A Scripta

Jane Hudson studied the man across from her. He was physically fit, though not perfect, and, according to the tests, mentally stable. He was single, with a mother and a sister still alive, no girlfriends.

She offered an empty smile at him, and the man smiled back. Not ugly, but not overly handsome either. That was okay; his face would be covered by a mask anyway.

"Mr. Mathias," she began, "it seems you've passed the tests, and now we're in the final leg of admission into the program."

"I'm ready," he said and nodded once. So serious, she thought. There was more than just the "I want to help people" answer that he gave in all the answers to the Why questions.

She put aside his folder, folded her hands up and rested her chin on them. "What's the real reason for joining up?"

"I want to help people," he replied, as if by rote.

"I know that." She glanced at the folder. "You've given us all the right answers. But they're thinking of rejecting you because of one thing."

His blue eyes flashed.

She pulled down her hands and leaned back in her chair. "You have no passion."

He looked at his folder, then back to her.

"You took all the tests, you answered all the questions. You didn't get angry, frustrated, or even dismayed. You weren't happy over your successes, proud of your achievements. You plodded through. You did have one thing, determination, and if it was me, I'd take bring you in the other room and get you started right now. But we have the FBSA and our sponsors to deal with. They'll look at you and say you're a good worker, but you're not a hero."

"Then what makes a hero is passion?"

"That's part of it. Love for his fellow man. Trust and belief that people need protecting and assistance, even when they turn their backs on you. Humility, kindness, justice. And always going out there, putting your life on the line every day to help some poor bum who would probably be back out on the streets in half an hour doing the same thing he was doing when you found him. Ingrates, insufferable citizens who do the same stupid things over and over. Criminals who get off scot-free because of good lawyers. People playing with magic, not knowing what they're getting themselves into. It takes a special kind of person, a person who cares. Do you care?"

Jack swallowed. "Yes."

She turned, dragged the folder over to her and flipped it open. "Chris. Does that name ring a bell?"

"Yes," he replied in a strong voice.

"Why haven't you mentioned your brother who died in the Isles three months ago?"

"You didn't ask."

Again, that empty smile. "It's true we did not ask about deceased relatives. They haven't found his killer yet, have they?"

"No." He kept his eyes on her, not wavering.

"According to the reports we have, they believe he's one of the super powered villains from the Isles."

"Yes."

She closed the folder, studied him again. "You want to give me all the right answers to get into this program? Tell me that you want vengeance for your brother."

He watched her, and the two sat across from each other. Another person would think they were having a battle of wills against each other, but Jane knew that he was having a battle within himself, that she had touched upon the real reason.

"Well?"

"It might have something to do with it."

She got up. "Maybe after you succeed here you can join up with Longbow. They have outposts on the Isles."

He followed her motion. "When do I start?"

"Follow me, please."

He smiled and walked around the table to her side. She opened the door and held it open for him.

"We have something outfitted for you, it's a special suit. It will generate a psychic ability so that you can subdue your enemies. That's your job, Mr. Mathias, to subdue them. You understand that part, don't you?"

She kept on walking, as he looked around white corridor. There were no windows, just doors, and he could hear hums beyond each of the doors. She didn't stop at any of the doors; in fact, continued on down the hall to the end, to a set of stairs. She parted that door, waiting for him to catch up.

"What's your favorite color, by the way," she asked, as she started up the stairs.

"Red, why do you ask?"

"A small bit of personalization, Mr. Mathias."

"Look, if we're going to work together, you can call me Jack."

She stopped at the stairs. "Mr. Mathias, you are a subject of an experiment. I will call you Mr. Mathias, and you will call me Dr. Hudson. Is that clear?"

He swallowed. "Clear, Dr. Hudson."

She opened the next set of doors, and didn't wait for him to catch up.