Chương 35: The Flight

Attention, all students of New Bostin High. We are writing this message to address some common misconceptions. John Henry Doe is NOT a 5. 0! Neither is he a 3. 9! He was a 3. 0 in June, and he's still a 3. 0 to this day. Seven weeks ago, John sent a mass email with a picture of his 'official' ability profile attached. He sent another, similar email more recently. His ability level is stated to be 3. 9 in the first profile and 5. 0 in the second. These ability profiles are PHOTOSHOPPED LIES.

When John challenged King Zirian in early June, he did exactly how you would expect a 3. 0 to do against a 3. 7. He struggled for a bit, landed a single, mediocre attack, and then quickly lost. He was clearly a 3. 0 in June. In all of recorded history, fewer than ten people have EVER grown from 3. 0 to 5. 0 in a span of two months. Do you truly believe that John Henry Doe, motherless son of a cripple, would be able to achieve something this historic?

But John is transferring schools, so what does it even matter what his level is? That's a fair question you might have. The answer is that he wants to make this school believe that he's going out on top, when really he's going out on the bottom and running away in fear. Why are we letting him delude himself? Why are we letting him lie and hide the truth? Think about it: most late bloomers grow according to the same pattern. They start out weak, hit a spurt that lasts a year or two, and then stop growing for good.

Remember that John is a late bloomer, that he gained his ability around a year ago, and that he plateaued at 3. 0 starting in April. Remember that his Dad is a cripple. What do the facts tell us? They tell us that John won't get any stronger than 3. 0! He's already hit his peak! But that he doesn't want anyone in the 2. 6-2. 9 range, people he recently 'defeated,' to figure it out. If you're in this range, and you think John surpassed you, think again.

If he beat you the last time you fought, it was only because he got a lucky growth spurt at a good time. When we've all hit our peaks, you'll end up above him, which is why he's running away like a bitch-made coward. (Maybe he gets the running from his Mom.) So now everyone knows the truth. There's no need to thank us. We just hope everyone can rest easy, now knowing that John is a cheater whose victories were undeserved. Sincerely, Oliver Dupont, Isabel Gabris, Mateo Perez, Jabari Parker, and Jasmine Parker...

When John finished reading the letter and closed the email app on his phone, Claire was giving him a worried, expectant look. They both knew how he used to act, whenever the five names attached to the letter were involved, not to mention the actual words in it. He knew what reaction she was expecting. Instead of that, he made a mildly annoyed expression.

"Is this why you called me out here?" They were sitting on one of the old, cracking benches in the schoolyard behind New Bostin High. But even calling the space a schoolyard was generous; it was really just a mediocre little strip of grass with a view of apartment buildings and trees.

"It's seven in the morning," he went on.

"You could have come to my apartment to show me."

"You're not in the neighborhood these days," Claire replied.

"And we're here because nothing of value is lost if you get mad and start destroying things." She hesitated.

"…Why aren't you destroying anything?" Because these people should mean nothing to me.

"I'm heading to the airport in a few hours," he answered.

"The whole point of transferring schools is to stop caring about any of this old stuff. Start moving on with my life. I think I'm allowed to adopt that mindset a few hours early." John smiled as though he hadn't read the letter. He stretched his hands above his head, very intentionally, and interlaced his fingers.

"Anyway. We haven't really talked in a while. What are you and Adrion up to?" Internally, he was still doing a detailed review of every single attack in the letter, including the sneakier implications. Forcing a relaxed attitude was hard, knowing how badly he'd been insulted. He struggled to keep his expression calm as his anger bubbled up. Claire glanced him up and down with a skeptical look, eventually lingering on his hands, and John realized that he'd balled them into fists.

"Right… I was beginning to think you were an imposter, John." She smiled.

"But you're angry after all." Of course I am. The shameless downplaying of his strength in the letter was irritating. Especially when Oliver had squealed 'you're a 3. 9' fifty times in a row, at the top of his lungs, back when a weaker version of John had destroyed all five of them outright. And then there was the insult to his mother, which was worse by far. It almost made him want to hunt them down, one at a time, by showing up to each of their houses for a 'conversation.' Almost.

"I'm angry." He breathed.

"But I'm not going to hit anything." For a while, Claire stared at him in pure silence.

"Wow," she said.

"You've really changed." Since it was suddenly clear that he wasn't going to break everything in his vision to pieces, they went for a walk. It was awkward to start. They had spoken almost zero for two whole months. But once Claire told him about how she'd been spending the summer, and John gave some of his own (cherry-picked) stories, they were halfway back to normal. As it turned out, Claire didn't have any special knowledge about the letter.

She had simply seen the email before he did – so neither of them knew what exactly had motivated Oliver's group to write it, though it was an interesting thing to think about. They eventually started speculating, trading guesses back and forth, when Claire decided that they should both come up with their own, competing theories.

"They want to keep you here at all costs," she suggested.

"They wrote the letter to make you as angry as possible, bait you into staying, because what they're really afraid of is you leaving. If you go to Wellston City, you'll grow to your full potential, probably join The Authorities. That's what they think. You'll be untouchable at that point, and then you can get payback however you want. They think you might kill them for revenge, in less than a decade, or use your high position to make it impossible for them to live."

Mentally, John scoffed at the idea that Oliver's group would fear for their lives. At the same time, he hadn't exactly given them the impression that he thought their lives were worth anything.

"So they want the high-tier who's planning their murder to stay in town?" Claire laughed.

"It sounds crazy, put like that," she agreed with a smile.

"But if you're here, at least they can scheme against you. They can ambush you while your ability's inactive, or, I don't know… gather a big group to jump you before you grow any more. They have a small chance instead of none."

"Come on." John shook his head incredulously.

"That stuff only ever happens in comic books." Their meandering, randomly-chosen path had taken them in the direction of Citrona Combat Park, where he'd once spent every spare hour trying to grow his level. When they reached the shaded, manmade forest, he waved at a maintenance worker whose face he knew but whose name he'd forgotten.

"I have a different idea," he said.

"I think they sent out the letter because it's a convenient story for everyone. Things are easier and less painful for the people at this school if they just pretend I never became anything." He surprised himself a little with the conviction he put into the words. Claire lagged in place for a step, also clearly surprised, and then upped her pace to catch up to him.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I can go down the list if you want," John said.

"For one, Zirian's only going to keep his spot at the top because I didn't bother to stick around in his little pond. But obviously he doesn't want to believe that, for his own sake, and this letter gives him the perfect excuse not to." She didn't object, of course. They both knew how prideful and arrogant Zirian was.

"The teachers and principals have no choice but to suck off a teenage boy every day like he owns the whole school. That's what happens if I stay, reach god-tier here, and they know it. I would turn in a drawing of my left ballsack for every assignment, and they would give me a 110% score and design the 'A++' grade just for me. For the same guy they used to demote two letter grades for 'bad handwriting,' when they really just liked having someone to kick around.

They were getting ready to bend over and start taking it from me, but the letter lets them pretend they weren't." For some reason, he felt like he could use profanities when talking to Claire that he couldn't with Meili.

"Then there's everyone in the 2. 6-2. 9 range," he said.

"The ones I started beating right as the school year was ending… It's obvious for them, yeah? The letter says everything. They get to ignore the humiliation of being turned into ants by someone who had always been their 'lesser.' Someone they used to have fun beating every day. All they have to do is label me as 'just some guy who peaked at 3. 0 prematurely.'" Claire gave a hum of agreement, or something close.

"And just those are already enough, right?" she said.

"If the teachers and stronger students are pushing the same story, everyone else has to fall in line."

"Yeah." John nodded.

"But you should call and give me updates, especially if I'm wrong." He ducked under an overgrown tree branch. When the coarse path in front of him branched into two, a wide-angled 'y' shape, he chose the right one by instinct. Claire copied him silently, and John guessed that she was considering his theory, or otherwise what the aftermath at school would be like. He'd already started contemplating the same thing a few days before. How would New Bostin High School talk about him, once he was gone?

After reading the letter, it was clear that they wouldn't. They wouldn't truly talk about him, wouldn't grapple with the facts of what they'd done. They wouldn't reconsider their past actions, or admit that they'd been in the wrong. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. They would push a convenient lie, plug their ears to the sound of truth, remain exactly as vile and pathetic as they'd been before. They all say the same thing.

The weak are disgusting trash, the strong are honored and beautiful. But if a weak late bloomer becomes strong, aren't they still the same person? If you use ability-granting tech on a low-tier, boost them into an elite-tier, what about them has changed to transform the way you treat them? The whole thing felt painfully arbitrary. Meili once said something similar, back when John had first asked her about Alicia, but he'd simply brushed her answer off as weird and eccentric. Now he understood.

"I'm glad you called me out before I left," he finally said.

"It would have felt wrong to give you my apology over the phone." Claire stiffened.

"John, I-""Let me say this," he continued.

"I was kind of an asshole to you, starting from when I reached 2. 5. And of course the number's not a coincidence. That was when there started to be a real gap between our levels." He looked up at the treetops above them, where a thick pillar of sunlight came through a hole in the leaves, striking the ground golden.

"I was acting just like everyone else," he said.

"Putting level above everything. But I don't want to be like everyone else, and you weren't acting like everyone else when you first became my friend. You never acted like you were too good for me, or too far above me, when I was a cripple, but I still did it to you. I'm sorry about that." Some more awkwardness left him, and he felt lighter, after managing to get it out. But there was still an old bit of him shouting, mayday!, because as a mighty high-tier he'd admitted fault to a measly 2. 1.

"Thanks… But I was wrong, too." Claire rubbed her arm.

"I was suspicious about Meili after the vision I had, so I insisted on coming along to meet her - it made me really furious when you refused. But I wasn't thinking clearly, either. What could I have done, realistically, if she actually wanted to hurt you? Say a really mean insult? Try to tickle her?" John laughed a little. She gave a sheepish smile.

"And besides, I got a vision yesterday that makes me think you'll be just fine."

"Oh." He blinked in surprise.

"What did you see?"

"Well…" She thought for a second.

"You know what happens in the first vision, right? You're asleep, buckled into a chair, she's drawing your blood…" It took him some time to recall, but he did, and nodded in confirmation.

"My newest vision happens right before that," she said.

"It takes place in the same room, with the same mechanical chair and big syringe. Only you're still awake in this one. And I always thought that Meili would be the one to put you in the chair, but no. You strap yourself in on your own. You fasten the buckles around you with a smile on your face." Beautiful She spent a long time talking with John. Around half of it was about the future, what their plans were going to be, and the other half was about shared memories.

But then it was noon, and John told her that he had to leave. Claire wished she could have had just a singular extra day. It had taken a whole lot of courage and self-convincing to call him, knowing that he'd reached high-tier, not knowing how he'd act toward her because of it. Only on the final possible day, with the excuse of Oliver's letter, had she convinced herself. Now she regretted not being more decisive. He was different, yes, but in a way that she was happy for.

It was so much easier to talk to him, less like walking on eggshells… she wanted more time with this new John, more memories with him like this. There were so many things to notice. Like his reaction of genuine-seeming congratulation, after she'd told him about her growth from 2. 1 to 2. 2. He'd been waving to people, taking the initiative to say hello, even though they were all multiple levels below him.

But it struck her the most that he hadn't mentioned responding to Oliver's letter, not even a simple email reply. If he really wanted to forget it all, let everything lie in the past, then she'd support that. But Claire also hated the idea of Oliver and the others getting away with what they'd written. She didn't want to be stuck in class without John, listening to people lie about him, calling him a cheater who only won because he peaked at age fifteen.

"Do you want to write a quick response before you go?" she asked, then winced at how desperate she sounded.

"I mean - you'll lose access to your school email in a day or two." John made a face.

"I don't think I have time. The next few days are important, since I'm a transfer." His expression made her think that time wasn't the only issue. Still, this kind of total avoidance seemed like it was best for him, considering the mess of hate and broken pride that would forever follow his name at their school.

"Then forget about it," she said.

"I hope things go well for you in Wellston City… And I guess this is goodbye, for now, but during the summer-" She stopped. He'd started grinning to himself. It was a purely mischievous expression, with no hint of malice or violence, something she hadn't seen since they were little.

"Actually…" John laughed softly.

"I just thought of something. Can you record me with your phone?" He started moving away from her, and she started her camera with a nod. When he was about a dozen paces away, he activated his ability, replacing his hands with massive claws the color of night. They flattened and fragmented into small daggers, which morphed into thin flecks of black that fanned out like the feathers of a massive raven.

The flecks shifted in the wind, wispy and malleable – which made Claire realize that they were feathers, that John's claws were wings, and that he was going to fly. Birds used hollow bones to be light enough. As it turned out, ability-users overcame their heavy ones with massive wingspans and superstrength. John took off with a huge burst of wind, blowing air up her clothes, and maintained his height through the rhythmic beating of his wings.

"You guys are right that I'm not a 5. 0," he spoke loudly into the camera.

"I'm a 5. 2, this week, and I don't need to throw a single punch to be above you." Claire started to smile. It was wide, one that pulled up against her cheeks. It would be up to her to keep this video circulating. To serve as a reality check to their classmates' self-serving delusions while he was gone… that was what John was saying. She gave him a single nod, to show that she understood, and he smiled back at her as he flew up through a hole in the treetops.

Beautiful The airport was crowded with students, in a scene straight out of my previous life. There were moderate lines at the airline desks and a long, twisting one for the security screening. Even the same slight inequality still existed: short lines off to the side, this world's version of priority security lanes, for passengers with higher-tier tickets.

In my past life, I had always found the different 'classes' of flight tickets to be an oddly hierarchical concept, at least compared to other forms of mass transport. Buses and trains had been mostly egalitarian, but somehow with planes in particular there were economy seats, premium economy, business class, first class, etc. So it made sense that commercial flying hadn't changed much from one world to the next.

The classes were all conceptually the same, just renamed to 'high-tier,' 'elite-tier,' and 'general seating.' The lowest seat class even had the same vaguely patronizing quality to its name. One difference from my past life was that high-tiers could bring lower-level guests to the high-tier section. (Provided the suites weren't filled; they never were). Of course, this was mostly so high-tier families could bring their (temporarily) lower-level children… But there was no rule against bringing friends.

"Just one last thing: how many high-tier suites are left?" As we checked in at our airline desk, John echoed my thought aloud.

"Excuse me?" The pencil skirt-wearing receptionist blinked at us uncomprehendingly.

"I - I believe there are six?"

"Great." John smiled.

"I'm new to this, but I think that means I can get ticket upgrades for my friends."

"Oh, um. That is correct. That is correct, sir, but-" The blonde woman's eyes flickered across Alicia's face and mine. She picked up our tickets, smoothing the already-smooth papers with her hands, as though removing non-existent crinkles would change the ability levels printed on them.

"-but I may have misremembered, so if you could give me a second to double-check availability…" She pretended to click on her monitor screen, while her other hand twitched toward the phone on the airline desk. Alicia made a fake 'coughing noise.' It was admittedly entertaining, to see how three kids could force an emergency phone call to the higher-ups just by following the rules.

I could tell from their quivering smiles and shoulders that Alicia and John found the situation hilarious, worth creating even if we didn't get the seats. But I doubted that the receptionist's perspective was so funny. Geez, a high-tier ticket? This John kid must be a stud. Let's see, 5. 2 at… fifteen? That's gotta be god-tier pace. And the redhead… 4. 5 at fifteen, wow. That might be god-tier pace, too. Which means the third girl is definitely… A low-tier? The hell? She's way lower-ranking than I am! Okay.

Whatever. No clue what she's doing with these two, but I guess this might be some weird form of bullying or something… What? He wants to upgrade the low-tier girl's seat? And he just called her a friend, somehow? Are low-tiers even allowed to sit in the high-tier section? What's going on here? Shoot, do I have to call this in? But Michelle's only a 5. 3 - this kid's almost that strong at fifteen. His parents are probably in the sevens, and then I'm fired. Shit.

Okay, maybe just figure out what the hell their deal is. … Oh, is that how it is? I get it now. This guy's probably one of those bored prodigies. Got too strong too young, and decided to start experimenting with low-tiers. Shit. They're definitely going to fool around on the plane, take advantage of those closing doors that the high-tier suites have. And wait a second, low-tier girl's kind of vibrating a little, isn't she? Are they already… Ugh, what freaks.

But it's probably four god-tier parents to deal with if I mess this up. I should probably give them what they want. So went my long, hyperdetailed guess about the receptionist's train of thought. After a few minutes of waiting, she apologized profusely for the delay and handed us three high-tier tickets. John was still suppressing his laughter as he took them. He started heading to the security lines, and Alicia followed, making the smile of minor victory.

I started walking, too – but before going too far, I activated my ability's hearing enhancement in an attempt to confirm my suspicion.

"…good treatment for a trashcan," the receptionist muttered quietly. I stopped mid-step. Alicia noticed and paused, a few moments later, making her brand-new suitcase squeak against the shiny floor.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to face me.

"Nothing," I said.

"I almost thought I heard something." Trashcan (insult) Listen to pronunciation here Find synonyms here A sexually degrading term, commonly referring to low-tier women who are used by high-tier men as deposits for their discharge. Example: "Eat that up real good, Trashcan." Why on earth did I choose to look it up? I thought, closing my eyes. I turned my phone off and put it in a TSA security bin....

An hour later, having boarded the plane, I learned that my imagination had run a little wild: the high-tier suites didn't actually have closing doors. They call it a suite, I thought, but it's more of a booth with an open top and side, which is deceptive marketing if you really- I rolled my eyes at myself. You're just annoyed from earlier. And it's kind of unfair to complain about privacy and legroom, right after calling the seats elitist.

In the suites to my left and in front of me, Alicia and John kept making vaguely happy noises of surprise. We each got a large flat-screen, and the airline staff had left gift baskets for us to dig through. I hadn't gone through mine, though with a glance I saw chocolate-glazed cashews, small jars of handmade jam, and a cheese plate from the sixty-first sector. (According to an old journal entry of mine, the sixty-first sector corresponded to central France).

But I didn't want to eat anything, with the lingering disgust I felt from the check-in fiasco. I decided to rest until takeoff instead, and reclined my chair all the way back. After three months spent at maximum intensity, I wasn't adapted for something as straightforwardly enjoyable as a luxury flight. I looked for ugly and awful things, and of course this world was more than happy to make them clear to me.

But I also understood that fixing one problem was nothing, that there was a whole universe of them, and the only real answer was to change things at the source. Throughout the summer, I had kept asking myself: 'What is it going to take?' Knowledge of the true nature of abilities. A deeper understanding of aura than the researchers at NxGen, since it turned out that they were nearly as blind as I was. Sample enhancement drugs, of course, but also the capability to reverse-engineer and improve them.

Everything came down to the Doe family. Thankfully, I was leaving New Boston with John, and I was leaving with a promise from Jane. I want to know about abilities, Mom. I want to know about modification. I want to know about aura, what it really is, and I want to know about The Authorities, the real ones. I want to know the truth. You can give it to me, even after I leave. We have a way to see through your eyes. If you use your aura to write something, and you can read it, then we can read it too.

Is there a specific day and time that will work for you to write to me? With the lowest chance to get caught? Everything else John had written came from him alone. But I had dictated this message to him, to pass on to his mother. Jane had responded: Sunday, eight PM. So I was successful. I had the ability-granting candies as carry-on luggage, with John to help me research them, Jane as remote support. And my only obligation to NxGen was to submit my medical data, as a participant in the experimental trial.

If we still can't push the research far enough, I thought, then I can at least say that I did everything I could. Right as I reassured myself, the plane began to accelerate. I looked out my window, watching painted segments on the asphalt blur into longer strips, then into continuous streams of white and yellow. Soon we were lifting off the ground. Have I done everything I could? We rose at a steep angle. I felt no turbulence but heard a little girl's wailing in the general seating section.

The city grew smaller through my window, until we slowly leveled out, and New Boston was a bumpy little surface of silver and brown. On the flight map on my TV, the airplane icon inched westward toward Wellston City.