Braxton was still trying out this new power but he wanted to try it on others. So he offered it to his best friend. Placing a hand on Dexters head he whispered softly. “Close your eyes and think of the one person you want to see most in this moment.” his eyes shifted and soon the Dexter could see the image before him. The light chuckle came across the field and he knew who that was.”
“Hey there kiddo! Miss me much?” Wade laughed before running over to his fully grown son. In Wade’s spiritual world it was just his wife, a teenage Dexter and his daughter. Living in a house near a brewery of his favorite beer. He lifted his son up as best as he could.
Kalinda was a willow tree, swaying in the musical breeze of the gala’s band and the sweet ballad they played. At least, that was what she was telling herself. In reality the band was playing at a much higher tempo than Kalinda assumes and her swaying is making her bump clumsily into the shoulder beside hers.
When she had been sipping on the bliss saturated drink, she hadn’t realized what she was doing to herself. At most, Kalinda thought there’d be a low alcohol content since the gala was for adults, or perhaps someone spiked it with vodka on purpose. There was a ninety percent chance that the latter option only ever happened on TV. Whatever the case, Kalinda had grabbed a glass to relax and she had gotten what she wished for. Long limbs loose, her eyes darted around the dance floor as her body moved without instruction, the scene looking so much brighter than it had just a mere half hour ago. Kalinda still had her punch glass tight in hand.
“Dancing is a cross cultural mahnamahna you know?” The words fell lazily out of Kalinda’s mouth, the slur obvious in her speech. She meant to say phenomenon.
The uniform fit awkwardly. The sleeves were too short, the shoulders too narrow and a 16 year old Scott Summers found himself tugging at them in front of the mirror. He ran his hands through his hair trying to flatten the errant locks but huffing and putting the navy beret over it. He peered at himself in the mirror again. It was awkward. But that didn’t matter as his eyes settled over the emblem on the chest. The angular stripes of the bird in flight, the word, “J.U.S.T.I.C.E” below in white block letters. . A calm settled over him. It was a uniform. It was symbolic of a better time that promised safety and stability. Things the young boy had not had in a long time. Eyes wandered past the emblem to the stripes, the height, the hair. In a certain light, he almost looked like -
“Scott Summers!”, a impatient voice called from downstairs. “Sorry, one minute!” he called back pulling on his combat boots and rushing out the door.
“ALRIGHT MAGGOTS!”, the drill sergeant spat. Behind red lenses, before them while everyone else was doing their best thousand mile stare, Scott was free to watch him as he paced up and down. “Passed some tests, beat out some other kids and now you think you’re a big shot huh? DO YOU THINK YOU’RE A BIG SHOT?”, he yelled in he face of some kid. The kid stood his ground, replying with a steady shake of the head. These weren’t boys. They had all been chosen for a reason.
The sergeant smirked. “Welcome to JUSTICE. You all know why you’re here. You’re all too good to ignore and fucked up to put anywhere else. AND most importantly, no nasty families to deal with when you wipe out. That means we train you harder, tougher, and faster than anywhere else. You give us your lives, and we’ll give you a life worth living. SHIELD is your family now.”.
The speech was a nice one. Scott would be lying if he said it didn’t affect him, like they’d tapped into his subconscious and spun out the words just for him. But the cynical side also knew that was exactly what they had done. This was a group of orphans or kids whose real parents didn’t care enough, if he was trying to manipulate a bunch of misfit boys, that’s the speech he would use too.
They were paired off for the first exercise. “Move your pile of logs 1 mile North. Do it fast and do it well. Losers get a mark. Three marks and you’re cut. Get to it Maggots!”.
“Summers.” he nodded at the other kid. They only gave last names here. Anything else and you were a sentimental Shmuck. Shmucks got marks and Shmucks got cut. The other pairs had already started, not wasting a second in dragging their tree length logs across the muddy field. Some of the smarter ones had taken to rolling them. But still, 10 logs, 1 mile made for a marathon. “You smart by any chance?” he asked squinting at the other boy.
