



Dr. Eustace Porter



Keynote remarks at the inaugural Conference on Classed Individuals (CCI), 1986​

_________________________________________________________________________________On a hot, muggy summer day I found myself in the last possible place I wanted to be. Trapped in a small, bare room that only thought it had aspirations of being a cell. Heavy cinder block walls that could probably stop a rampaging Barbarian, a metal barred front wall with metal posts thicker than my wrists, and a six inch thick plastcrete "window" overlooking the dreary parking lot several stories below. Not that I could see that unless I stood in precisely the right place. Otherwise the supposedly translucent material of the window acted more like a mirror, reflecting my shoddy state of affairs.Hard to believe, but a week ago I had been wearing a tailored suit. Now I was stuck in a shapeless orange monstrosity I wouldn't put my worst enemy in. And they had the gall to call me a supervillain. To make things worse the insult to modern fashion didn't even have any pockets, which was making me even more twitchy than getting stuck in lowest bidder polyester.I stopped pacing, closed my eyes, and let out a few deep breaths. They weren't going to throw the book at me. I was the good guy in this situation; I'd saved dozens of lives. Of course, that was after I'd put them at risk. That was how an objective observer would see it. The Department of Paranormal Activities was very thorough, by now they would have the whole story.Not feeling much calmer, I opened my eyes and studied my reflection in the misnomer of a window. I certainly didn't look like a supervillain, even discounting my forced wardrobe choice. I was no Adonis or Aphrodite, like Hollywood seemed to stereotype all Classed regardless of which side of the line they walked. I was tall but, due to the enhanced calorie requirements of my powers, perpetually skinny. My face was a bit too sharp both in both chin and nose, a trait inherited from my mother. My black hair was close cropped in a professional style, matching my clean shaven face. The latter was the result of a...profession disagreement with a colleague that left me unable to grow facial hair. Otherwise I’d be sporting a few days of stubble, as apparently razors counted as deadly weapons in here. A bit silly, when you considered this courthouse regularly dealt with people who crush a cinder block with their fists. I couldn't wait to get out of here and take a proper shower, not to mention put on a decent set of clothes. Something with a pocket count higher than its square footage, which would hopefully make my infernal headache go away.A loud clicking and mechanical grinding behind me announced the arrival of my jailers. The portal they stepped through would have looked quite at home in a bank or submarine, giant chrome spinning wheel and all. I don't know why they had me locked up in here. This cell was designed to hold Barbarians and Paladins, not a guy whose escape potential was on par with a baseline human. What was I going to do, float out of my cell? Good luck with that, even discounting the massive cuffs on my wrists. They had to weigh almost sixty pounds apiece. Frankly, I wish they’d just gone with the old ball and chain. At least then I’d only need to burn power if I wanted to move. With the cuffs I was forced to negate gravity’s tug constantly if I wanted to do more than lay back on my bunk. I’d heard the government had teams of Technomancers working on power nullification cuffs. Frankly, they couldn’t come soon enough. At least that way I wouldn’t lose ten pounds a day unless I stuffed my face like a pig."Prisoner, put your hands through the slot." one of the guards boomed. It was the one I'd taken to calling Schnoz, on account of his desperate need for a rhinoplasty. My own nose was slightly bent from a bad break years ago, but this guy looked like he got into a headbutting contest with a brick wall. And lost.Looking through the bars I saw my five man escort were all wearing heavy riot gear. Full hard plate chest pieces front and back. Lighter reinforced leg, wrist, and shoulder guards. All over a Kevlar undersuit. About the only things missing were the riot shields and the helmets with gas masks. Damn, you'd think my skin leaked acid or I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes or something by their reaction. I mean, what did they use when there was a real big name villain stuck in here? Suits of power armor?There was no point in resisting, so I did as ordered and stuck my cuffed arms through the small slot on the door. There was the clank and rattle of chain as Schnoz the guard connected them together. Once he was satisfied I was even more helpless, I was allowed to withdraw my hands. The door opened and two more guards took up a position on either side of me. These ones I’d mentally named Eyebrows and Twitch, for reasons obvious to anyone who spent more than five minutes in their company. Both were half a head taller than me and looked like recreational steroids were their entertainment of choice.The muscle twins picked me up by the arms and frog marched me out of the cell. This saved me from the weight of my cuffs, but now my shoulders were screaming anew from the fact they were supporting my entire weight as my feet dangled off the floor. As we traversed the hallways toward the courtroom I wondered what the overkill was all about. I’d let myself get captured, it wasn’t like I was crawling up the walls trying to escape.My entourage marched through one last set of doors and I found myself in a courtroom crammed almost literally to the rafters with people. While super trials, both hero and villain, tended to draw large crowds, this was a bit excessive. Even counting the operations the government knew nothing about, I was a C-list villain at most. D-list, if I was being honest with myself. I was a coordinator and a transporter. The former came from my upbringing, while the latter was the logical extension of my powers. But in the grand scale of threats against humanity, I barely above thugs knocking over the local liquor store. The press must have missed the memo, as besides the empty judges' bench the only open seat in the house was the one next to my lawyer at the defense table."Are those cuffs really necessary?" my lawyer asked scornfully as the guard team dumped me off at his table. "My client has been nothing but cooperative.""Standard procedure in cases with Classed individuals. Especially ones like him." Schnoz replied, leaving out exactly what I was. Dangerous? Powerful? Spontaneously destructive?My lawyer fixed the guards with a pointed look. "Can you at least take the cables off so he doesn't have to sit here like a prisoner in a chain gang? You're going to be standing only ten feet away for heaven’s sake, it's not like my client can do anything with the ability to scratch his nose."The guards conferred in a huddle before Twitch came over and unlocked the links holding my cuffed hands together. Then they retreated off to one side of the room, still glowering at me as if daring me to suddenly go on a rampage. I stretched, trying to get some circulation back into my arms. "Thanks Slimy."I wasn't being insulting, it was the name he chose to go by. My lawyer had once been a small time villain before he realized lawyers made more money than the crooks they represented. Less risk of heroes dropping in and messing up your plans too. At least in the way that resulted in trips to the hospital."Don't mention it kid, that's what you pay me for." Slimy held out a hand to shake, thankfully gloved. Otherwise it would have been like shaking hands with an ooze. "How ya doing?""Not great." I sighed, putting in a bit more power so I could lift my arms enough to rub my temples. “I prefer my courtroom experiences on television, from the comfort of my couch. Throw in the clothing issue and the fact I’m borderline nauseous from constantly lugging these things around…” I lifted one of the heavy cuffs slightly before letting it slam back onto the table under its own weight. Over in the corner, the guards all jumped and glared at me accusingly. “Short answer, I’ve had better days.”Slimy snorted. “I’ve been there kid. Don’t worry, I’ll get this sorted out quickly enough. The hard part is already over and I skewered the prosecution. All ya gotta do is get through the personal interview and you and me will be out of here tonight. I know justta place we can blow off some steam.”I'd known Slimy since I was ten, after watching him successfully get Kraken off on charges stemming from blowing up a few oil platforms in the gulf. One life lesson I'd learned from my parents was always have a good lawyer on retainer, so we'd stayed in touch. I’d used him for paperwork jobs over the years, but this was the first time I’d ever needed his courtroom services. Hopefully they were as sharp as the other legal advice I’d received."All rise!" the bailiff called, forcing me to struggle back to my feet. He was in full power armor, the blue metal hulk looking quite menacing in the corner. Were they serious going to try and use that in here? The bailiff would do more damage than I ever could. And how did they even fit a ten foot tall metal suit through the courtroom doors?Putting that thought aside for later, my eyes flicked over just in time to see a door at the back of the courtroom swing open. Out of the portal strode five black robed and very solemn looking individuals. As the five judges took their seats, I thought about how different things were about to be from a normal trial. After Dr. Tim, BoMMD, had successfully argued in The State of Pennsylvania vs. Carver that the average citizen was not a "peer" of super powered individuals, the DPA had to set up their own set of courtrooms with panels of five judges. They were pulled from a large pool of various experience, with the goal of providing a balanced judgment panel.The panel acted much like a grand jury, questioning witnesses and examining evidence. At the end they would pronounce a supposedly fair verdict. While this model looked great on paper, the reality never lived up to the expectation. Most supers on both sides of the law saw them as little more than kangaroo courts.During the test trials at the beginning of the panel process, several judges were...influenced by defendants. Because of this, the identities of the judges were kept secret until they questioned the defendant in open court right before delivering their verdict. I had to work hard to suppress a groan as I saw who took the chief judge seat at the center of the bar. With Slimy's help I'd done background on the people possibly deciding my fate. While Judge Powell wasn't the worst option (that went to Judge Hostetler, who I think only accepted a judgeship to "throw the freaks in jail"), he was very fond of ironic punishments. Stuff like making Crusader of the Seas work in a fish restaurant after he got out on parole, or making Iron Maiden dress as a candy striper and sing songs to sick kids at the local hospital."You can be seated." Judge Powell commanded. After the mismatch of noises from everyone sitting died down, he continued, "Today we are here to preside over case 1A23016, dealing with the individual known as Pockets."I could hear some sniggers from the gathered crowd over my name. Yes the nickname was silly, and a bit childish, but I’d been a child when I’d been given it and the name had stuck. I certainly couldn’t use my real name for villain work and I worked 24/7. I could have gone for something like GravMax the Destroyer or the Eternal Surpriser, but besides being taken they didn’t fit with the image I was trying to display."Son of the S-Rank supervillains the Iron Cosmonaut and the Nova Queen."It hit me why the room was so crowded. They weren't here to see me. They were here to see the son of two famous supervillains. Or possibly see the supervillains themselves, come to break their son out of jail. That certainly explained all the guards, even if they would crumple like tissue paper if even one of my parents showed up. Not that they would. Everyone who came for that kind of show was about to be disappointed.I returned Judge Powell's stare with one of my own, from my carefully cultured collection that I’d practiced over the years.. Slightly raised left eyebrow, slightly lowered right. Slight hint of teeth and full facial"I am not my parents Judge Powell, no matter what you think otherwise. I haven't even seen them in person in nearly three years, just before they pulled off that ridiculous stunt to steal a handful of Russia's nukes. I would have been legally emancipated years ago, but had a hard time tracking them down to sign the paperwork. The government frowns on theexcuse." I upped my look to annoyed youth #3, increased eyebrow displacement with a scowl addition. "So if you think dragging me in here is going to get you anything on my parents, let me dissuade you from that notion right now." Slimy put a hand on my shoulder, a non-verbal reminder to not let my mouth dig a hole the rest of me would end up falling into."You say you are nothing like your parents, yet here you are in front of us today accused of supervillainy?" This came from the judge on the far left, Abrams if I remembered correctly. And from a combination of long practice and necessity, my memory was damn good. He was the youngest on the panel and already had a reputation as being anti Classed. Just the person I wanted deciding my fate."Judge Abrams,” I began, before pausing to choose my words carefully. This was a concept many ordinary people couldn't understand. “I've been part of the…alternative powered movement since I was old enough to count above five. I probably know more supervillains than my lawyer, not to mention the fixers, henchmen, and all the other little people who make game possible. Once you get into the lifestyle, it's almost impossible to get out. Do you think I can walk into a bank and ask for a job? My parentage would throw up a red flag first thing, and security would toss me out on my rear. Or possibly shoot me, depending on when they were last robbed. The same with any other job more complicated than retail or fast food. I can submit several studies as evidence to back me up on this, if you don't believe me.""Having a high school diploma and a clear work history would help with getting a job." This came from Judge Baker, the only woman on the panel. She was almost as old as Powell, her once blonde hair gone totally white and her face deep set with wrinkles. "From what little records we have on you, you were last known to be attending a boarding school under the name…" she flipped through a few pages, "Yuri Gagarin? You look a little young to be the first Soviet in space."“It’s a good name. And who needs a high school diploma when I have a PhD?”Judge Baker’s face settled into anscowl. Maybe because I barely looked old enough to vote, let alone have spent ten plus years in higher education. “You have a PhD?”I added a bit of wattage to my smile. “Three in fact. Would you like to see them?”I was being a smartass, but I wasn’t technically lying. I did have 3 PhDs, all carefully forged when I was going through an artistic period last year. They weren’t worth the paper they were painted on, but that wouldn’t stop me pulling out and waving one.In truth my education was a cobbled together collection of boarding schools, personal tutoring, and correspondence courses. None of them lasted more than six months or so. I either had to move with my parents to take a job, or hide from a job, or vacation after a successful job. I did actually have a slip of paper proclaiming my higher education credentials I actually earned, ironically in pre-law, but I wasn't going to admit it. That would be giving away one of my still clean aliases. Instead I had to pretend the education level of a standard...ish eighteen year old.“Try again son.” Judge Powell boomed, drawing the focus of the courtroom back to the chief judge. “Give us an answer we’d actually believe.”"I have my GED sir, from two years ago." Actually is was four years ago, but I doubted they would believe that. "And for why I don't have a listed job history, I believe it would be…in the parlance of the court…a confession. Something my lawyer tries to drill into my head not to do." From beside me, Slimy sniggered. He knew exactly what I’d been up to for the past three years, and how many laws I’d broken while working for my primary employer, the arms dealer known only as C."This trial is not about the difficulties of those in the criminal lifestyle, it is about the crimes you stand here accused of committing." barked Judge Hito , a frail yet severe looking Japanese man on the far right side of the bench. "Can we please get back to the manner at hand?"“Indeed.” The chief judge’s eyes flicked from his compatriot back to me. "Now Mr. Pockets. My colleagues and I have already extensively examined the evidence for your case. Before we render judgment, I have some questions for you under oath. Your answers to them will determine your future. There are several paths out of here today, some better than others. It is in your best interests to cooperate."Asspeeches went, it wasn't bad. Needed a bit more righteous vengeance for my taste. Working very hard to suppress my inner smartass I replied, "Yes Sir. What would you like to know?""Where were you on the morning of July the 13th?"I knew where the judge was going with this, so I gave the answer he wanted. "Downtown, near Bronson street in Financial District.""And on that morning, did you deliberately use your powers to cause an armored car to crash?"I could have tried to lie, as the truth was a straight up admission of guilt. But if they were asking, the DPA already knew the answer. Lying now was only detrimental. "Yes.""And why did you do such a thing?""Because I was paid to." This caused some murmurs from the crowd, so I decided to elaborate. "I did it in a way that would do more damage to the vehicle than the driver. This was a job, nothing personal against the poor working stiffs inside."Abrams was back. "You say you used minimum force? Then why did the truck explode against the side of the building?"I had a feeling this question was going to come up. When I caught up with the team from this last job I was going to kick their ass. I didn’t normally take jobs without significant vetting, especially ones where I’d actually need to get my hands dirty in the field. But the guy in charge had a referral from someone I’d worked with closely in the past. A someone who was now off my Christmas card list. Permanently. "While my client didn't say what was in the back of the armored car, I assumed it to be cash or savings bonds. We were in the Financial District after all. From my understanding I would crash the car, the rest of the team would grab the goods, and we’d meet up at the safehouse later to split the take.""But that's not what happened, was it?"I rubbed my nose, hoping my building headache would go away. "No…it wasn't. Instead of bricks of cash, the truck was loaded with bricks of an experimental plastic explosive. At least, that’s what I was told afterward. I don’t know what the hell they were thinking moving such a dangerous cargo through a heavily populated area. I don't know if my client got bad information or was trying to use me as some sort of fall guy. Either way, my sliding stop of the truck was too much and the explosives blew. Perhaps instability was one reason the cargo was still considered experimental. Regardless, the resulting explosion took out most of the front columns of the Thornton Bank."I knew the judges had seen the damage. Slimy told me they took a tour of the bank on Monday, to get a better appreciation of what happened. Hopefully a clearer image than the blow-up shots the prosecutor used from right after the incident. Judge Powell gave his colleagues a moment to reconcile their memories before asking, "What happened after that?""From casing the place, I knew how much of an impact those columns could take. A normal crash would have done more damage to the vehicle than the stonework. I also knew they held up most of the weight for the front half of an eight story building. Don't ask me why it was designed that way, Donald Thornton was a loony architect. I think the only reason his older brother let him design the place was it got Donald out of the rest of the family's hair. Anyway, from where I was standing I could see the intact columns starting to crack and fracture under the increased load. If one or two more broke, the whole front of the bank building would have collapsed. With the height of the building, it probably would have pitched into the structure on the other side of the street. I knew if I didn't do something, then a lot of people would get hurt or even die.""Which is why you ran over and used your gravitational powers to lighten the load until city engineers could arrive to shore up the building?"That was a gross understatement of the difficulty required to prevent an unstable structure from collapsing on itself, but somehow I didn’t think the Judge wanted a lecture on college level structural dynamics. "That is correct Sir.""Why?""Excuse me?" I didn't understand what Judge Powell was asking."After the truck explosion, there was nothing to stop you from walking away. Without the use of your powers to support the building while everyone evacuated, the DPA probably wouldn't have connected you with the skidding truck. So I'll ask you again, why did you stay?"That was a tough questions, one I'd been going over and over in my head since the police took me into custody. "I did it…because I'm not a monster. You might label me a villain, but I take from those who don't stand to lose from the theft or deserve it for their actions. The transport company had insurance, they wouldn't have lost a dime. As for the Thorntons, a black eye to one of their ugly landmarks was just a fraction of what they’re due for their anti-Classed actions. But the people up in that building were innocent…at least as innocent as a team of bankers can be in this town. I wasn't going to just stand by and watch them die from my mistake. Sometimes a villain has to have principles, even when those principles cost him a little jail time."The room was totally quiet as I finished. Maybe some were admiring me for making a stand, while others were probably waiting for the judge to throw the book at me. It didn't matter. I could take a few years in prison. I was friends with enough people on the inside, not to mention my parents’ reputation, that no-one would mess with me. It would be a vacation, a chance to start on that book I'd always wanted to write."I see." Judge Powell took off his glasses and cleaned them before returning the spectacles to his face. "Mr. Pockets, I see a lot of individuals come into my courtroom each year. In my opinion, I've gotten very good at judging them. I thought I had a pretty good measure of your character after the presentation of the evidence, now I'm sure. As you know, the minimum sentence for the use of superpowers in a crime that causes gross property damage is five years. The average is ten, which I would be justified in ordering based on what happened. But I'm going to offer you a deal. Have you heard of the Boltman Institute?""You mean the spandex academy?" The words left my mouth before my brain could register Judge Powell's tone. He looked a bit annoyed at my using the Institute's demeaning nickname. "The Boltman Institute is a educational facility catering to those with powers, not just individuals who want to be superheroes. It provides a wide variety of classes and training to help students understand and correctly apply their powers. I will admit that you are correct about the high number of heroes who graduate. Apart from apprenticing under a licensed hero after reaching the proper age, the Boltman Institute is where the majority of heroes learn their trade in this country. The Institute is often compared to a college, as it hold students in their late teen and early twenties, and offers several degrees in both mundane and powered topic-"Abrams cut the Chief Judge off. "I've always wondered…and now that we've got a knowledgeable villain in our midst, is there such a school for young villains-to-be out there? An anti-Institute?"The rest of the panel turned to him with disapproving looks. "You don't have to answer that, Mr. Pockets." Judge Powell said reproachfully."Even if I knew of one, would I be allowed to talk about it? We’re talking fight club rules here. Take it with a grain of salt, but as far as my experience goes most villain training is done by internship and the internet. It’s amazing what you can learn with Youtube videos these days."Judge Powell carried on as if he hadn't heard my answer. "I'm glad you've heard of the Boltman Institute, Mr. Pockets, as it's about to be your home for the next four years."My mouth was halfway open when that freight train of a statement crashed into my ears. "Pa..pardon?""I said, I'm sentencing you to four years at the Boltman Institute. After you graduate you may do as you wish. Hero, villain, bowling alley owner. It doesn't matter to me. But you claim to not be a monster, so I'm giving you the chance to prove it.""But…um…" I dug through my brain for any excuse I could throw up that would save me from being sent to that place."Of course, I could always send you to prison for ten years instead." Judge Powell told me with a smirk.And he calls me a villain. This was a classic example of one of Powell's famous alternative punishment, one I didn't have a way out of. "I'll…take the Institute, your Honor.""Good, I'll have the guards take you downstairs for the fitting of your tracking cuff. You'll have another month or two of summer left, but I expect you to be on the front lawn come the nineteenth of September. If you’re not…” The judge removed his glasses and glared at me with a stare that would have made Drala the Universe Conqueror wet himself. What would happened to me was unsaid, but very, very clear.Returning his glasses to his face, Judge Powell continued, “Do we have an understanding, Mr. Pockets?"I gulped. "Yes Sir."“Good. Case dismissed.”With that, the guards bracketed me and dragged me off downstairs. I hadn't ended up in prison, but something arguably worse. I was about to be a villain in a school for heroes. I was so screwed.