“Preparation is survival. Once you are in the fight there is little you can do except keep calm and remember your training.”

–The Superhero Trainee Guide (Third edition), Chapter Two .

“Death is just one mistake away. I’ve been to a lot of funerals for people who forgot that.”

–Dark Fire, email to an unidentified friend.

I wake up in the hospital with no idea of how I got there. My body is covered in bandages and casts, and I have a killer headache. A nurse sitting by my bed looks up when I try to move.

“Can you hear me, Red Five?” he asks.

I try to nod but can’t, so I settle for a groan. He injects me with something and my arm start burning.

“I can hear you,” I say.

He gets up, leaves the room and comes back with a second nurse. She’s much older than he is, and seems surprised to see me.

“He’s awake,” says the younger nurse, “you owe me ten dollars.”

“Do you know why you are here?” the older nurse asks me, handing the other nurse a ten dollar bill.

“I… don’t. What happened? And can I have something for my headache?”

The nurse shrugs.

“Sorry kid, you’re already on a lot of pain meds. What’s the last thing you can remember?”

“I was out with Never Lies and her team in the storm… and then we were on a saucer, right? Everything is a bit hazy.”

It was a lot more than hazy; I could only remember snatches of disparate memories that seemed to slip over each other. Was I in Korea? Did I see Tenchi?

The senior nurse makes a worried humming noise and takes a few notes on her tablet.

“Okay then. I’ve called the doctor. Stay where you are.”

Both my legs are in casts, so I’m not going anywhere,

I lie back and close my eyes. What happened to me? I remember fire, and pain.

The door opens and a middle aged man with the name Got Greedy written on his blue shirt walks in. He looks sad, and says nothing as he checks me over. He must be the doctor, because the older nurse walks in and starts assisting him as he scans me with strange machines set next to my bed.

Got Greedy mutters something under his breath, and the nurse wheels me out of the room and into a full body MRI.

“This might hurt,” the nurse says.

It doesn’t, although my arm feels oddly warm. They wheel me back into my room and start cutting the bandages off my arm. The skin looks red. The doctor pokes it with a metal stick and a long line opens up in my skin to show the muscle underneath. He slides a metal probe right into the muscle.

“Hey! What the heck?” I shout.

The doctor ignores me and continues working, but the nurse looks surprised.

“What? Oh right, you’ve never been conscious when we’ve done that before. We did a lot of pre-emptive surgery when you first arrived. Just the normal stuff, like the internal tourniquets and extra spleen. And a pacemaker, too, and a valve in your skull to limit swelling…”

I look away as the doctor pulls the probe out of my arm. My skin closes up as good as new, but the whole experience is pretty disturbing.

“…we also tightened some muscles while we were in there, just tuning you up,” continues the nurse, “and added sensors and access points, of course. We knew you’d be coming back to us.”

“What the hell?” I demanded, “What gives you the right?”

The doctor prods my neck and sighs unhappily.

“You did,” the nurse says, “when you volunteered.”

They keep me in bed for another whole day. It’s boring, and my memories are still fragmented. My tat-a-gotchi is sulking on my arm and refuses to even look at me; perhaps it doesn’t like the MRI.

“Visitor,” says the nurse.

It’s Bad Day. He sits down, props his feet on my bed and smiles at me.

“What happened?” I ask.

I expected him to still be in a wheelchair, but he’s not even limping. I wonder how much times has passed since our mission in the ice.

“You really don’t remember?”

“Nup.”

“Pity. We were part of a team investigating a small saucer downed in the middle of nowhere, Russia. Should have been a piece of cake. Big Teeth saw something on the ground and went down to have a look. You joined him, then everything went white and we hit the ground. The explosion was so large that they saw it from space. Big Teeth didn’t survive, and you barely did. Is any of this ringing any bells?”

It wasn’t.

“Never Lies was furious with herself. She kept saying that she should have seen it coming, but I don’t know how she could have. Things got pretty hairy after that when a pair of jellybergs flanked us, and by the time we got to you there was no sign of any saucer.”

I don’t remember any of that. Bad Day hands me a tablet loaded with games and then leaves. I play the games for a few minutes, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

My next visitor is Small Talk. He sits by my bed for an hour without saying anything, then pats me on the shoulder as he leaves. Were we in his hometown, at some point? Does he have kids?

Three days pass; I heal quickly, so whatever drugs they keep injecting into me must be working. One of my legs is still in a cast, but otherwise I’m fine. Everyone seems surprised that I’m still alive, yet I’m feeling pretty good.

“How is this possible?” I ask the nurse.

“We were prepared, and we have a lot of experience when it comes to this stuff. And you’ve been in here a lot, so we had a home team advantage of sorts. Besides, Got Greedy is incredible at using the alien tech for healing. He’s always pushing the limit of what’s possible.”

“I don’t know how I feel about being a lab rat,” I admit.

“You’d be dead otherwise. We had to use every trick in the book to keep you alive last time. You have a couple metal bones now, by the way.”

“Which ones?” I ask, shocked.

“Um… your legs and arms, mostly. A few ribs, that sort of thing. A piece of skull. Your fingers. Don’t worry about it.”

I can’t help but worry about it.

“And there are no long-term effects?”

“No one has lived long enough to find out. Except Past Prime, maybe.”

No one had lived long enough to find out? That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

I’m out of bed the next day. A trio of physios help get me walking again. I try to strike up a conversation, but they answer in grunts. The nurses are far more talkative, and I learn a lot about the ship from them.

“Visitor,” says the younger nurse.

It’s Past Prime.

“You remind me of myself at your age,” he tells me.

“Ah… thanks?”

“It’s not a compliment. Have you thought about my offer?”

“I have. I want to keep fighting.”

Past Prime shakes his head and leaves me to my fractured body and mind.

I only have one more visitor, a steward. He’s a stern man with short white hair and a professional manner. I wonder if he was a soldier in the past, and if he considers this a step up or a step down.

“Follow me, please,” he asks.

I swing myself out of bed without any difficulty. I was bored with all that inactivity, anyway. There are only so many times I can read a tactics manual before I commit the whole thing to memory.

“Yup… where are we going?”

“Follow.”

He leads me down a series of stairs, deep into the belly of the Cerberus. We walk along corridors of doors that might be crew rooms. The Cerberus only carries a small navy crew and a smaller group of operators, so most of the rooms aren’t being used. We walk down a final set of stairs and turn to a double door. The large sign above it reads ‘Weapons Research Laboratory.’ Underneath that, in smaller letters, is a yellow sign: ‘No Smoking, Running or Electronic Equipment Allowed Past This Point.’

“I’m not allowed any further than this. Good luck,” the steward tells me.

I walk through the doors and find a second pair, much heavier than the last. A handwritten message on a small piece of paper is stuck to the door with tape.

“Come in, shut up, don't touch anything, stand still, do as you are told and we will get on just fine,” I read aloud.

Seems like a friendly place.

I step up to knock on the door and it swings open at my first touch. It leads to a long corridor clad in rough concrete and sheets of metal. I pass through half a dozen red fire doors before arriving at the last, which is blue. A technician steps out. His appearance surprises me for a moment: he looks about forty, and he is the tallest and thinnest person I’ve met on the ship. He has tool belts of odd tools strung around his body and a pair of welding goggles on his head.

I offer my hand but he ignores it and ushers me inside.

“So this is the gun labs,” I say.

“That's a misnomer. We also make swords and maces and–”

He waves to an assortment of weapons laying in dozens of neat racks. Some of the weapons I recognize, many I don't. They all look extremely dangerous.

“–all kinds of things, really,” he continues, “I'm Talented Brat, and this is my workshop.”

“Pleased to finally meet you, I'm–”

“–Red Five. I know. I was at your assessment. Stand over there.”

The workshop is huge, with low ceilings that run on forever. The room contains hundreds of boxes, shelves and tables all overflowing with pieces of equipment. Half-finished suits of armor hang from the ceiling and bits of saucers and alien tech lie in piles. Some are still bright metal but a few have been stripped down to their cores of pulsing wires. The one nearest me is an unbalanced oblong that looks to me like it was an engine, but it could be an alien pizza oven for all I know. A few distant figures welding on a table pay us no attention. I walk over to where Brat is pointing and find a suit of armor waiting for me. It looks better than the ones I've been using, but it still looks battered. There is no helmet. It is also unarmed, but my multiblaster is sitting on a desk nearby.

“I heard you lost your last suit, trainee. Not smart, not smart at all,” Brat grumbles.

“I don’t–” I start, but then I remember bright, bright light.

Was my suit destroyed?

Talented Brat fusses over a computer display but I keep quiet and take a moment to look over the lab. I don't know what any of this stuff is, but I have a sudden and burning desire to find out.

“Step onto that plate,” Brat says.

I step onto the plate. I don’t feel anything, but Brat is staring intently at a computer screen. Something hums loudly, and lights flash.

“Okay. We have a temporary suit set up for you that should fit. That one – put it on already,” Brat says.

It doesn't take long. The suit fits me well, and Brat pulls straps and adjusts the fittings until it sits comfortably over my shoulders. It feels tight, like a second skin, and light. Nothing is loose.

“That feels so much better–”

“Quiet. Hold up your left arm.”

Brat starts working on the power panel on my arm. He locks the dials in place with a screwdriver.

“I’d actually prefer having the setting on manual,” I say before he gets too far.

“What?”

Talented Brat gives me a look that's equal parts impressed and annoyed.

“I don't like people messing with my setups, boy. Manual control is too dangerous for trainees.”

I shrug.

“Fine, I'll set all the controls to manual, but it's your funeral. This new suit should have thirty-four percent more juice than your last one, so we can mount some bigger weapons. Follow me.”

I follow him in my unpowered suit. My steps are heavy and clumsy, but I manage to keep up as we pass piles of extremely cool stuff. We walk into an area surrounded by tables and weapon racks. One table holds a dozen helmets, no two the same. Brat picks up a stepladder leaning against a table and places it next to me. He measures my head with a tape and then hands me a helmet.

“Too tight.”

The next helmet is way too big and sits loosely on my head.

“Too big.”

Brat passes me up a third one.

“Try this, Goldilocks.”

Perfect. I nod and smile.

Talented Brat opens a box on the table and starts pulling out all kinds of equipment.

“Now... the auxiliaries.”

He hands me a small fire extinguisher, a set of flares, a med pack, and a collection of lights. He shows me where to stow them in pockets across my suit. All the equipment is smaller and far more advanced than anything a civilian could hope to use, but it’s not exciting. I make the mistake of saying so to Talented Brat.

“You’ll change your mind when you suit’s on fire,” he says.

I don’t think he’s joking.

I stand still as he welds the multiblaster to the arm of my new suit. He adds a powerful torch to the wrist.

“This suit will have lots of lights. Now for more weapons,” he says, waving his hands towards the hundred or so different options lying on the tables.

My eye is caught by a sword, dark and beautiful, lying alone on a slab of granite. The sword is huge, nearly as tall as I am and about eight inches wide. The black blade looks sharp enough to shave with. A curving line of blue LEDs runs down the center of the blade and around the long handle. The sword looks born to kill saucers, like it could cut through their metal skin without even noticing. It also looks solid and far, far too heavy for anyone to actually pick up, never mind use. I have never seen a more impractical weapon in my life, and I want it immediately.

“Can I have that one?” I ask.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No! You think you are the first person to ask? Everyone who walks in here wants that sword, but it's too damn big to be any use. I'm thinking of taking it apart.”

“No way! Beauty can be its own justification.”

My mom used to say that to me. Brat pauses in his work and gives me a long look.

“I had an old teacher who used to say that all the time,” he tells me, “which is probably why that thing's still here. Now, shut up.”

Brat picks up a short power sword, looks at it, looks at me, looks back at it, shakes his head and puts it back down. He runs his hands over an array of axes and spears before moving on to a collection of maces. He settles on a small mace ending in a spiked ball. My heart sinks; it's boring in comparison to the other weapons.

“Can't I have a cooler one?”

“What does the sign on my door say?”

“Operators and staff with C-12 clearance and above only?”

“Not that one!”

“Come in, shut up, don't touch anything, stand still, and do as you are told.”

“That's right. Now, sling the mace over your shoulder.”

I sling the mace into a sheath over my shoulder. Brat ties it in place so that I can just reach it. He shakes his head, takes it off and throws it to the ground. A technician runs over and removes it. Brat picks up a shoulder cannon, a spear, and a force hammer but shakes his head and throws them aside in frustration.

“You can’t use any of this stuff,” he says angrily, slamming a hammer down on the table.

Another technician walks over. She looks older than Talented Brat, and she has a set of complicated goggles on her head.

“I’m Second Best,” she says, and I can tell that she doesn’t like the name.

“Second Best is my assistant,” says Brat.

“No I’m not. I have seniority here.”

“Whatever. This is my case, you can go away.”

They start arguing, so I interrupt them.

“Can I have a bigger gun?” I blurt out.

“No,” says Brat at the same time as Best says “yes.”

Brat rolls his eyes and is about to leave when Second Best whispers something in his ear. He looks back at me in surprise.

“Saucer, really? Well that’s different then.”

They turn back and consider me skeptically. Brat hums to himself and looks mildly annoyed.

“What about the rainbow cannon?” Second Best suggests at last.

“The hypercolor ray gun? I never got that working with any degree of accuracy. Pretty sure I broke it down for scrap.”

“It targets in the same manner as the multiblaster… and I hid it in my stash. Let’s hook it up–”

“–it’s never going to work; the overload is just too quick–”

“–I've been tinkering with it. I added a couple of power loops from wreck 8889 and ran the power feed through one of your high steam inhibitor columns. I think we can get the overload down–”

“What! When did you–”

They start arguing in their high-tech jargon, and I'm quickly lost despite my best efforts to pay attention. Talented Brat calls a few of his assistants over and bosses them around the workshop. The arm of a power suit arrives from storage, closely followed by a mess of wires, a heap of spare parts and what looks a long metal rod mounted in coils of copper piping. I watch as they weld the rod to the arm and start wiring it in place.

“The cannon is water cooled, so don't be too surprised if it starts leaking steam. If the gun gets too hot the fuses will melt and the whole thing will stop working, so you shouldn't be able to overload it,” explains Second Best.

“How hot is too hot?” I ask. It is going to be strapped to my arm, after all.

“The fuses will melt at around ninety degrees Celsius. Now–”

It doesn't take me long to do the calculations in my head: my arm will melt before the fuses do. That’s some great design work, team.

The color cannon is a bulky barrel that starts above my shoulder, runs down my arm and juts out a foot or so past my hand. It ends in three platinum spikes and looks like a dragon claw.

“Reminds me of my tat-a-gotchi.”

“Ah, which one do you have?” asks Brat

“The small silver dragon. You know them?”

“I invented them. The silver is rare, you should be pleased.”

“You didn’t invent them, you just patented them,” puts in Second Best.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. I think–”

“–mirror!” shouts Brat, and a full-length mirror folds out of the ceiling in front of me.

“Happy?” he asks.

I am. I look good, almost like a real superhero, and I can't wait to take this color cannon for a spin. I'm super happy.

“Not that I care. Now get that suit off and get out,” Brat says, “I've got important things to do. I want to get to the cafeteria before all the lasagna is gone.”

He walks off.

“There’s no lasagna today,” Second Best says, “but I’m glad to be rid of him. Follow me.”

She leads me through the workshop and into a large office that’s dominated by a desk. The desk is clear, but every wall contains shelves of weird alien tech. There’s a single picture on the wall of two women standing side by side at a restaurant. They are both smiling.

It takes me a moment to recognize that one of the women is my own mother. I sit down on a crate of welding supplies while Second Best makes us coffee.

“I hear your shields are good,” she says.

“Yes, I guess they are.”

“You can thank your mom for that, you know.”

“Why?”

Second Best taps the side of her head.

“We gave you an unfair advantage, you see. To keep you alive.”

Alien tech in my head? That I didn’t put there myself?

“Plus the stuff you put there yourself. Oh yes, I noticed even if Brat didn’t. That was very risky, but they seem to be working. Come on, I’ll tune them up for you.”

She spends half an hour checking over my implants. Everything seems fine.

“One of a kind, your mother. She invented the test they gave you at the Superhero Corps recruitment center. You were the first civilian she tried it on, but you were probably too young to remember. You had enough superpowers to get into the Corps, but not enough power to survive for long. Her implants allow you to control your shields better than anyone else can.”

“Why didn’t she give me an implant to help me control my weapons?” I ask.

Second Best gives me a long, knowing look.

“She was your mother,” she says, “not some mad scientist. Now, let’s take that new suit out for a spin.”

Wait… did I really see Tenchi?