Reckoners 01 - Steelheart

well.”
    “This
is
impressive,” Tia said. She sat cross-legged on the floor. She had changed to jeans but was still wearing her blouse and blazer, and her short red hair was still perfectly styled. Tia held up one of my notebooks. “It’s rudimentary in organization,” she said, “and doesn’t use standard classifications. But it is exhaustive.”
    “There are standard classifications?” I asked.
    “Several different systems,” she said. “It looks like you’ve got a few of the terms here that cross between the systems, like High Epic—though I personally prefer the tier system. In other places, what you’ve come up with is interesting. I do like some of your terminology, like
prime invincibility
.”
    “Thanks,” I said, though I felt a little embarrassed. Of course there were ways of classifying Epics. I hadn’t the education—or the resources—to learn such things, so I’d made up my own.
    It was surprising how easy it had been. There were outliers, of course—bizarre Epics with powers that didn’t fit any of the classifications—but a surprising number of the others showed similarities. There were always individual quirks, like the glimmering of Refractionary’s illusions. The core abilities, however, were often very similar.
    “Explain this to me,” Tia said, holding up a different notebook.
    Hesitantly, I slid off my stool and joined her on the floor. She was pointing toward a notation I’d made at the bottom of the entry for a particular Epic named Strongtower.
    “It’s my Steelheart mark,” I said. “Strongtower shows an ability like Steelheart has. I watch Epics like that carefully. If they get killed, or they manifest a limitation to their powers, I want to be aware of them.”
    Tia nodded. “Why didn’t you lump the mental illusionists with the photon-manipulators?”
    “I like to make groupings based on limitations,” I said, getting out my index and flipping to a specific page for her. Epics with illusion powers fell into two groups. Some created actual changes in the way light behaved, crafting illusions with photons themselves. Others made illusions by affecting the brains of the people around them. They really created hallucinations, not true illusions.
    “See,” I said, pointing. “The mental illusionists tend to be limited in similar ways to other mentalists—like those with hypnotism powers, or mind-control effects. Illusionists that can alter light workdifferently. They are far more similar to the electricity-manipulation Epics.”
    Cody whistled softly. He’d gotten out a canteen and held it in one hand while still leaning back against the table. “Lad, I think we need to have a conversation about how much time you’ve got on your hands and how we can put it to better use.”
    “Better use than researching how to kill Epics?” Tia asked with a raised eyebrow.
    “Sure,” Cody said, taking a swig from his canteen. “Think of what he could do if I got him to organize all of the pubs in town, by brew!”
    “Oh please,” Tia said drily, turning a page in my notes.
    “Abraham,” Cody said. “Ask me why it’s tragic for the young David to have spent so much time on these notebooks.”
    “Why is it tragic for the boy to have done such research?” Abraham said, still cleaning his gun.
    “That’s a very astute question,” Cody said. “Thank you very much for asking.”
    “It is my pleasure.”
    “Anyway,” Cody said, raising his canteen, “why do you want so badly to kill these Epics?”
    “Revenge,” I said. “Steelheart killed my father. I intend—”
    “Yes, yes,” Cody said, cutting me off. “Y’all intend to see him bleed again, and all that. Very dedicated and familial of you. But I’m telling you, that ain’t enough. You’ve got passion to kill, but you need to find passion to live. At least that’s what I think.”
    I didn’t know how to respond to that. Studying Steelheart, learning about Epics so that I could find a way to kill him,
was
my passion. If there was a place I fit in, wasn’t it with the Reckoners? That was their life’s work too, wasn’t it?
    “Cody,” Prof said, “why don’t you go finish working on the third chamber?”
    “Sure thing, Prof,” the sniper said, screwing on the lid of his canteen. He sauntered out of the room.
    “Don’t listen too much to Cody, son,” Prof said, setting one of my notebooks on the stack. “He says the same things to the rest of us. He worries we’ll focus so