The Law of Averages

Interlude - The Young Scion

Connor Maximillian Graham had spent the majority of his life preparing for a single day. Years of desperate effort, several oceans of sweat, untold hours of studying, all for one goal. The beginning of his life. The first step of his journey. The Choosing.

Many laughed at the flowery name, even within the department, but his family had a legacy to uphold. He would the fourth generation to stand and fight. To protect and serve. His fellow officers would be his brothers and sisters, they might live and die by his decisions, and he, by theirs. The rituals, the traditions, the ceremonies, they would bind them closer together. It was simple psychology. Nothing more than a trick to exploit the human mind. He had been trained to know this going in. To accept it. To understand the necessity. This was not Connor's issue.

It was the actual choosing part of the choosing that he struggled with. What upgrade should he pick? What set of abilities would accompany him from here on out? His upgrade would determine the course of his future. His compatibility would determine his success. "An upgrade," his uncle had always said, "is a part of you." There was no take-backs, no second chances, no hope in case of regret. The decision was completely and utterly final.

And so, he sat in his grandfather's study, going over dozens of documents, analyzing his choices. It had been an obsession since his kidnapping, since he'd been rendered powerless by mere words. Even his superior officer had been helpless for a time. Only Newman had escaped, and through sheer luck at that. A misinterpretation of an order that happened to benefit him. It would have been comical if he hadn't immediately run into, and somehow subdued, a terrorist. Just thinking about that series of absurd events drove a deep spike of pain deep into Connor's brain, so he chose to refocus on his goals.

The kidnapping experience, though harrowing, had taught him something valuable. Nothing was without weakness. Gregoir, for all his prowess and experience, had still fallen victim to the mercenary's foul mutation. And yet, the older man had then escaped almost effortlessly, even with Connor in tow. He had used the only thing he had, the only thing he needed, his immense strength. The man was a Natural, so he couldn't exactly be used as a measuring stick, but it still was a revelation.

The key, Connor now realized, was not to have a flexible upgrade, capable of dealing with every situation, but rather to have a flexible mind, capable of applying one's upgrade to every situation. A single strong focus, broadened by a sharp mind, rather than a jack-of-all trades without any exceptional strengths or weaknesses. He found himself shivering at the thought of having no specialty to leverage in a dangerous situation.

His family favored the Twice-Born upgrade, an A class advanced series that gave the recipient a broad range of physical boosts. Strength, speed, and coordination were all improved. It increased blood oxygenation and lung capacity, slowed the build-up of lactic acid during exercise, and provided a minor boost to physical recovery. It effectively doubled a person's positive physical capabilities, in all measures.

Such a dramatic change obviously had its downsides. The state of the subject's health mattered greatly. The increase was based on current fitness, and would never change with time. No amount of exercise would increase these limits. It was why the Graham family invested so heavily in personal trainers and chefs. Connor had eaten only the most nutritious of meals, and followed the strictest of exercise routines, for the majority of his life. The benefits he would receive had been mapped out precisely for years. He knew exactly what his expected physical capacity would be.

It frightened him. He would be static. Unchanging. There was nothing to learn about the upgrade, nothing to master. It would just be his body, except more. Faster, stronger, better. Only the positive aspects were doubled, a feat which he was told had baffled scientists for years. His appetite would not increase, nor the effort needed for movement. It would give him a ludicrous amount of stamina. His reflexes would increase, as would his eyesight. The hand-eye coordination he had earned from a decade of planned exercises would double. It was a very good upgrade.

Graham was not satisfied with it. He would be strong, but not overwhelmingly so. He would be fast, but not blindingly so. His dexterity would surpass any two Old World Olympians, but there were enemies that guns could not deal with.

He could hear his father's chiding voice. "That's what your team is for," the man would say. Part of Connor's job was to trust them. Therein lay the crux of the issue: trust. His family would insist that teamwork could solve every problem, but Connor knew better. The illusion of indomitability had been shattered. The APD were humans, just like him. Fallible and imperfect. Intellectually, he had understood that, but he was young and emotions often overcame sense.

It had been... difficult on him, to realize that the towering legends of his mind did not exist in reality.

Speaking with Gregoir had helped. The man was honorable and confident and strong; everything that the stories said he should be. Yet the burly giant had quickly admitted his own faults. Overconfidence had seen the pair of them subjected to the indignity of being the prisoner of a madman. Gregoir had gotten them out safely, of course. The man was clearly a paragon of the APD. Not everyone could be him.

Connor was the top of his class, right beside Freya, at the most prestigious school in the state. He was the elite of the elite. He was, in theory, the best suited among his peers to deal with an emergency situation. He was also green as grass, and had walked face first into a trap without the slightest inclination that something might have been wrong. He did not have high hopes for his fellow classmates. Nor, he had realized with growing dismay, did he continue to hold absolute faith in the competence of the APD.

He still believed in their mission. In justice and law. In the truth of Noblesse Oblige. He was simply no longer star-struck into stupidity. At some point, maybe soon, maybe in the far future, he would be forced to fend for himself against a dangerous adversary. His teammates would not be able to save him. Only he would be able to save himself. His upgrade would determine whether he lived or died.

Twice-Born was consistent. It was simple. There was virtually no learning curve. Packaged with the upgrade was insurance that his brain would instantly adapt to its new state of existence. It would make him superhuman. It wasn't enough.

He wanted something stronger. Something more impactful. Versatility was no longer an issue. He would make it versatile. He, Connor Maximillian Graham, would apply his mind that so many had praised, and create a real legend. The next generation would see their stories vindicated. He just needed to find the right upgrade. It would jump out at him, he was certain. Like a star, it would shine. Something powerful but unwieldy. Something that he would master with effort and cunning. Something to make him untouchable.

He tried to tell himself that this wasn't about the kidnapping. That this new mindset was a result of deep introspection. When that failed, he returned to the pages before him. He needed to focus on his goals. He had to look to the future. Where did he see himself in twenty years, and which upgrade would secure him that vision?

The old answer would have been a SPEAR Team member, perhaps advancing towards one of the various government acronyms that trained special forces for villain incursions. He would be dealing with true evil, then, not impoverished thieves too desperate or stupid to stand down in the face of law enforcement. A menu of hardened gangsters and thugs who use their gifts to destabilize society. That was his old dream. It seemed like a child's fantasy, now.

What did he want to be? What was his vision, now?

A flash of broad shoulders, a comical pose straight out of a 50's comic book, and a booming voice. Civilians scattering to safety, guarded by those willing to stand between them and the enemy.

Protection. That was him. That was Connor. He wanted to protect. Young Connor, inexperienced Connor, naive Connor, would have scoffed at him. What glory was there in being a guardian? What success lay in passivity? Better to take the fight to the enemy, to root out the world's evils, than to sit and wait and hope that trouble will find you.

It wasn't disdain that he had felt, guards were a necessary part of life, but it would have never been his goal. It would not have been his end game. He had not understood a fundamental truth. The watchman does not hope for trouble to find him, but rather the opposite. He hopes for peace, and when that peace is shattered, he plants himself between danger and those who cannot shield themselves from it. These days, it was an attractive calling.

Connor could already hear his uncle rolling his eyes. The man was a member of the APD SPEAR Team Alpha. Hunting down vicious criminals was basically his job description, and he delighted in it.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. The wooden double doors leading to the study swung open and a dashing man strolled through them. Cornelius Trevor Graham resembled nothing less than a swaggering cinema hero. He towered over most men, standing at just under six and a half feet, with hair dyed a fiery red, styled to look tousled and windswept. He kept his face mostly clean-shaven, but Connor had never seen his uncle without a artfully presented five o'clock shadow. He wore a suit jacket and button down shirt at almost all times, but kept the shirt untucked and tailored short. "For the ladies," he had claimed, the one time Connor had asked about the habit. Cornelius's shirts had a habit of exposing his upgraded physique whenever he stretched.

He stretched often, especially when in front of pretty faces.

His face was youthful, carefully preserved by the Twice-Born upgrade. Creeping up on the far end of forty, he barely looked a day over twenty-five. His energy was boundless, and his enthusiasm almost matched Gregoir's. Unfortunately, it was just as ill-timed.

"Nephew!" Cornelius cried gaily, as he approached the massive oak desk. "Why are you hiding yourself away on such a fine day!? Come, have lunch with me!"

Connor groaned. "I'm busy, Uncle Cornelius."

"Busy, pah!" His uncle waved a dismissive hand, while scooping up one of the documents arrayed on the desk. "What is it that you are—" He blinked. "Upgrade documentation?" An eyebrow raised incredulously. "Why do you have all of these?"

Connor hesitated for only a moment. Lying here would be unbecoming. "I'm reconsidering the Twice-Born upgrade."

"Oh." The reply was laced with unsubtle disbelief. "That seems a... poor decision."

Connor shrugged. "I'm merely exploring my options. I still have time."

His uncle wore an expression that Connor had never before seen. Uncertainty. The older man took a seat on the nearest chair, leaning forward to meet Connor's eyes. Even while seated, he towered over the desk.

"You've been training for this your whole life, Connor," he said cautiously, measuring every word. "It's normal to have some jitters. Natural, even." He cracked an unsteady grin. "I've got a bottle of bourbon that might help ease those symptoms. It's a little early but we can tell your mother that it's for your health!"

"That's not it," Connor denied, deliberately ignoring the invitation to drink. He couldn't be sure if it was a joke, and had no intention of finding out. Freya would castrate him if she found out that he got drunk at one in the afternoon on a Thursday.

Uncle Cornelius furrowed his brow. His hand swept through his hair, to absolutely no effect. The finest hair gel had been slathered through those red locks. It popped back into aesthetically pleasing chaos with an almost audible sproing.

"Is this about the, ah," the older man cast about for an appropriate word. He settled on, "The other thing?"

Connor's kidnapping. It was an uncomfortable topic in the household. There was shame there, hiding among the family, though the source and direction was unclear, even to Connor. It was a conversation killer. Nothing constructive could be found on the topic.

"No," he decided. "It's not about the other thing." It couldn't be. The conversation wouldn't happen, if it was.

Cornelius lightened considerably upon hearing Connor's words. "Well then, what's the problem? I should be able to answer any questions you might have. I am, after all, an expert in my own upgrade!"

"I'm not convinced of its efficacy," Connor replied simply.

The very idea seemed to stall his uncle's enthusiasm. "You— But it's... Connor, the upgrade is extremely well documented. Our family has spent a great deal of time and money optimizing the path to greatness. You're aren't going to get a lemon."

"Not that sort of efficacy, uncle," Connor corrected, shaking his head. "I'm not convinced that it will help me attain my long-term goals. Or, at least, not better than a different option."

Cornelius frowned. "The Twice-Born is the single best all-rounder available to us. The whole idea is it will allow you to succeed in whatever specialization you want. It's an exceptional upgrade."

"No," Connor mused. "Exceptional is what it isn't. It's unexceptional in every way. It simply makes me more me."

An awkward expression flashed across Cornelius's face, a hint of discomfort, as he held up both hands. "Okay, that's a little more than I can unpack. Would you like me to call Freya?"

Connor shot him a puzzled look. "No. Why would I need you to do that?"

"Oh, no reason. Its just been a while since I was your age. Hard to identify with, y'know. Teenager problems," Cornelius replied with both hands still held in front of him. "It's better to talk to a woman about these sorts of things, anyway."

"I feel like we're having two entirely different conversations, uncle," Connor stated blandly. His pocket buzzed before the older man could reply. Connor fished out his phone, scanning the text message.

"A friend of mine has asked for my assistance," Connor announced. He no longer cringed at calling Newman a friend. The odd man had grown on him like a fungus, and seemed to be seated in a much higher social position than he had first appeared. Besides, Miss Summers might have some interesting insights on Connor's upgrade choices. He scooped up the scattered papers, and quickly dumped them into a nearby envelope.

"I'll be taking my leave now, uncle Cornelius."

"Ah, yes." Cornelius flashed him a cocksure smile. He waved his hand dramatically. "Go, young man! Spend time with your friends! Recollect yourself, and find me when you return! We can go over any issues with your upgrade that might remain, at that time."

Connor rolled his eyes at a man that had once been his personal hero. There were times he wished that he was still young and naive. It made life so much simpler.