Static/Cling (Subparheroes)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

Bjorn didn’t know what he had expected. There weren’t a lot of office buildings right downtown, and this one… well, every other building around looked newer in comparison. As in, built in the sixties and seventies—the decades that architectural design and beauty not just forgot, but actively kicked in the metaphorical girders for spite.

At least the building housing his new job was older, and, therefore, prettier.

There was a Tim Hortons across the street, too, so that was good.

But old buildings meant old wiring. Old wiring could mean some very funky things, especially with his… abilities.

At least it was made of brick-and-mortar. His last job, in a fancy new high-rise building, had literally left his hair standing on end constantly. The static electric build-up in his body had not reacted well to the steel beams that, by design, broke through the glass and concrete skin of the structure at regular intervals.

He’d felt like a walking electrical outlet the entire six months he’d been there.

His friend Leif had taken every opportunity to ask him to hold things like incandescent light bulbs and those tiny plastic fans with the battery housing open just to see them blink and whir to life in his grip.

To be fair, he totally fell for it every time. Or at least, he let Leif believe he did because, well… Leif got away with a lot of things Bjorn would never take from anyone else. Again, because, Leif.

Speaking of—Bjorn glanced at his wind-up wristwatch.

“Late again, little dude,” he muttered as he stopped outside the door to the building.

“Ex-cu-use me!” A harried-sounding voice from behind an armload of cardboard file boxes made him jump.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He stepped out of the way.

“Maybe you could get the door?” The face that peered around the boxes was thin, slightly pinched, and very annoyed-looking, there and gone so fast he wasn’t sure it hadn’t been an apparition.

“Yeah. Right. Of course! Sorry.” He grabbed the wooden handle and yanked the door open, trying to move back at the same time.

He wasn’t quick enough. A spark flew from his free hand, arched, and zapped the box-carrier on the behind.

“Sorry!” was out of his mouth even as a sharp “Fresh!” cut off his apology.

“No, I?—”

“Well, come on. You must be Bjorn Bik-ey…? Blike-y?

“Bielke,” he corrected.

“Right. Him. You’re him?”

He stepped inside as the door swung shut behind him. “I am he.”

“You are he? He? No, him. You are him. I had that right. We’re on three. Four. We’re on four. Is that what I said? Button’s there. Push the buttons.”

“Can I take the boxes?”

“Push the buttons.”

“You don’t want me to?—”

“Buttons! Push!”

He glanced around frantically for something metal to touch other than the glowing golden brass of the elevator buttons.

“Oh, for the love of?—”

He pushed the button.

Sparks glittered from around the lighted arrow in the middle. Behind the shiny doors something shuddered, then squealed. The doors opened about three inches, then stopped. There was no car on the other side.

“Seriously?” The boxes—because he hadn’t seen a face again in all this time—whined. “I am not walking up three flights in these heels.”

“No. Of course not.”

“Take the boxes.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He caught them as they levitated—quickly—in his direction.

“I’m going for coffee. Third—fourth floor. And when you get there, Blinky: Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

“Bielke,” he whispered, imagining he’d had a finger aggressively pointed at him with each of those words. Not that he could see around the boxes.

The door to the stairwell, when he found it, was thankfully opened with a push of his backside. It was also metal, so what static electricity was left humming under his skin exited through his left ass cheek, making him grit his teeth while regretting so very many of his life choices.

On the third floor, the door he pushed through opened into a construction space mostly obscured by hanging plastic he was not going anywhere near. Fourth floor it was. That floor looked like it spanned the entire building, and maybe the one next door. It was huge.

To his right were two metal desks pushed facing each other near a large window that overlooked the street below. To his left was another desk facing the wall with a puke-green baffle set up behind the chair. The cloth covering the portable divider was so stained, he couldn’t decide if the colour was because of literal puke, or if someone, sometime, had deliberately chosen it thinking it would make for inviting office ambience. He’d never had to look further than his own parents for proof there was no real accounting for the things that had happened in the sixties and seventies. But if anyone asked him for more evidence, this room and everything in it, summed it up nicely.

Straight ahead of him, a bank of copy machines from 1982, and a coffee maker probably older than that, held pride of place. The coffee maker sat on top of a series of—obviously, because why wouldn’t they be—metal file cabinets.

Down the middle of the room was a long row of folding card tables, their paint-chipped metal legs mocking him where they pierced the thin, synthetic, low-pile office-grade rug. Every chair in the main part of the room was—again obviously, because hello hateful universe—a folding metal one, painted dull brown as if they could pretend to be anything other than what they were.

It was like someone had plucked every last metal filing and carpet fibre in the room directly from his actual nightmares.

In the very farthest corner, near the best windows and sequestered by wood-framed office dividers, was a heavy wooden desk. The head-high baffles around that desk offered a view of the door through a strategic narrow break, while protecting the occupant from the rest of the room. They were an improbably delicate shade of lilac.

He assumed that desk belonged to the pinch-faced, high-heeled harpy who had gone for coffee.

From one of the desks by the window, a shaggy head turned to him as the person belonging to it hung up a phone. “You Bjorn?”

“Yeah.”

“Boxes on the table, says April.” They pointed at the recently replaced phone receiver.

“Thanks.” He moved carefully, being sure not to drag his heels over the carpet. Every little effort to not build up another charge counted, in his experience. Even still, a spark zapped his fingertips as they made contact with the tabletop.

Shaggy-hair got up, bouncing a tennis ball on the floor as he approached. He held out a hand. “I’m Roger.”

“Hi.” Bjorn shook his hand quickly, before he had a chance to build up any more sparks.

“That’s Sal.” He pointed to his desk mate. “They’re communications. The one you’ll be talking to if you ever go out on a mission.”

“Mission?” Bjorn frowned at him. “I’m the new janitor.”

Roger grinned. “Sure you are.” He went back to bouncing his ball as he spoke. “Like Sal is a receptionist, and I’m from the mail room. And Casper over there works in the warehouse.”

“We have a warehouse?”

Roger snorted and tossed him the ball, which he caught.

“Kassian,” the man sitting at the desk to the left of the door said. “My name is Kassian, and no. We do not have a fucking warehouse.” The form that emerged from behind the scary baffle towered over them all, including Bjorn, who was not a small guy. He was, in every way Bjorn could see, the opposite of Leif, who Bjorn had thought of for nearly a decade now, as exactly his type.

He’d never met a Kassian before, though.

“He’s the muscle,” Roger whispered, as if it wasn’t obvious from the size of the man’s chest and biceps.

“I am IT,” Kassian snarled. “ I. T. Get it?”

“Also the muscles.” Roger punched Bjorn’s arm, then rubbed his knuckles because of the spark that zapped between them.

“And stop calling me Casper.”

“If you bothered to show your face more often, instead of hiding in your—” He made air quotes. “—office, we wouldn’t have to call you a ghost.”

“Whatever.” Kassian sat back down, only his dishevelled brown curls showing above the divider.

“Exactly.” Shrugging, Roger turned to Bjorn, hands held like he was ready for Bjorn to return his ball. His gaze kept straying to it, like he really, really wanted it back. “I’m a dog whisperer. What can you do?”

“Dog whisperer?” Bjorn tossed him his ball.

From their desk, Sal giggled. “Please. He talks to the brainiacs of the dog world. Huskies and the occasional chihuahua.”

“The fun ones,” Roger said, pretended offence all over his face, his pride in his ability still clearly shining through.

“The not-very-helpful ones,” Sal countered, not even looking up to catch the ball Roger threw at them.

“You just have to know how to engage them.”

They shook their head. “Whatever.” They turned a smile on Bjorn. “I actually am the one you’ll talk to when you’re out saving the world.” They bounced the ball off their desk and Roger leapt to catch it, making an impressive jump to stop it going over Kassian’s divider to bean him in the head.

Kassian ignored the whole thing.

“I literally applied to be a janitor.” Bjorn pointed to the boxes, as if carrying them up four flights of stairs was proof of his claim. “Seriously.”

“Dude.” Roger plunked down in his chair and waved Bjorn over. “Did you not read the fine print?”

“What fine print?”

“Here. Look.” He pointed at his computer screen. A generic contract, like the one Bjorn had signed for his job, displayed. Roger clicked at the bottom on a link Bjorn had noticed but not bothered with.

A whole new clause blinked into existence.

“The hell?” Bjorn cursed as the chair he grabbed zapped him, but he pulled it up to Roger’s desk and sat to get a closer look.

Roger put the mouse in his hand before Bjorn could warn him.

An electric pulse ran down the mouse’s wire, sparked like tiny licks of lightning when it reached the computer box, and the screen blinked, shrank to a pinpoint, and remained dark.

“What the hell?” Roger took the mouse back and wiggled it on the pad. He thumped the side of the box, tapped on the keyboard, then clicked the power button off and on a few times.

Bjorn sighed. “It’s a paperweight,” he said.

“This is a brand-new machine.” In truth, the computers did look to be the only modern things in the room.

“So that’s where the budget went.”

Sal’s face appeared over the top of their monitor. “Why am I getting a bunch of 404 errors? Did the interwebs break?”

“No, I, um?—”

The office door opened before Bjorn had a chance to explain, and to his relief, Leif stood there, a grin on his face and a tray of coffees in hand.

“What’d I miss?” He glanced around the room from face-to-face, including Kassian’s, which had again appeared over the top of his divider.

“Why are we offline?” Kassian demanded, then closed his mouth with a snap when he saw Leif.

Bjorn did not blame him. He had that reaction when he saw Leif, too. Still. The man was petite, graceful, blond, blue-eyed and pale-skinned to the point of translucence. He might have been a runway model if he wasn’t so short, or had his picture on the front of every magazine, if not for the one thing that had made him too self-conscious to imagine anyone would want to look at his face.

He had scars from the middle of his bottom lip downwards across his right jaw to the side of his neck that, had they gone half an inch further, probably would have severed his jugular. He’d gotten it figure skating when he was twelve, from his partner’s skate after a freak accident during a spin.

He’d not stepped foot on ice in the twenty years since, apparently. Bjorn had only known him for the past ten, and to him, the scar was nothing, because Leif had way more going for him than a pretty face.

“Did you know I’m not an actual janitor?” Bjorn asked him.

“Didn’t you?” Leif pulled a coffee from the tray and handed it to him before turning to the others.

Bjorn opened his mouth, closed it, scowled.

“You didn’t click that link I showed you, did you?”

“You said I might want to read it. Might.”

“As in, read that before you sign?”

“I thought you actually meant ‘might.’ I didn’t want to, so I didn’t. I just signed.” He shrugged. “Didn’t want to chance another laptop, so I signed before I could zap it.”

Leif drew in a breath, tilted his head, then sighed.

Kassian slow-panned from Leif to Bjorn. “You signed something you hadn’t read?”

“I figured if it was really important, he would have said.” Bjorn looked at Leif. “You didn’t say.”

“No, you’re right. I should have said. I was distracted by that toaster I was trying to insulate against you.”

“Not your fault. I should have been more thorough. Oh, did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“The toaster.”

“Dunno. Guess we’ll see when we get home.”

Bjorn nodded. “Cool. So, what did I sign?”

“You’re a superhero,” Leif said, his grin back in place.

“A what now?”

“God save me,” Kassian muttered and disappeared back behind his screen.

“And I thought Roger was dumb,” Kassian muttered as he turned his computer off, then steeled himself to duck under his desk to get at the router. He was going to have to move it to a more accessible—and bigger—space.

“Then,” he reminded himself, “Roger is dumb.” But he was also sweet, and hella loyal to Sal, so that was okay. He wasn’t pretty. Not like the new guy. “Fuck me, no. That is not a thing.”

Carefully, so as not to disturb too many wires, Kassian braced his shoulders on the underside of the desk. “Don’t kid yourself. It’s a thing. You know it’s a thing. You always notice the pretty ones.” He heaved his shoulders a few inches, lifting the desk off the floor to let in a little more light and give him more room to breathe as he felt in the dimness for the router.

“He’s not pretty.” He turned off the router and began to count in his head to thirty. “He’s an idiot.” He flicked the router back on.

“A pretty idiot.” Letting his breath out, he eased the desk back down and started to scramble backwards to safety.

“Who are you talking to?”

“The fuck!” He jumped so violently he smashed his head on the underside of the desk. While he waited for his heart to settle back into rhythm, he rubbed at the sore spot, then finally crawled backwards from under the furniture.

The other new one—the little one—stood at the edge of his divider holding a cup of coffee.

“What are you doing?” Kassian demanded, glancing at the tiny man’s feet, checking the guy hadn’t crossed his imaginary office line.

Little guy held out the Tim’s cup in his hand. “I’m Leif. I come with the pretty idiot.”

Kassian opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut a second later.

“Take the coffee,” Leif said kindly. “He is a pretty idiot. But he’s also a nice guy, and he’s my best friend, so be careful how you treat him, eh? He’s sensitive.”

“Are you his keeper, then?” Kassian took the coffee and breathed in the smell of rich, black brew. “Is there espresso in?—”

“Yes. I saw April at Tim’s. She ordered for everyone and asked me to bring it up. I’ve already found an elevator repair man. April said she would be in when it’s fixed, so I put a rush on it.”

“What’s wrong with the elevator?”

Leif sighed. “There’s a short somewhere.”

“It was just refurbished and doubly checked over.” He shuddered. “April made sure it wouldn’t fail.”

“April didn’t count on Bjorn. Do us all a favour and back up every device in this office multiple places, at least one off site, and insulate all your machines from electric overload with triple redundancy.”

“What are you talking about.”

“You’re IT, aren’t you?”

Kassian blinked at him. “Ye-yes. I am. How did you?—”

He nodded. “Thought so. We need to protect the electronics from Bjorn.”

“Is he a spy or something?

“He’s a walking electrical current. You’ll see.”

Kassian pointed to the unseen router under his desk. “Was that his fault?”

“Not his fault. He can’t control it any more than you can control talking to yourselves.”

“I don’t—whatever.” He shook that off, since he’d literally been caught talking to himself just a minute ago. “That’s his power? Shorting out everything he touches?”

Leif shrugged. “If he can keep the charge under control, it’s pretty handy. And if he can manage to discharge it all at once and in one spot, it’ll stop your heart.”

Kassian spread a hand over his chest before he thought about it.

“Well. Not your heart specifically. We’re on the same team, and all. But a heart. It packs a pretty good wallop, when he can control it.”

“And how much can he control it?”

“Not at all unless he’s really concentrating, which…” He shrugged. “A bit less when he’s emotional, or nervous, or upset. A bit more if he’s really pissed off.” He grinned. “A lot when he’s turned on.”

Kassian couldn’t help it. His eyes got wide. “Best friends, huh?”

“We get along.” He touched his face, fingertips trailing along a long, thin scar.

Kassian wondered if he knew he was doing it and had the sudden urge to pull his hand away. He didn’t, but he wanted to tell him the scar didn’t detract from his beauty. Which would probably go over like a lead ballon. He pinched his mouth shut and waited.

“It’s easier than trying to find someone else who doesn’t care about… well. Anyway.” Leif shook himself and his hand dropped to his side. “Computers. Protect them, yeah? He’s already bricked Roger’s.”

“Seriously? I just got him hooked up yesterday.”

“Like I said, April underestimated the situation.”

“No.” Kassian jumped automatically to her defence, despite only ever having seen her once, and so fleetingly he wasn’t sure he remembered what she looked like. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, she did, because she let him touch the elevator, and sent him up here without warning any of you what to expect, so.” He shrugged. “Dunno. Elevator needs fixed and Roger needs a new machine.”

“Fuck my life,” he muttered.

“Stairs still work.”

“Right.”

“Listen, until I move the router, let me know next time you need it reset. I’ll crawl under.”

“I don’t need?—”

“I’m smaller.” Leif pointed out the obvious. “Just trying to make myself useful.”

“You a new hire, too, then?”

“I told you I come with Bjorn. We’re a package deal.”

“That so.” Kassian tried to keep his mind from darting around the logistics of them as a “package” because he was definitely not interested in the pretty idiot in the least. “You do everything together?”

“Everything that matters.” He stuffed one hand into his pocket and ghosted the fingers of his other over his scar. “Don’t wait too long to protect the computers.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Good.”

Kassian watched him disappear from view around the screen, then dumped his ass into his chair. There was something attractive about a guy who spent his time looking out for people. And he wasn’t going to lie, someone who acknowledged Kassian’s brain ahead of his brawn—that almost never happened.

“Right. But he’s a package deal.” He sighed and hit the power button on his computer. “And we don’t think either of them are pretty.” He checked to make sure moving the desk hadn’t knocked any plugs loose.

“He certainly doesn’t think he’s pretty, but he’s wrong and you know it.” As he manhandled his desk back into the ideal position while he waited for his machine to boot up, he recalled Leif’s absent caress of the scar along his jaw.

The computer blinked to life and Kassian growled at himself. “Shut up and get to work.”