The first of a standalone set of short stories set in a modern world with superheroes, focused around an academy training young superheroes!
Yva Dusste is a normal teenage girl, in a foster family that tolerates her, and she worships the superheroes that everybody fears… until…
Until..
WORD COUNT: 4.6K
GENRE: Superheroes
AGE RATING: Teen
WARNINGS: Toxic Foster Families, Fire/Housefire/Burning, Fear, Mild Violence, Discrimination
***
Yva dreamt of flames. Yva dreamt of ash. Yva dreamt of smoke. Yva dreamt of sparks. Yva dreamt of amber. Yva dreamt of ruby. Yva dreamt of gods. Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames and Yva dreamt of flames.
Flames. Flames. Flames.
Hot. Flickering. Spiralling. Growing.
The flames were growing.
They covered her hands. They covered her face.
She burned and she burned and she burned.
The flames were growing.
As high as the sky.
The flames were growing.
They were growing.
And—
Yva snapped awake, her hands clutching her sweat-soaked t-shirt, as hot as a spicy pepper and as damp as if she’d just gone swimming. Her first instinct was to sit up suddenly, to grasp at her own heart to make sure it was still beating, which it was. She only half-opened her eyes, deep in the depths of a dream, deep in the depths of her pitch-black bedroom, still, and she realised she stank like a locker room.
Weirdly, her first instinct was to grab her deodorant…
…and that was when she realised it wasn’t all herself that smelled.
Yva’s eyes went wide.
She lurched towards her lamp, turning it on in a flash and finding that the room was filled with—
Smoke.
Everywhere, there was smoke, and sparks, too.
They fluttered in the air like butterflies.
Smoke and sparks. Clouds of black and dots of orange. They flickered and fluttered, insects in some pitch-black night, orange raindrops that lingered, still, in the darkness of thunder.
Yva panted for breath.
“Oh, fuck,” she exclaimed, leaping out of bed and entangling herself in the bedsheets. She fell forward, whacking her head on the burnt bedroom carpet, flaking her skin with black marks and smears of terrible grey. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.”
Yva unentangled herself, running hands over charred pyjamas, ones that had once been patterned with glittery trains.
And then she darted across her bedroom, kicking the door open, and mildly regretting that fact when she realised her foot had dented the wood. Dozens of foster kids had decorated it over the years, and Yva had even added her own doodles of the local superheroes – dozens in the city – in her last six months in that place.
But she couldn’t think about that.
“Get up!” screamed Yva as she stomped through the hallway, banging on the bedroom doors of her three foster brothers and her foster mother, until they groggily got up and stepped out.
Before any of them could say anything, Yva grabbed the two littlest by their sleeves, yanked them past her bedroom door, towards the staircase, and—the staircase was burning.
Flames at the bottom of the stairs.
Gasps and gags and groans.
And Yva turned, shoving them back down the hallway.
“Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!” she exclaimed, again and again and again.
She had to save them.
“Where are we going?” exclaimed her foster mother, groggy and broken and delirious from the inhalation of smoke.
“The windows,” spat Yva. “The windows!”
She pulled and pushed them towards the windows at the end of the hall, as far from the flaming downstairs and the everywhere-smoke as could be. The little ones stumbled, rubbing at their eyes.
Rub. Rub. Rub.
The window was closed. The window was on the second storey.
They were struggling, but she had to save them.
“Out the windows!” exclaimed Yva. “We have to get out the windows! Come on. Open the windows! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
“But… the ground!” exclaimed one of the foster brothers.
Yva gritted her teeth.
She was burning. She was burning. She was burning. She was burning. She was burning. She was burning. She was burning.
Sweat and stains and smoke in her lungs.
She was burning. It didn’t hurt, not really, but she was burning.
Yva was well and truly burning.
But she had to save them.
“Where are the keys to open the window?” demanded Yva.
The foster mother stared at her. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared.
Blank stares, they made.
Exhaustion.
And so Yva turned, grabbed a vase of flowers from a small side table beside the window. As hard as she could, she threw it, and glass rained down on the grass like the crackling of fireworks.
There was a bush below.
Fire was worse than glass.
She had to save them.
She had to save them all.
She had to save each and every one of them!
And so, Yva shoved her foster brothers out of the window.
And Yva shoved her foster mother out of the window.
For some reason, to save them was her first instinct.
That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct. That was her first instinct.
It didn’t matter how little they seemed to care about her, most of the time. It didn’t matter that she didn’t get chocolate chips in her pancakes, like the boys did, and it didn’t matter that they’d forgotten her fifteenth birthday despite the weeks of reminders.
She had to save them all.
She had to save them from this fire.
This fire that—that—that—
Smoke in her lungs.
Sparks on her hands.
Fires on her backs.
She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning. She was hot but she wasn’t burning.
Yva looked groggily down at her burning hands.
Down. Down. Down.
The fire was coming from her.
Yva leant through the window, stumbling and stumbling and stumbling… and then she leapt through. And then she collapsed on the grass, panting for breath, covered in smoke.
Sparks flew from her body.
Curled in a ball, she made flames and sparks with every breath.
People were looking over her. People were talking over her.
A super.
She was a super.
Whispers. Whispers. Whispers.
What were they going to do with her?
What were they going to do with her?
What were they going to—
“You’re out of here!” said Yva’s foster mother.
And that was that.
***
Yva was alone on the street: alone, utterly alone.
She didn’t have any of her belongings, because they had all burned up in the fire she had created. The fire she had created. It had been her; it had been Yva. It had been all her. It had been all Yva.
All she had were her pyjamas: orange fabric stained by soot.
Black smears were all over what used to be her favourite clothe sin the whole world… what now were her only clothes in the whole world, her only clothes in the whole, wild world.
Pulling her knees to her chest, Yva sniffled.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Oh, how it felt to be alone, alone, alone.
Curled up under a bridge, the teenage girl was wholly and utterly and entirely alone, listening to cars honk by and pedestrian families laugh and play down the streets. She had never been so alone, not even once in her fifteen years of life, and those had been a long fifteen years.
More than long, her life felt as though it had lasted forever.
Forever. Forever. Forever.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Yva sniffled, curled up in her little, trembling ball, and listened to the rumbling and rumbling and rumbling and rumbling and rumbling and rumbling and rumbling of cars above the rattling bridge.
Could she sleep like this?
She had no choice. She knew she had no choice.
The thought was bitter on her tongue, bitterer than ash and soot.
Superpowers were real, but rare.
They led to very little, mostly villains and victims of suicide. There were the heroes, sure, but… but… but…
Yva stank so much of stinky ash and stinky soot that even her nose wrinkled, and Yva was good with stinky smells, but even this was too much for her. She smelled like the home that had burned down…
…the house that had burned down because of her.
All because of Yva.
And now she was alone.
She had no blanket. She had no company.
Just shadows and the rumble of cars.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again? Would she ever have a home again
She had been lonely, even there.
Yva’s brown eyes stung, and she tugged at the ends of her crooked ginger braids, before shifting further under the bridge, just so no pedestrians spotted her. She was an arsonist by mistake, and so, she didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to be found.
She couldn’t be fine.
Not now.
She was alone, entirely alone.
But at least she had something warm, something new.
She lifted her hand, and a flame curled in her palm, warm and hot and comforting, despite what it had done.
It soothed her to sleep.
As best she could sleep, that was.
***
“You think she’s got anything actually worth stealing?”
Yva’s ears pricked, and she woke up to what sounded like two strangers towering over her, scuffing their shoes on stray bricks. She froze in place, as taut as a slingshot, but they didn’t seem to notice.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She squinted at the strangers: hooligans in hoodies and cheap masks, like the kind somebody would wear to a bad Halloween party. Again, they didn’t notice that she was awake.
One of them kicked a rock Yva had collected because it looked pretty cool. “Doubt it,” he grumbled.
Oh, shit.
What was Yva supposed to do?
What the heck—no, what the fuck was Yva supposed to do?
She was an independent young woman now.
She was allowed to swear.
“She looks rough,” said the first.
Okay. Rude.
True, but rude.
Was Yva supposed to leap up and fight them? What if they hurt her before she could hurt them? What if they hurt her before she could hurt them? What if they hurt her before she could hurt them?
Well…
…she had fire, now.
Yeah! She had fire now.
She could make fire now.
Not that she really knew how to use it: not yet, at least.
But one day… well, one day she would know how to use it… even if that day wasn’t yet today… even if that day was far away, probably very far away, when she was all grown up and had less bones.
Where were the heroes? In the city, there were supposed to be heroes, so many heroes that there were enough for every convenience store!
There were supposed to be heroes!
Magic heroes!
“Has she ever taken a damn shower?”
Subtly, she sniffed herself.
Okay, yeah. Yva smelled very bad.
“She’s homeless. Doubt it.”
“What an ugly little—”
Yva’s eyes flew open, as who could lay back and listen to someone being so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so unnecessarily rude to her!
One of the two muggers leapt back. “She’s awake!”
“I see that, dumbass.”
Yva leapt to her feet, her hands in fists. “I’m not ugly!”
“Kid—”
“Are they bothering you, kiddo?” came a voice from above the bridge, and all three of them froze in place.
A moment passed.
Two. Three.
And then a woman covered in metal dropped to the ground, flashing two rows of shiny silver teeth…
Irontooth.
The hero, Irontooth.
The muggers fled, and she chuckled, before looking back over her shoulder at Yva… and at the flames coating Yva’s fists.
Another moment passed.
Another two. Another three.
And then she said, “I’d say you need to come with me, kiddo.”
And who was Yva to complain?
***
If somebody in the city gained superpowers, and they didn’t want to be some kind of villain – which many did, as who didn’t love the independence of opposing the law? – was required, without fail, to attend the Academy of Ungodeun Heroes.
As soon as powers manifested, usually in their teens, they had to come here, to train, to never-ever-ever go independent or be a villain or anything, anything, anything else.
It wasn’t really a bad fate to have.
But Yva was dizzied by it all.
A giant campus of dozens of buildings, all surrounded by a thick, impenetrable wall, was forbidden to enter by almost everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody in the whole city, the whole world, the whole of everything.
But Yva was different.
She was a super now.
And it really, really, really wasn’t a bad fate to have.
Yva was now to attend the Academy of Ungodeun Heroes.
What a thought. What a damn thought!
As she wandered down a hallway as big as the house she’d last lived in, Yva practically skipped and Yva practically sang. “So! I get to be a superhero?” she giggled, following after Netharia Snakeskin, also known as a retired superhero, Changelin.
An old woman now, with wrinkly grey skin and thin white hair, Professor Snakeskin hardly looked like a powerhouse. But, in her prime, her shapeshifting had made her one of the best.
Professor Snakeskin hummed. “That is why you’re here, dear.”
Yva bounced as she followed.
Bounced and bounced and bounced.
Yva now attended the Academy of Ungodeun Heores.
“Where are we going now?” asked Yva, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing. “To make me a supersuit? I have some ideas already!”
A soft chuckle. “No, dear.”
Yva tried no to pout.
Tried. Tried. Tried.
“Then what?”
“You’re here to join the dorms and apply to classes.”
Though Yva now attended the Academy of Ungodeun heroes, she now, still, had to do lots of normal-school things, like attend classes and sleep in dorms and attend classes. Would they still have Maths? Would they still have Science? Would they still have English? Would they still have History? Would they still have Geography? Would they still have Philosophy? Would they still have PE?
She hoped they still had PE.
It would be the coolest PE in the world!
Yva’s lips parted…
…and then Professor Snakeskin stopped in place, in the middle of a random hallway, and Yva stared at her.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
She opened her mouth to speak, but that was when Professor Snakeskin pressed the wall, and a door appeared out of nowhere. She tapped on the wall again, this time like a keypad, and the door swung open, revealing… a dormitory?
“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” squealed Yva, hands clasped against her chest. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!”
Professor Snakeskin offered a smile, small and soft and amused, somewhere between motherly and teacherly, and wrinkled like Yva’s internal image of a grandma. “You’re going to see a lot more like that.”
Of course she would.
Yva now attended the Academy of Ungodeun Heroes!
Yva was nudged into the room first, and Professor Snakeskin followed just behind, announcing to the six teenagers already inside, gathered around beanbags and sofas and laptops.
The six of them blinked up at them.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
…before Professor Snakeskin snapped her fingers, and they all leapt to their feet and stood in line, easy and swift, true soldiers in training.
Though they were better than soldiers in training.
“Aveline Wishwood,” said the first.
She was a teenager just older than Yva – sixteen, or maybe seventeen, at most – with long white hair but pristine white skin. A pair of silver wings stretched from her back, like she belonged to a swan, and she held a serious look on her face, clothed in a cardigan and a loose skirt.
“Also known as Swandive,” finished Aveline.
“Swandive!” echoed Yva. “Did you get to choose that yourself, Aveline? Because, um, I’d love to choose mine!”
Aveline nodded, something contemplative, and almost curious, in her eyes as she took in Yva’s stained pyjamas. “I did,” she said.
She said nothing else.
A throat was cleared, and Yva looked to the next.
“Thalissa Gracetorn,” said the second, a similarly-aged girl with dark skin and white curls that rippled like seafoam down her shoulders. The crackling lines of lightning bolts scarred her exquisite-looking, model-like face. “Also known as Lightnix.”
“Did you get struck by lightning?” asked Yva.
The girl raised an eyebrow.
Another girl giggled, giggled, giggled.
“No,” said Thalissa.
Her voice was cold, though not quite unwelcoming.
The giggling girl giggled louder and louder and louder, and Yva suddenly realised something strange – like there was some force keeping her from seeing it unless she knew to – that the girl had the tail of a mermaid, floating on a bubble of water.
With shark teeth, she continued to giggle. “Ocellia Flicke!” she chirped, her brown skin like shadows and her tail covered in sapphire scales. “Also known as Seashellia!”
Not the most effective alias.
It sounded a little too much like her name.
“How do you hide your tail?” blurted Yva.
Again, Ocellia giggled. “Dunno.”
“Sprik Still,” said the fourth student. “Also known as Swiftfoot.”
White skin. A shock of light blue hair.
“Ellalie Float!” said the fifth. “Also known as Mermaid!”
Another mermaid! This time in pink.
“Melle Guard,” said the sixth, and final.
Purple eyes and brown hair in pigtails.
A moment passed.
Two. Three.
And Yva realised she was meant to introduce herself, too. She puffed out her chest, just so she’d look extra important. “I’m Yva Dusste, pleased to meet you… and I’m gonna be known as Thunderspark!”
***
Her first day of class was Maths.
Boring. Boring. Boring.
Who cared about numbers? And who cared about the silly little letters that decided to join the numbers, just to make the world even more bored, bored, bored? It was dumb. It was stupid. It was boring.
When would she learn about something fun?
This was hero-school, after all.
Straightening in her see, Yva thrust her hand into the air.
The teacher, an older man, said, “yes?”
“When are you teaching me how to punch people? I think Maths is, like, only important if you wanna be a teacher-person. I want to be a superhero, and we’re all here to be superheroes, so why do I need to learn about plants and their underwear?”
A moment passed.
Two. Three.
And then the teacher chuckled. “Algae-bra, huh?”
Yva grinned. “I got that one off TV. But, like, seriously! When are you teaching me how to, like, punch people?”
Melle snorted into her hand.
They were a class of seven, because they all had elemental powers.
Aveline wrote notes diligently. Thalissa was no different.
And then Ocellia started cackling. “I don’t care about Maths! I want to punch people, too! Mr Teacher, can we punch people? Please can we punch people! Please can we get to punch people?”
Ellalie giggled, exchanging a look with Melle, who was now twirling a pigtail around her finger.
Another moment passed.
Another two. Another three.
And then the teacher chuckled. “Eventually, kids.”
He continued to teach, and so, Yva continued to pout, slumping in her chair with her arms crossed against her chest.
Dammit.
***
Her second day of class was English.
They were studying some dusty old book.
Some really old book that had nothing to do with heroes! They could have been studying comic books, which would have been super cool, but, instead, they were reading some wrinkly old book from some writer who had to have been wrinkly when they wrote it, and dead by now.
Yva twirled a plait around a finger.
Yva could barely even stay awake, and she yawned theatrically every time the professor looked in her direction, just so they knew how very boring this whole class was right now.
Sure, Aveline looked interested.
And, sure, Sprik was wide awake.
But Thalissa… was interested, too.
At least Ocellia was asleep. At least Melle was making paper airplanes. At least Ellalie was… recreating the scenes out of bubbles.
Yva was amongst her people.
She didn’t want to learn normal boring things. This wasn’t even a normal boring school! Why the heck weren’t they learning anything fun? There had to be so many more fun things to do!
When would she learn something fun?
She didn’t want to listen to a dusty old professor talk about metaphors. She didn’t care about metaphors. She didn’t really know what metaphors were. But she wasn’t about to ask.
how was that relevant to superheroing? That was so dumb! They weren’t training to be businesspeople! They were training to be literal, real, actual, motherfucking superheroes!
When would they learn about punching and kicking and slapping and dodging and fighting and blocking and stabbing and shooting and leaping and cheering and running and flying and saving!
Those would all be so cool!
When would she learn something—
Aveline nudged her with her elbow, and Yva snapped to attention, finding… that every eye in the room was on her.
Despite her confidence, her face burned.
“What?” she asked.
“You were mumbling,” said Thalissa. “And next class is actually relevant to the superheroing you’re so concerned about.”
Yva gasped, then cheered, “yes!”
***
In self-defence class…
…Yva was knocked out by a single punch from Ocellia.
But it was still so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so cool!
***
“So, like,” Yva chewed on bubblegum, blew a bubble, and then sucked it back into her mouth, “how do you go out without anybody seeing your big-ass swan wings? I mean, the mermaid ladies got this automatically mind-scrambling thing, but I saw your wings just fine!”
No one gave them a second glance.
Not even Aveline and her wings.
And not even Ocellia and Ellalie and their tails.
Like ordinary highschoolers, they just wandered through the market, finally having gotten permission from their professors, which was apparently a bitch to get, in Thalissa’s words
Aveline examined a bag of apples, before handing over a credit card that looked incredibly fancy. “It’s a simple visual scrambler,” she said, like that was a perfectly normal thing to say. “It works similarly to theirs, where you don’t see it unless you’re looking for it.”
“How?” asked Yva.
Aveline shrugged. “Changelin invented it, I believe.”
Yva nodded like it was a perfectly normal thing to hear.
And that was when she saw it.
A man with as mask covering his mouth… sticking his hand into a random girl’s handbag, without her noticing a thing. He fished around for a bit, before he retrieved a small leather purse, thick, expensive, and clearly packed with cards and bills.
And then he stuck it into his pocket.
Yva gasped.
And Yva moved on impulse.
She grabbed the bag of apples in Aveline’s hands, to the squeak of her roommate, and she threw it as hard as she could at the guy… hitting him dead-on and knocking him to the ground, definitely out cold.
Unconscious.
The stolen purse fell from his pocket, and the victim gasped, bending to retrieve it. “He stole my purse!” she exclaimed.
The whole market went dead silent.
And then Ocellia burst out laughing.
Yva couldn’t help but follow.
***
Yva stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Stared. Stared. Stared.
“I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world. I’m gonna be the best hero in the world.”
A fist thundered against Yva’s bedroom door.
“Shut the fuck up!” shouted Thalissa.
And Yva closed her mouth.
***
“Please!” begged Ocellia, hands clasped in front of her chest.
Behind her, Yva was making her very-best puppy-dog eyes.
“Please! Oh, please!” cried Ocellia, her voice deliberately overly-theatrical, making Yva’s pout very difficult to maintain. “Please! It’d be so cool and it’s be so fun! I beg of you, please!”
Yva pouted.
Dramatic. Begging. Pleading.
This wouldn’t work without all of them.
“Fine,” groaned Aveline. “We’re all having a sleepover in the common room, but just for tonight, alright?”
Forever, actually.
But Yva didn’t say that.
49 