Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) by Marion G. Harmon
Authors: Marion G. Harmon
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it feel?”
I told him. He rubbed his chin, shook his head again. “Well, we’ll try some more.”
Fifteen minutes later, Variforce was getting tired of holding his “shooting chamber” together and I was no closer to anything. Watchman called it a day.
“I almost had it!”
“No, you didn’t — your peak temperature has been dropping for at least five minutes.” An Atlas-type hero, he could watch me in infrared as easily as Astra. “Let’s get a sandwich — you’ve got to be burning calories and I need my strength to go beat somebody up.”
Chapter Eleven: Astra
Sure, superhero costumes are flamboyant acts of self-expression, but they’re useful, too. The PR benefits aside, everyone knows you on sight — important if you need instant trust in a crisis. And recognizing friendlies is deadly important on the fast-moving superhuman battlefield.
The Harlequin, Citywatch Interviews .
----
Shelly ignored the red Occupied light, and nearly got decapitated when Watchman cannoned off the wall by the door.
“Bystander handicap!” she announced after ducking. The designated “villain” in this after-lunch fight, Watchman didn’t waste a second — he spun around to go for the grab and I dropped hard to deny him the hostage, but that was the inevitable move so he was ready, turning into my drop with a raised palm-strike that narrowly missed my chin as I twisted aside. Kicking off of the floor at the bottom of the drop, I grabbed his extended arm, spun to put my back to his chest, and curled to throw him hard at the far wall. Yes!
“Go!” Shell gave a fangirl-cheer as I leaped after him. He got control and curved around without meeting the opposite wall, and we smacked together in the center of the Hard Room to wrap up into a clenching, punching, digging midair ball of nasty moves. Too close for fists, I got a knee into his kidney but he rang my head with an elbow under my ear, our hits echoing off the plated walls. Rocked by the elbow-strike, I let him get around me and he took full advantage with a groin-and-neck hold that pointed us in opposite directions and dropped us hard , hammering me face first into the floor. It rang like a gong as my world lit up.
I tried to push off, but my vision refused to clear, I’d lost track of down, and I could barely feel the grinding hold he put me in. Then the pressure went away and the floor rang again as he tapped out for me, calling it.
Enough situation-awareness came back that I could roll over, and a fuzzy blob above me resolved into his face.
He held out his hand, breathing hard. “You okay?”
The vertigo warned me against shaking my head or taking his hand. If I moved, I was going to vomit.
“Nuts,” I finally gasped. He laughed, winced.
Drat. Darn. Nuts. Phooey . My language was ridiculously sanitary — growing up emulating a mom who was Ms. Manners (the truly nice kind, not the stuck-up kind) meant I felt bad about even a mild “dammit,” because “Good manners create respect and are a courtesy to those around you.” It was hard to be taken seriously when “darn it!” popped out under pressure, and when I really needed a colorful word, I had nothing. Thanks, Mom.
When everything steadied, I accepted his hand up.
“You almost had me until Shelly stepped in,” he fibbed politely. “I asked her to, but you made the right move and nearly carried it through.”
“She’d have won if she had her maul,” Shelly defended me.
“Maybe,” he nodded. “But she doesn’t carry it everywhere.”
He’d caught me still in my workout clothes, which had kind of been the point. Blackstone had asked Watchman to focus my training on situations when I didn’t have all the advantages I’d figured out, so I hard-sparred with my personal nemesis in full gear and without.
And he was my nemesis. He’d been recruited to add more muscle and mobility to the team, but also to continue my regular beatings. They called it training, but what Blackstone
I told him. He rubbed his chin, shook his head again. “Well, we’ll try some more.”
Fifteen minutes later, Variforce was getting tired of holding his “shooting chamber” together and I was no closer to anything. Watchman called it a day.
“I almost had it!”
“No, you didn’t — your peak temperature has been dropping for at least five minutes.” An Atlas-type hero, he could watch me in infrared as easily as Astra. “Let’s get a sandwich — you’ve got to be burning calories and I need my strength to go beat somebody up.”
Chapter Eleven: Astra
Sure, superhero costumes are flamboyant acts of self-expression, but they’re useful, too. The PR benefits aside, everyone knows you on sight — important if you need instant trust in a crisis. And recognizing friendlies is deadly important on the fast-moving superhuman battlefield.
The Harlequin, Citywatch Interviews .
----
Shelly ignored the red Occupied light, and nearly got decapitated when Watchman cannoned off the wall by the door.
“Bystander handicap!” she announced after ducking. The designated “villain” in this after-lunch fight, Watchman didn’t waste a second — he spun around to go for the grab and I dropped hard to deny him the hostage, but that was the inevitable move so he was ready, turning into my drop with a raised palm-strike that narrowly missed my chin as I twisted aside. Kicking off of the floor at the bottom of the drop, I grabbed his extended arm, spun to put my back to his chest, and curled to throw him hard at the far wall. Yes!
“Go!” Shell gave a fangirl-cheer as I leaped after him. He got control and curved around without meeting the opposite wall, and we smacked together in the center of the Hard Room to wrap up into a clenching, punching, digging midair ball of nasty moves. Too close for fists, I got a knee into his kidney but he rang my head with an elbow under my ear, our hits echoing off the plated walls. Rocked by the elbow-strike, I let him get around me and he took full advantage with a groin-and-neck hold that pointed us in opposite directions and dropped us hard , hammering me face first into the floor. It rang like a gong as my world lit up.
I tried to push off, but my vision refused to clear, I’d lost track of down, and I could barely feel the grinding hold he put me in. Then the pressure went away and the floor rang again as he tapped out for me, calling it.
Enough situation-awareness came back that I could roll over, and a fuzzy blob above me resolved into his face.
He held out his hand, breathing hard. “You okay?”
The vertigo warned me against shaking my head or taking his hand. If I moved, I was going to vomit.
“Nuts,” I finally gasped. He laughed, winced.
Drat. Darn. Nuts. Phooey . My language was ridiculously sanitary — growing up emulating a mom who was Ms. Manners (the truly nice kind, not the stuck-up kind) meant I felt bad about even a mild “dammit,” because “Good manners create respect and are a courtesy to those around you.” It was hard to be taken seriously when “darn it!” popped out under pressure, and when I really needed a colorful word, I had nothing. Thanks, Mom.
When everything steadied, I accepted his hand up.
“You almost had me until Shelly stepped in,” he fibbed politely. “I asked her to, but you made the right move and nearly carried it through.”
“She’d have won if she had her maul,” Shelly defended me.
“Maybe,” he nodded. “But she doesn’t carry it everywhere.”
He’d caught me still in my workout clothes, which had kind of been the point. Blackstone had asked Watchman to focus my training on situations when I didn’t have all the advantages I’d figured out, so I hard-sparred with my personal nemesis in full gear and without.
And he was my nemesis. He’d been recruited to add more muscle and mobility to the team, but also to continue my regular beatings. They called it training, but what Blackstone
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