The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Chapter 472: 472 | A Body Not Responding at Factory Specifications

Percy’s running commentary continued through mile two, a steady stream of comparative analytics that I should have found annoying but instead found grounding because Percy’s data arrived without judgment or agenda, just numbers and observations delivered in the flat register of someone who could not stop his brain from generating them and had learned to verbalize them as a coping mechanism rather than letting them accumulate into something that hurt.

"Ortega finished the first mile fourteen seconds ahead of her Monday split. She is angry about something."

"She’s angry about a lot of things, Percy."

"The data does not distinguish between anger categories. It only measures output."

We hit mile three and Steele stood at the turn with her tablet and coffee, exactly as promised, watching faces. My face must have been telling a comprehensive story because her pink eyes tracked me for three full strides before she returned to her general observation pattern. The fog had thinned enough that I could see the leading pack, where Camille maintained her usual dominance with Theo a comfortable second and Lyra gliding in third with the patient efficiency of someone who ran like water finding the path of least resistance.

Felicity had dropped back to run near my position at some point during the second lap, and her presence at my left shoulder felt intentional in the way all of Felicity’s proximity felt intentional. She wasn’t performing concern. She was simply here, matching my diminished pace without comment, her blonde ponytail swinging in rhythm with her stride and her breathing more labored than mine despite the debuff because her physical stats lived in a different galaxy than my own.

We finished at thirty-three minutes and twelve seconds. Seventh and eighth. My worst showing since the first week.

Steele noted the time without expression. That was worse than a reaction.

The morning dissolved into the blur of conditioning circuits that followed the run, partner carries and box jumps and plank holds that normally registered as mild inconvenience but today registered as genuine effort. My arms burned during the third set of push-ups. Actual burn. The sensation was so unfamiliar that I almost laughed.

Caden caught my eye during a water break and raised one blonde eyebrow in the specific configuration that meant he had noticed something and was cataloging it without needing to announce the cataloging to the room.

I drank my water and said nothing and waited for the morning to end.

Room 214 had the quiet energy of a packed elevator, twenty teenagers sitting in compressed rows with the particular stillness of people who sensed an announcement coming and had already decided they were not going to like it. The tiered seating descended toward the podium where Steele would appear in approximately forty seconds based on her documented arrival patterns, and the overhead lights cast geometric shadows across notebooks and tablets and the specific quality of nervous energy that permeated combat operations students whenever the word Crucible had been uttered within the previous twelve hours.

I settled into my third-row seat with the care of someone managing a body that was not responding at factory specifications. My legs ached from conditioning in a way that Demigod recovery should have handled during the walk from the field to Building C, and my fingers felt thick and imprecise on my tablet, the eight percent cognitive reduction making the act of opening the student portal feel like navigating through invisible syrup.

Percy materialized beside me with his notebook already open and his pen moving. Caden dropped into the seat behind me with none of his usual theatrical energy, his feet conspicuously absent from the back of my chair. Even Caden could read the frequency of the room.

Felicity took her seat to my right and pressed her knee against mine beneath the desk, a gesture so subtle that the only person who would notice was the person it was intended for.

Camille sat three seats to my left in the same row, her brown eyes fixed forward with the intensity of someone who had already prepared seventeen responses to whatever Steele was about to say.

Petra occupied the top row with her leather planner open and her posture radiating the particular quality of someone who had written the brief that would be discussed and was prepared to defend every comma.

Rina’s sheep mug occupied its customary position on the fold-out desk beside Percy, though Rina herself sat slightly closer to Percy than her previous week’s baseline.

Nyx and Maribelle occupied their corner positions with the practiced coordination of two people who communicated through glances and elbow nudges.

Theo sat front row with the reliable weight of a man who knew he would be asked to carry something heavy before the hour ended.

Eden flicked his lighter in his pocket with the rhythmic click that meant his brain was processing excitement and uncertainty in equal measure.

At eight fifty-eight, the door opened.

Steele entered Room 214 with her coffee in one hand and her tablet in the other and the gold athletic jacket that caught the fluorescent light in a way that made the entire room sit up straighter through biological reflex rather than conscious decision. Her pale blonde hair with those distinctive asymmetrical tufts framed her face, and her pink eyes completed their sweep of the assembled students in approximately three seconds.

"Class 1-B."

The greeting landed like a period at the end of a sentence nobody had started.

"Your Hero costumes should be in your lockers as of this morning. Support track completed final alterations on sixteen of twenty suits last Thursday. Four suits required additional work." She tapped her tablet once. "Soleil, your bodysuit’s dissolution compatibility layer needed recalibration. Walsh, your thread deployment apertures were two millimeters too narrow. Sato, your Corona discharge panels were reflecting at the wrong angle, which I am told you had opinions about."

Hiro made a sound from the far end of the room that communicated vindication.

"And Belmont, your shoulder panel required patching from where Ortega grazed you during the first combat exercise." Steele’s pink eyes found me with the precision of a targeting laser. "The support team has notes about the amber accent line integrity. Something about the thread being stressed beyond the design specification."

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