today, Mister Takayasu." He extended his hand. Michael stood and shook it — Jarrah either did not notice the scars on Michael’s hand, or he was better than most at covering any reaction he might have had. "Report next Monday to the training arena to meet up with Shockwave. And don’t say I didn’t warn you."
"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure meeting you."
"Mm. Likewise."
PCA
Five of Hearts, Jack of Spades.
Dealer showing a Seven of Spades. If the hole card was a ten or face, then the dealer had seventeen. Couldn’t take a hit, but still beat fifteen.
There had been no face cards at all in the last hand, so odds were fairly good that the dealer was holding seventeen.
So, hit or stand?
Michael closed his eyes. He concentrated, tried to feel the next card. All he needed was at least a three, but no more than a six.
Concentrate ... feel the next card ...
"Hit," he decided. He was committed now, but he felt certain that the next card ...
... was an eight. Break. Dealer had sixteen.
"Son of a bitch," Michael muttered as he scooped the card back into his deck and shuffled. Sometimes he thought that, now that he was graduated and an "officer" in the PCA, he should find the instructor who scored him so highly in the ESPer tests and fire him.
"More coffee?" the waitress asked.
"Sure, why not?" Michael answered as brightly as he could. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to profit off his phantom abilities anytime soon.
The waitress, a cute blonde whose name tag read, "Christine," filled his cup for the third time, smiled, and walked away.
Michael had found this quaint little coffee shop just a few blocks down from his new apartment on his second night in town. Back at the Academy, he and his roommates had a similar hangout where they blew off their daily steam and crammed for their exams. He missed James and Ray, but somehow he had been surprised to find that he missed their hangout even more. So far, this place had proven an adequate substitute, but no more.
Hopefully, the place would grow on him.
Absently dealing the cards out for solitaire, he returned his attention to the open folder before him. He glanced briefly at the file-photo of his auburn-haired, brown-eyed, Van Dyked, new partner, then began rereading the file ...
Shockwave’s real name was Mark Westmore. He was thirty-eight years old, and the highlight of his record prior to allying himself with the PCA was a Dishonorable Discharge from the Army, for striking a superior officer.
Swell , Michael thought. It’s a wonder he didn’t go rogue.
All joking aside, Westmore really did fit the stereotypical rogue profile: Loner, black sheep, odd-man-out, with no respect for authority and a reputation for barroom brawls, suddenly turns paranormal three years after the White Flash, Class Two ranking quickly growing into Class One.
Not many paranormals gained in intensity after their initial shift. Most changed, then locked into their new form. Westmore’s increase in power was enough for the PCA to want him, and his surprising willingness to cooperate both encouraged and unnerved the powers-that-be in their decision to accept him.
In the last two years, "Shockwave" had assisted in taking down 17 rogues, most of them Class Twos, but a handful of Class Ones as well...
That must be a sight straight out of the comic books .
... and, as the captain had suggested, he had been one hell of a pain in the ass every step of the way.
So far, he hadn’t crossed the line as he had in the Army, but he verbally abused everyone from the secretaries to the commanders, and the PCA had fielded two sexual-harassment suits against him, both of them settled out of court.
And now he was Michael’s partner.
Swell.
"Another hit already?"
Michael looked up at Christine. "Pardon?"
"Of coffee? Another hit?"
Michael didn’t even
"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure meeting you."
"Mm. Likewise."
PCA
Five of Hearts, Jack of Spades.
Dealer showing a Seven of Spades. If the hole card was a ten or face, then the dealer had seventeen. Couldn’t take a hit, but still beat fifteen.
There had been no face cards at all in the last hand, so odds were fairly good that the dealer was holding seventeen.
So, hit or stand?
Michael closed his eyes. He concentrated, tried to feel the next card. All he needed was at least a three, but no more than a six.
Concentrate ... feel the next card ...
"Hit," he decided. He was committed now, but he felt certain that the next card ...
... was an eight. Break. Dealer had sixteen.
"Son of a bitch," Michael muttered as he scooped the card back into his deck and shuffled. Sometimes he thought that, now that he was graduated and an "officer" in the PCA, he should find the instructor who scored him so highly in the ESPer tests and fire him.
"More coffee?" the waitress asked.
"Sure, why not?" Michael answered as brightly as he could. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to profit off his phantom abilities anytime soon.
The waitress, a cute blonde whose name tag read, "Christine," filled his cup for the third time, smiled, and walked away.
Michael had found this quaint little coffee shop just a few blocks down from his new apartment on his second night in town. Back at the Academy, he and his roommates had a similar hangout where they blew off their daily steam and crammed for their exams. He missed James and Ray, but somehow he had been surprised to find that he missed their hangout even more. So far, this place had proven an adequate substitute, but no more.
Hopefully, the place would grow on him.
Absently dealing the cards out for solitaire, he returned his attention to the open folder before him. He glanced briefly at the file-photo of his auburn-haired, brown-eyed, Van Dyked, new partner, then began rereading the file ...
Shockwave’s real name was Mark Westmore. He was thirty-eight years old, and the highlight of his record prior to allying himself with the PCA was a Dishonorable Discharge from the Army, for striking a superior officer.
Swell , Michael thought. It’s a wonder he didn’t go rogue.
All joking aside, Westmore really did fit the stereotypical rogue profile: Loner, black sheep, odd-man-out, with no respect for authority and a reputation for barroom brawls, suddenly turns paranormal three years after the White Flash, Class Two ranking quickly growing into Class One.
Not many paranormals gained in intensity after their initial shift. Most changed, then locked into their new form. Westmore’s increase in power was enough for the PCA to want him, and his surprising willingness to cooperate both encouraged and unnerved the powers-that-be in their decision to accept him.
In the last two years, "Shockwave" had assisted in taking down 17 rogues, most of them Class Twos, but a handful of Class Ones as well...
That must be a sight straight out of the comic books .
... and, as the captain had suggested, he had been one hell of a pain in the ass every step of the way.
So far, he hadn’t crossed the line as he had in the Army, but he verbally abused everyone from the secretaries to the commanders, and the PCA had fielded two sexual-harassment suits against him, both of them settled out of court.
And now he was Michael’s partner.
Swell.
"Another hit already?"
Michael looked up at Christine. "Pardon?"
"Of coffee? Another hit?"
Michael didn’t even
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