously. “So yes, I accept your proposal. We can be friends.”

  Her smile broadened, and she laughed.

  “I’m Jenny— Jenny Chambers. Vault. My parents live in Foundation, so I figured there wasn’t any reason to show up early. How’re you liking the school?”

  “I’d like to say that it’s my first time at an expensive and exclusive boarding school, but my lengthy record of transfers paints a different picture,” June said dryly, tacking back her already-frizzy bangs with a crown of pincurls. As thick and messy as her hair was, she only made the most basic attempts at taming it. Anything overly complicated ended in tears. Turning her back and dropping her towel, she started wriggling into her shapewear.

  “Sounds like you’ve got stories.”

  “Stories?” June scoffed, pulling up her dress. “I have epics. Do me a favor and give me a zip?”

  “I was just stopping in on my way to class,” Jenny said, zipping up the back of June’s dress after she inhaled. “But do you want to get dinner together tonight? We can compare origin stories, get a bite to eat, and then you can divulge the secrets of your facial skincare routine.”

  “It’s a date,” June agreed, stepping into her heels. “But I’m taking my skincare secrets either to my grave, or to the healthcare fad that will make me embarrassingly rich.”

  “I think we’re going to get along, you and me,” Jenny said with a neon pink smile. June ran a stick of her favorite Marilyn red over her lips, blotting them on a tissue before she smiled back.

  “Funnily enough, I was thinking the same thing. I’ll meet you in the mess hall at quarter to eight, okay?” She said, arranging the strap of her bookbag until her boobs felt marginally less squished. Having a great rack was awesome around seventy percent of the time. When she carried a bag weighed down with a chronicle of straight white dude history, the strap flattened and cut into her chest. If she had been a nerd or a third grader, she might have switched her messenger bag for a backpack. June simply dealt with it, just like she stubbornly dealt with anything else that annoyed her.

  Case in point: her shoes. June blessed her cute kitten heels and cursed the thorny underbrush in the same breath. She’d known that there was a significant walk between the dorms and Warne Hall, but she’d still gone for the kitten heels. She wouldn’t let the wilderness win, because she was morally opposed to having a closet full of Birkenstocks and hiking boots. They would not turn her into that person. It may have been normal to stomp through the woods like a barbarian in Foundation, but June refused to sink to that level of barbarism. God, this was America. Weren’t they better than that?

  The instructor was already going through the class roster when June slipped in the door, still puffing from the obstacle course deviously disguised as a walk. He was only in the D-names, so she had time to find a seat and settle in before she had to correct him that she was June, not Juniper, no matter what the class list said to the contrary. She glanced around, looking for a familiar blond giant sitting head and shoulders above everyone else. Though she checked twice, she didn’t believe that he was actually late until Mr. Carter’s call of “Wright, Ernest,” was met with complete silence.

  “Ernest Wright?” Mr. Carter repeated, scanning the room worriedly. “Is Ernest W. Wright here? Champ? No? Huh.
Well. Okay, then.”

  He tried to pass it off as a slow segue into the class introduction, but it was obvious to June that Carter was stalling. Scott Carter was bear of a guy— as big as a grizzly, but with the chunkiness of a teddy. Completing the image of a young teacher trying hard to pass himself off as relatable he was wearing a t-shirt that had the Commander’s logo printed across the chest. She would have thought that appropriating another hero’s logo and wearing their merchandise would be frowned upon, but that just went to show what she knew about superheroic etiquette. Mr. Carter was nearly indistinguishable from the nerdy white guys June saw frequenting comic book stores: awkward, enthusiastic, somewhere south of thirty and north of an unfinished bachelor’s degree in either liberal arts or computer science. Apparently, superhero fanboys with superpowers not only existed, they taught at Maillardet’s Academy.

  As Carter reshuffled his lecture notes for a fourth time, the classroom door squeaked open. Ernest wasn’t built for sneaking stealthily, though he gave it his best shot. He was too big, too broad, and too blond to pull off any ninja shenanigans. Giant dork that he was, he lit up any room he walked into. That worked out in his favor this time, seeing as the history teacher just smiled and nodded when he gave him a flimsy apology and a winning grin. As soon as Ernest took his seat, Carter started writing things on the board. Class began, and June could basically taste the favoritism. It wasn’t pleasant.

  “You’re late,” June accused with a whisper. “You’re lucky that I saved you a seat out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “Sorry.” The chair gave an anguished creak as he sat beside her. “And thanks.”

  June was convinced that getting paired with Mr. Perfect was the worst thing that could have happened. The only way it could have been worse is if she’d been paired up with Underwood, the Academy’s own antisocial drama queen, and that dark fate was only a few shades lighter than the one she’d ended up with. It didn’t seem like Ernest flaunted the whole Only Son of a Living Legend card, but it was always tucked into his sleeve, ready to be pulled out at any time. She was still trying to figure out how much of it was an act. Most of it had to be for show, she figured. People expected the Champ to be a level of clean that transcended squeakiness, and Ernest didn’t disappoint his adoring public. His old man had to have coached him on image maintenance since day one. He was that good.