Super Drew
Drew laughed, glee clear in his voice. For a seven year old he was about as typical as they came, with the notable exception of his superpowers.
Sal had been reluctant to name them as such when Drew was born, but after three months of calling them “latent chromosomal characteristics”, he'd opted for the simplicity of the more colloquial term. It wasn't that he and his wife weren't excited for their first child, or impressed that they had somehow managed to produce an offspring that could lift cars, walk at sixty miles and hour and fly effortlessly around their living room, but more that raising such a child came with a host of issues unknown to other parents.
It had started with steel-plating the house, top to bottom, since that was the only way they could keep little Drew inside when he demanded it was time to go to the park. Thankfully, he'd quickly learned the lesson that hitting people was wrong, and so neither Sal nor Gloria ended up with more than few broken bones, but Drew had quite the temper when he decided he was being unfairly treated, and several holes in their walls had made for uncomfortable winters.
Drew finally settled down, coming to rest on the coffee table, hands on his hips. He looked very proud of his landing.
“Very nice,” Sal said, “now get your feet off of the table. You know your mother doesn't allow it. And what have I told you about flying in the house?” His tone was stern, and his face was set in a frown. It was difficult, thanks to his son's large blue eyes and wide smile, but he had to be harsh. Drew needed to learn control.
“I know, Dad, but -”
“Down, son,” he interrupted, and Drew hopped off of the table, shaggy blond hair bouncing as his feet struck the carpet.
“I got an A today in math, on the test I told you about – the one I was sure I was gonna fail!”
“Going to, Drew,” he said patiently. “The expression is 'going to', not 'gonna', and congratulations. I'm proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Drew said, smiling.
“Now, go to your room.”
His son's face darkened, and Sal did his best not to step back. Consequences for actions were something that he and Gloria had decided on early in Drew's development, but they were not always easy to enforce. For the moment, Drew was willing to abide by their rules, but in five or six years hormones would take over, and all of that would change. They had no definite plans on how to handle their super-sons teenage angst just yet.
“It's only for five minutes, Drew – and you know you broke the rules. Now go.” He turned toward the kitchen, doing his best to pretend that he was sure his words would be obeyed. The sound of rushing air told him his son had complied, and he let out a sigh of relief.
A check of the phone messages in the kitchen revealed a call from Drew's school, fortunately just praise for his hard work over recent weeks and his grade in math. Sal was still somewhat surprised that the school had been so accommodating of Drew's special needs, going so far as to have an iron-plated concrete desk installed, one that even his son could not move or shatter.
The sound of music upstairs told him Drew had forgotten all about his punishment and instead found something new to focus on. While the music wasn't offensive and came with a decent beat, Sal wished his son would spend more time with other children his age, rather than working on his audio collection. Interaction with ordinary kids in his class had been difficult, at least until one had been thrown clear across a soccer field to make a point and the others had been suitably impressed, and although Sal was certain Drew wasn't being bullied, he'd prefer it if at least one friend for his son could be found.
A knock at the door had him frowning; Tuesday afternoons were typically quiet in the neighborhood, and most salesmen and religious types knew they weren't going to get any bites on the block.
It was a young man that had knocked, one dressed head to toe in black except for a fitted white dress shirt. Tie, jacket and slacks and shoes were all exactly the same shade of midnight, and the doorbell-ringer looked like he hadn't slept in a month.
“Mr. Gibbens?” Black-suit said politely, and he nodded. “I'm Special Agent Timothy Wayfarer, may I come in?”
Sal stared at the man until he produced a small leather wallet and then flipped it open. There was no mistaking the crest of the Service, and if this Timothy had taken the time to fake one, he'd done an exceptionally good job.
“Come in, Agent Wayfarer.” Sal stepped back and led the Serviceman into his living room. “Now, what's this all about?”
“I'll come straight to the point, Mr. Gibbens,” Wayfarer said, his eyes darting quickly around the room. “Our nation is in trouble.”
Sal shrugged. Pundits had been saying that for years, fear-mongers that wanted to get to the hearts and wallets of the citizenry. “Isn't it always?”
Wayfarer flashed a humorless smile. “Of course. This time, however, things are a bit more serious, and we're going to need help.”
He sighed. He'd been clear enough on leaving that Service that his skills were no longer for hire, and that he had no desire to be contacted under any circumstances. Leave it to the government to disregard his wishes.
“I'm sorry, but I don't do that kind of work anymore. Find yourself another weapons specialist.”
“Actually, Mr Gibbens,” the agent said, pulling a thick sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket, “you're not the one we want; I'm here for Drew. As you can see,” he pointed to a familiar contract clause, one Sal had never given much thought to, “we technically own him.”
Sal frowed. How the hell was he going to tell Gloria?
- D
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