A week with my dad was not enough time. I wanted months with him. When it was time for him to go I ugly cried for an hour straight and only let him go when I was ordered to stop hugging him and let him get on the plane. I think I might have cracked some of his ribs but I just didn’t want him to leave. Our week was spent hiking, fishing, and most importantly talking. I didn’t talk about my training and instead we talked about everything else. He told me about work, and the world at large. A few of my friends had written letters that he delivered to me and I cherished those almost as much as I did my time with my dad. That little taste of normalcy was a needed respite from how things had been going.

“There will always be a place for you at home,” my dad said as he got on the plane to leave.

I waved and cried, knowing I couldn’t go home even if I wanted to.

Now I’m awake, back in my bed in my private room with my alarm about to go off and my mind is racing a thousand miles an hour. My training resumes today and I can’t help but wonder what it will entail.

My alarm startled me even though I’d been waiting for it for some time. I jolted and heard the bed frame crack. It didn’t collapse, fortunately, but I still made a mental note to report the damage so it could get repaired or replaced. I got dressed, made my bed and was out my door in less than five minutes, which was good for me considering how often I tore clothes and blankets when working with them. Time and practice were paying off as I only ripped one shirt while getting dressed this morning. Outside my room, in the hallway, was a drill instructor inspecting the supers that were housed in this section of the barrack. His uniform had frost along the edges and the air around him was freezing.

He commented on a few of the super’s clothes, needing to be tucked in or ironed or replaced due to damage. Once everyone met his approval he moved to the head of the hallway.

“Report to the main assembly hall,” he barked.

That was pretty standard when we didn’t have anything else already scheduled for us to be doing, though to go there before breakfast was unusual. Regardless, we all turned as one and began marching down the hall, down the steps, and out towards the building that housed the assembly hall. Once we were outside I saw that we weren’t the only ones heading there. From the looks of it, everyone from the other barracks were also headed there. Each barrack had an assigned section to sit in and we found our spot and sat down. It took a few minutes for everyone to gather. There were the expected whispers as people wondered what this was about. I kept quiet, since drill instructors often disapproved of whispering while we waited. Today, though, it seemed the drill instructors were being lenient since they all stayed quiet.

When Colonel Trenton walked in, everyone stood up and snapped to attention. Colonel Trenton moved to the front of the hall where a podium stood and took his position behind it.

“Be seated,” he said.

We sat.

“Up to today,” he began, “your training has been far more intense than that of the other armed forces. This was, in part, due to the fact that we had healers who could mend any injury, even bringing people back from the dead. Unfortunately, this has resulted in some negative reactions and unintended trauma. Therefore we will be scaling back our training. You will no longer be in situations where such injury will be commonplace. While no training is without its risks, you will no longer find yourself in the kinds of situations you once did. Furthermore, anyone intentionally injuring another soldier will face disciplinary action the same as if they were in any other branch of the military.

“There will be no more firing on live targets from the firing range,” he went on. “No more use of live rounds or explosives on supers, no matter their level of durability. All weapons training will make use of targets. Hand to hand combat training will be closely monitored to ensure the safety of all participants. For those who feel they have suffered under the previous training methods, counselors and mental health specialists will be made available to you. Speak with your commanding officer today to schedule a meeting.”

He looked around the hall and his eyes met mine and I gave a short nod.

“Very well, dismissed.”

He walked away from the podium as the drill instructors moved forward and began calling out orders. Some groups got to go to breakfast right away while others were off to do PT. I was among the ones headed out to the field to run laps and work out before getting to eat. I was hungry but part of the training here, even before these recent changes, included getting us used to working on an empty stomach.

“We’re running five miles,” the drill instructor called out as we reached the track. “The faster you run, the faster you’ll get to breakfast.”

Before gaining my powers, running five miles would have taken me ages since I wasn’t particularly fit. Now, I could run five miles in about that many minutes on open ground. The only tricky part was the turns since I tended to slide a fair bit when running at full speed. I decided I could slow down a little and instead ran the five miles in about ten minutes. I only lost my footing once and tumbled for a bit but no one was around me when it happened so no one got hurt.

“Good job, Nayak,” the drill instructor said when I finished my final lap. “Get some breakfast then report to the counselors office. You’ve already been added to their schedule.”

I nodded and jogged towards the mess hall. Part of me wondered if I was supposed to say something to the drill instructor before leaving or if I’d handled the situation correctly. I still was so uncertain about how or when I was supposed to salute or respond, but the drill instructor didn’t call me back so I assumed I was okay.

Breakfast turned out to be pancakes. I got a full stack of them and sat down at an empty table. There was plenty of chatter in here and I saw a few people I knew but didn’t feel like engaging any of them right now. I ate, adding ample amounts of syrup and jam to my pancakes, before turning in my tray and going in search of the counselor’s office. The higher ups had thought of that already and a sign had been placed at the far end of the mess hall with directions. The counselors were set up in the offices adjacent to the mess hall so that simplified things greatly.

I walked into the improvised waiting room and introduced myself to the secretary there. They pointed me to one of the other offices and I knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a woman called from inside the room.

I was nervous and accidentally crushed the doorknob on my way in.

“Sorry about that,” I apologized.

“They’ll get it fixed,” the woman said.

She was younger than I expected. I always pictured counselors and psychiatrists as old people, but of course that couldn’t be the case. She was probably in her mid to late thirties. Her uniform marked her as a Captain, and she sat on a small sofa. There was no desk in this room. Just two sofas facing each other.

“Misha, right?” she smiled and motioned for me to take the seat opposite her. “Come in, sit down.”

I saluted and then sat down, again unsure of the proper protocol here. I’d never gone to counseling before so I didn’t know what to expect here either. Did I talk first? Did I wait for her to ask me questions? Should I just list off all the things I’ve been through? I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining or whining, though. And how exactly was all this supposed to help me? Did just talking make everything okay again, somehow, or would they proscribe medication? I wasn’t sure how to feel about that possibility. I wasn’t against meds, in general, but I’d never been on any before and didn’t know what to expect. Lots of unknowns and that made me all the more uncomfortable.

“You can relax,” the Captain said.

Only then did I realize I was clenching my hands together and wringing them back and forth.

“I’m Captain Whorl,” she said, “and I understand you’ve been through quite a lot.”

I shrugged. “I guess so, sir.”

“I’ve read the report on your experiences at the Cain Center,” she said as she pulled out a file and began flipping through it. “Fighting against unknown assailants, hundreds dead, alone for days.”

If this was supposed to be making me feel better, it wasn’t.

“Then to come here and have quite a bit of rather violent and graphic training exercises, especially at your age, I can see how it would be upsetting.”

She paused and I panicked, not sure if she wanted me to talk now, or if she was just pausing for effect. As the silence grew more uncomfortable I finally nodded.

“Like I said, you can relax,” Captain Whorl said. “We’re here to talk and work through things.”

“Okay,” I said, still not sure what to say.

“Why don’t you start by giving me your side of things,” Captain Whorl put down the file. “Start with how you felt when you first got to the Cain Center.”